SuperCaliFashionistic

I know I've been posting old stuff lately, but this is too good to overlook. Throbbing techno and gothic minimalism set the stage for Nicola Formichetta's fall showing for Thierry Mugler. The clothing was relatively simple, but the atmosphere made it spectacular. The striking paradox of ornate (pillared runway, ostentatious poses) and simplicistic (sleek ponytails, austere ensembles) meshed seamlessly with Mugler's darkly modern aesthetic. The random appearance of Lady Gaga, surrounded by a halo of red light as she took a drag on her cigarette, was surprising (yet strangely symbolic). So, too, was her ability to strut in ten-inch heels on a slippery surface where even professionals seemed shaky (although I suppose she has a lot of practice from those Alexander McQueen shoes).

Gaga certainly stood out amongst Formichetti's elegant, shadowy wraiths, who glided down the catwalk with willowy arms beckoning amidst arching wood columns. These were no Christian-Dior-clad princesses or buxom Louis Vuitton housewives. Mugler's authoritative women walked with purpose (despite a few stumbles). Yet Formichetti didn't equate power with masculinity. These women owned their sexuality, flaunting pushed-up cleavage in low cut necklines and tight mesh shirts. No other collection so perfectly epitomized the modern-day urban woman - confident, street-savvy, and unapologetic in her femininity. A certain blonde, sailor-mouthed singer would wholeheartedly approve.

 The autumnal tempests boded ill for Bottega Venetta as the first model strutted out in white tights, T-strap sandals, a chiffon dress, and a powdered bouffant resurrected from the 18th century. A shaggy orange coat gave her an uncanny resemblance to Oscar the Grouch after an unfortunate run-in with one too many tangerine peels. The atrocities ensued with a shapeless shift matched by an equally shapeless overcoat, all in an abominable shade of burnt orange. Then came the turtlenecks. In stark white and wallpaper florals, they stretched abnormally high to stop just short of the chin, resulting in a curiously mummified appearance. Maier certainly took his time torturing our eyes - it was the twelfth look before we could breathe a collective sigh of relief at the first glimpse of bare legs. From then on, it was a smooth ride. Lace, which incited such fanatical fervor on the spring runways, proved its versatility for the cooler seasons in plenty of slinky, sophisticated cocktail numbers. It swirled over pale gray silk in a deliciously complex array of textures and gradations; in sheer panels, it simulated the textural intricacy of python. Worn over a simple corset, it was dangerously alluring (and dangerously revealing). From the gold-dipped fringe on an embroidered hem to the carefully parted ruffles on a patterned frock, Maier is the ultimate master of detail and precision. Many of his creations are so perfectly executed that it takes more than a few glances to absorb every contour and nuance. The patterns on a three-piece ensemble, for example, were so seamlessly integrated that they nearly appeared to be continuous. And the layers of a geometric shift fit together so beautifully that they created the illusion of a single, flawlessly constructed dress. But it was Maier's red carpet creations that stole the spotlight. They came carelessly slashed and pinned, pleated like origami around the waist, cascading to the floor in rich, full folds. What made them truly unique, however, was a curious paradoxical element - an unfinished, industrial feel that rendered them, if not edgy (when is a ballgown every edgy?), at least unconventional. Structured bodices appeared to be constructed from workhorse canvas, while the subtle discoloration on metallic silk mimicked the quality of burnished metal. Maier may have been slow to hit his stride, but with his four-dress finale, he more than made up for his initial missteps.

White tights and lace shoes ... the horror!

Diseased looking fabric

This might be cute ... on someone over 70

I have never understood the appeal of Rodarte, but maybe that's because I don't see the glory of being wrapped in a cocoon of colorful cheesecloth. So it is not with a little relief that I pronounce this collection the rare exception. Sure, it wasn't making it up to the ranks of Versace and Burberry, but it was far more than I expected from a duo who appreciates the, erm, creative inspirations of Tavi Gevinson.

From the shapes to the cuts to the patterns, it was decidedly geometric. But even though it shared the futurism of Francisco Costa, it had nothing of Calvin Klein's Spartan minimalism. Flowing underlayers softened sharp the edges of abrupt hemlines, while a palette of subdued pastels subdued the starkness of boxy silhouettes. It could have easily passed for Balenciaga, what with the avant garde graphics and rectangular proportions. Even the boots were reminiscent of Nicolas Ghesquière's creations. Not to say that the Mulleavy sisters' latest ideas were tired or uninspired, however. Their ethereal juxtaposition of delicate lace, shimmering sequins, and frothy tulle was fit for a modern-day fairy. Although there was nothing that was incredibly striking, the collection had its own brand of modern sophistication.