LONDON — To paraphrase the Edwardian satirist H.H. Munro (better known as Saki, in one of English literature’s early feats of branding): They were good fashion shows, as fashion shows go, and as fashion shows go, they went.Hyped for days, previewed on Snapchat and mounted with the kind of pomp and security typically reserved for visiting dignitaries, the display of Burberry Prorsum’s spring 2016 collection on Monday was also a miniature concert, with a 32-piece orchestra clambering cautiously into a sunken pit at the center of the runway to back Alison Moyet, a former member of the 1980s synth-pop group Yaz, on four solo numbers.
Outside Kensington Gardens, the fans — but of what, exactly? — gawked and filmed and hashtagged through the transparent tenting as if it was their civic duty. Inside, the golden-haired princesses of Prorsum, Cara and Kate and Sienna and Suki, sat on their front-row throne-benches as the official cameras, one looming up like a periscope, captured footage for a live online broadcast to the commoners at 1 p.m. (That was 5 a.m. Pacific Standard Time, The Hollywood Reporter had breathlessly reminded its readers.)
Remembering with fondness being roused at such an hour as a young girl to watch the wedding of a real princess-to-be, Diana, to Prince Charles, I had no doubt this company and Christopher Bailey, its chief executive and creative director, would one day command a Tartan Jubilee.
The new rucksacks with gold monograms that bounced down the runway as Ms. Moyet sang were apparently a viral hit, the news of them transmitted by the iThings of the crowd, stacked half a dozen rows deep at its thickest point.
The Burberry raincoats remain relevant, as the London drizzle pelting the tent underscored. The black cage booties, so nervy-seeming when presented by Yves Saint Laurent seven years ago, also seem to have become a staple, despite the odd tan lines they must produce.
But will the ready-to-wear of Mr. Bailey and his creative team, sumptuous and well executed as it is, alter the course of fashion history, or even register in it? That deep-plunging dusty, nubby rose banded mini-dress, rendered again in café au lait? The aubergine bodysuit with Swiss-dotted cap sleeves and overskirt that would have coordinated so nicely with the red carpet at the Emmys the night before? (But hey, who needs a red carpet when you have the lush London grass?) That sleeveless black lace top worn, sans bra, over white silken skirt?
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I doubt it.
You always know when nipples are coming down the runway, by the way, because an extra-excited clicking, like a percussion section, will suddenly emanate from the photographers’ pit. (Occasionally one of them even will shout out his appreciation.) And the clicking and yelps were prestissimo duringPeter Pilotto’s show in the humbler confines of the Brewer Street Car Park early on Monday evening, thanks to a profusion of sheer smock tops in cotton, macramé and tulle.
Though it won’t be everyone’s cup of tea, as Burberry insists on pouring, this was a delightful and cohesive collection: Mediterranean-themed, with hues of white, blue and buttery yellow that summoned a villa kitchen in Greece with a breeze blowing through the window and a sturdy pitcher of retsina at the ready.
In recent seasons, the widespread promotion of culottes has recalled the ill-fated push of the midi skirt in the early 1970s, with women clinging to their “skinnies,” as they did then to minis. But Mr. Pilotto and his partner, Christopher de Vos, cut culottes with enough volume that they looked commanding, for madame to swoop into the kitchen on her way out. Safari-derived looks with geometric detail like children’s blocks and pocketed jackets were the only Pilotto pieces out of place.
For what has resonated most from the runways of London this week is not the Savile Row tailoring for which the city was so long known, but mishmash, bricolage: a crazy salad, to veer from Saki to Nora Ephron.
Though men can deliver the steak and sizzle, as in the piercing retro ofGareth Pugh, maybe women are better at making salad. You saw this in the almost painfully tactile frocks of Simone Rocha, assembled for the high-end Etsy crowd; in the clashing rose prints of the otherwise ladylike Emilia Wickstead; and in the complexly layered Starfleet uniforms of Mary Katrantzou. Lieutenant Uhura never had it so good.
And you saw it in the less-assured space age silhouettes from Thomas Tait, though unfortunately you — by which I mean me — saw those online, because of a long rain-induced delay in the schedule on Monday afternoon. Like Ms. Katrantzou, Mr. Tait favored a mod above-the-knee flare for skirts and tunics, punching out portholes at neck, shoulders and hem. On long trousers under the tunics the portholes were at the inner thigh or over the knee, where patches usually go, for more odd tan lines. Strips of synthetic fabric affixed here and there suggested an arts and craft project that could have used more craft.
Anya Hindmarch also went to outer space, tricking out one of the Royal Horticultural Halls with an origami puzzle of a set lined in mirrors on Tuesday morning. This offered the advantage of multiplying her graphic chevron handbags in triplicate. All the better to tweet you with, my dear.
Crammed into the front row, Maya Williams, a fashion blogger wearing fur and pink Wellingtons, who was covering the event for a magazine in Dubai, introduced herself to Natalie Massenet, the British Fashion Council chairman and departing founder of Net-a-Porter.
“I follow you on Instagram!” Ms. Williams said in a tone of worship.
“I have to come up with a new name for my Instagram,” ruefully replied Ms. Massenet, still @nataporter for now.
I imagine that leaving a company one founded, even with millions of pounds as cushion, must feel somewhat like losing a loved one, and the commemoration of such loss seemed unusually prevalent in London as well.
In her program notes, Ms. Katrantzou included a message to her and Ms. Rocha’s mentor, Louise Wilson, director of the Central Saint Martins’ masters program in fashion, who died last year. “I wish I could pop upstairs after the show and see you,” she wrote.Sibling’s show, though it proceeded with unnerving peppiness and leopard capri pants, was dedicated to Joe Bates, one of the label’s creative directors, who died at 47 of cancer last month.
And Christopher Kane and his sister, Tammy, continue to mourn the death of their mother this year, with a lurid collection influenced, Mr. Kane said, by John Chamberlain’s “car crash” sculptures and shown in the cloud-surrounded Sky Garden on Fenchurch Street.
“That can’t be comfortable,” I thought of the plastic zip ties closed tightly around the model’s necks; these also fastened some of the clothes. An orange shift dress was edged with a red Colorforms-like crumb catcher and different shades of neon lace were juxtaposed willy-nilly. Fringe and ribbons and jagged edges sailed by. Like the J.W. Anderson mutton-sleeved and airbag-bodiced collection earlier in the week, it was chaotic, and hard to imagine on the women striding over the streets below to their jobs or pub dates or children’s schools.
But outside the windows of the Sky Garden, 35 stories high, the thick gray mist blurring the edges of London felt very close to heaven. And the evidence suggested that heaven will not have Wi-Fi service.
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