I'll never really get over rolling my eyes about some of McQueen's miscalculations: the transparent, desperately "offensive" "provocations" of the spray paint collection or the "Highland Rape" gross-out fest; no one cares if it was a conceptual Scotland- the models wore tattered gowns, after all. I dredge up the old shit only to applaud the passing of time and its tendency to smooth out even the most obnoxious of Les Enfants Terribles. Or in this case, the quintessential "Pink Sheep" of the fold.
Today's McQueen is less about cheap, annoyingly tawdry gimmicks and more about, like Viktor & Rolf, presenting theatrical runways shows of knockout clothes that are romantic and nostalgic, yet fully and resolutely modern. The only gimmick was (and deserved to be) well-received: a hologram of a Lady-of-the-Lake-esque Kate Moss floating in a glass pyramid in the same dress Daria Werbowy had just modeled. It was great stuff.
It's really great to have an alternative to Couture season, to see ready-to-wear shown to the extreme, yet clearly and easily translatable (the stunning peacock-feather gown, the obvious exception). Ridiculous headgear and Victorian excess was paired with super marketable footwear:
There was just something very coy and wonderfully Moschino about seeing airplanes sitting on top of Maria Dvirnik's head. This is where McQueen excels: making you guess if he's honest-to-God serious about this kind of shit. He's not. Or is. Or whatever, but he's not just going for schlock anymore.
So count me in. I'm a fan of Alexander McQueen, faggot black sheep.