The Bottom Line Calls for Magic

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The Bottom Line Calls for Magic

The closest thing to magic so far on the Paris runways arrived Tuesday morning at Balenciaga and Junya Watanabe.

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One model after another emerged balancing bushels of flowers on her head and wrapped in a kaleidoscope of colors and patterns printed onto blouses with Fortuny pleats, smock dresses with braiding along one shoulder, and denim skirts that had been embellished with a hem of colorful ruffles. The riot of prints was followed by a soothing cloud of white eyelet fabric, stitched into close-fitting jackets and skirts worn over jeans, or as part of a patchwork dress, sharing space with khaki and white cotton.

Ease was what made this collection so enticing. Is there such a thing as fashion diplomacy? Can fashion be welcoming? Perhaps so. Because this collection, at heart, functioned like an enormous embrace. These disparate elements -- African prints, American denim, French panache -- were all in the capable hands of a Japanese designer. Despite the rustic undercurrent of the collection, Watanabe offered a distinctly forward-looking, global vision.

The Balenciaga presentation could not have been more different. Designer Nicolas Ghesquière envisions a futuristic world where women exist in a kind of hyper-reality. They wear clothes in which joints are articulated via seams and modular patchwork. There is always the sense that the women of his imagination are the sum-total next generation of "Gattaca," "Blade Runner" and "The Avengers' " Emma Peel. Ghesquière's collection for spring is distinguished by glittering bodysuits barely visible under jackets, and collage dresses that have the subtle iridescences of an insect's wing.

Many dresses were constructed with a torso molded to the body and a neckline twisted elegantly to create a splendid contrast. Collarless jackets looked as if they had been sculpted from a million reflective twigs. Plush jackets looked alternately as though they had been molded from a swarm of silver, ridged caterpillars or from millions of tiny springs pinched from the interiors of ballpoint pens. All the strange materials and jigsaw puzzle construction left one mesmerized.

One spent a great part of the show leaning forward in one's seat, eyebrows arched and eyes intently trying to dissect the mysterious clothes as they passed -- the ever-changing streaking lights overhead offering little help in deciphering colors and fabrics. The moments of disappointment were few but intensely felt.

It was sad to see straitjacket dresses that had the models' arms pinned to the sides of their bodies. It seemed to be an out-of-character, self-indulgent blow against women from a designer who otherwise makes them look like superheroes.

The men on the runway, with their lapelless jackets and stirrup trousers and dirty hanks of hair plastered to their faces, looked for all intents and purposes like knife-wielding, shower-stalking psychos who had been on a hunger strike for the last six months. (Can someone feed these boys and then throw them in a shower?) The women moved like they were out to take over the world. The men shuffled along like they needed to be locked up.

Olivier Theyskens at Nina Ricci fell back on his design strength, which is evening wear. Perhaps women will splurge for a grand evening out? Or will those fancy galas be transformed into cocktail parties? The gowns at Nina Ricci on Sunday evening were awash in watercolor prints and delicate ruffled streamers. But they all had essentially the same silhouette: cut short in front with a dramatic train. It is a jarring look under the best of circumstances -- and many of Theyskens's gowns were glorious -- but even if one hammers home the point with gown after gown, occasionally pairing them with a dramatic jacket that has vaguely Victorian, Edwardian or alien references, one is no more convinced of the viability of the silhouette.

Not to be crass, but there's a frugal devil deep in the soul that whines: For these prices, give me the full ball gown. Don't hack out the front. I paid for that fabric! At Balmain on Sunday afternoon, designer Christophe Decarnin reminded audiences of the good old 1980s, a time when overwrought embellishment and ripped jeans counted as fashion. It was a period when the only thing Madonna cared about was getting "into the groove." And in an ode to Madonna, Michael Jackson military jackets and pop-punk style, he created a collection of studded blazers with exaggerated shoulders. They were giddy and frankly silly, but perhaps Decarnin is onto something.

Perhaps the thing to do is not worry one's silly little head about an economic crisis out of one's control. Divest from the stock market while you've still got a few bucks and enjoy the extravagant indecency of shredded jeans embellished with a Celtic cross of rhinestones.

Only Rick Owens, the Goth king, embraced the dark side and seemed to address that chronic churning in one's gut over the possibility that retirement must be pushed back to 95 to make up for lost gains. His collection Sunday evening was dominated by black and gray. He cut black rompers -- such a fanciful word for the rather brooding intellectualism on his runway -- and paired them with headwear that looked like a nun's habit.

His collection was austere, even stern. It lacked the poetic quality that so often lightens the mood of his work. The clothes weren't bulky, and there were cutouts offering a sensual glimpse of skin. But it was impossible not to feel a certain amount of doom in his presentation. For his finale, the models converged on the runway from a chilly burst of white fog. As it dissipated around them, the models resembled a flock of birds. Not colorful peacocks, bluebirds or robins, but in their black and gray attire and head coverings, they looked like far more ominous and foreboding fowl -- circling and biding their time.