There were tailcoats made of cable knits, fit for black tie at a retirement home. Bell-curved Bar jackets and distressed cargo jorts screamed of bad taste. Skinny pants bordered on leggings, while houndstooth dress trousers came with legs as wide as dinner menus. ("Angst" and "wrongness" were criteria Mr. Anderson said he was going for.)
In the midst of all that there were perfect single-breasted suits in cashmere and flannel that could have sprung straight from Savile Row. Mr. Anderson is clearly enjoying the production abilities of one of the world's largest luxury houses.
What else? Models wore mullets of Big Bird yellow with glam rock tanks (actually, a for-men retooling of a silk crepe flapper dress Poiret created a century ago). They slithered in python monk straps with Cuban heels (heels are officially a trend) and sweaters with fringe epaulets. The show's erratic extravagance, per Mr. Anderson, stemmed from the way Mr. Poiret and his aristocratic friends fashioned gala attire out of duvets and blankets. Yet the last look featured an Arc'teryx-type ski parka that seemed to have no connection to anything else.
It was a lot to digest. No one could say Mr. Anderson isn't making interesting clothes. He's just offering too much.
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