Gucci takes over the Pitti Palace for a Renaissance-inspired Cruise collection

It can’t be a coincidence that the most successful fashion brand on the block right now, the one with queues snaking round the block some weekends, is one that presents a picture of us as slightly (or maybe not so slightly) at odds with the world in which we find ourselves.

Margot, the wealthy, impeccably bobbed, nut-job from Wes Anderson’s 2001 film The Royal Tenenbaums remains a key muse, but she’s been hanging out with the aristocratic bag ladies from Grey Gardens. She may even have developed a fixation with Alan Bennett’s Lady In The Van. It’s a safe bet she’s stopped seeing her therapist.

That’s what makes her interesting. If she were simply nostalgic, or merely eclectic, we’d move on. But while Alessandro Michele’s kooks are ostensibly fey, lovable and self-evidently rich (they’re wearing Gucci after all), they’ve become stranger and more ill at ease with their surroundings with every passing season.

For this Cruise show the surroundings were the Palazzo Pitti in Florence. The models wound their way past C17th portraits by Carlo Dolci and Langetti, their gently flushed cheeks and glistening eye-lids a manicured reflection of the aesthetics of the C16th beauties on the walls. On they trudged (at Balenciaga, models stomp; at Valentino they waft; Gucci is definitely a care-ridden trudge) past the doll-like Chinese influencers in the front row, whose devotion to selfie – portraits may yet turn out to be its own kind of art-form – a point presumably not lost on Michele, who although reticent in conversation, is turning out to be a mordant social commentator via the medium of fabulously commercial luxury fashion goods.

You couldn’t help but enjoy the parallels between renaissance art and C21st fashion. Before the show began, guests were shown around a Botticelli-stuffed wing of the Uffizi Museum. Normally rammed with most of the Upper East Side at this time of year, it was an oasis of calm concentration. “Look at the boobs on that,” commented one editor-in-chief as she surveyed an implausibly pert pair in oils. “And to think silicone was another six hundred years in the future.”

What Renaissance painters lacked in plastic surgery, they more than supplemented in the sheer quantity and quality of male models willing to pose as women – the reputation of female models being on a par with that of prostitutes in 1570. (Hence the aloof breasts). So while Michele seemed fantastically prophetic when he dressed his male models in women’s clothes, and vice versa, back in early 2015, as he would readily admit, Botticelli was even earlier to the gender-fluid party.

Another thing that became clear during this leviathan of a collection: while Michele’s focus on unfettered maximalism doesn’t change, each season brings more layers of odd allusions and dissonant moods that keep everyone coming back for more. A feather-haired boy-girl in an embroidered lumberjack shirt and gold laurel leaf crown, a titian haired brutally short-fringed page boy/girl in a Tudor style, brocaded mini dress emblazoned with the word Guccy (a wink to the more carelessly produced fakes out there?), a military jacket worn with a lyre embellished headdress, and a further 113 looks doused with self-referential nods to Michele’s own recent work at the house, including dresses printed with looks from previous collections… even the most blasé of observers would have to concede, this is all quite weird.

Which naturally makes it so appealing. Under Tom Ford, the Gucci woman, was a modern, confident vamp. Under Frida Giannini, she was a slightly less modern, going-through-the-motions vamp. Under Michele, she’s wearing the kitsch and sink yet she’s not quite the whole picnic.

Which naturally makes it so appealing. Under Tom Ford, the Gucci woman, was a modern, confident vamp. Under Frida Giannini, she was a slightly less modern, going-through-the-motions vamp. Under Michele, she’s wearing the kitsch and sink yet she’s not quite the whole picnic.

It is fiendishly clever. Broken down into its constituent elements, Gucci has become a powerhouse of lavishly crafted clothes and accessories that can be worn by Middle Eastern royalty, musicians (Sir Elton John and Beth Ditto were in the audience) and Hollywood (so were Kirsten Dunst, Jared Leto and Dakota Johnson) as a standard celebration of luxury. A mink trimmed cape scored through with gold double Gs, a rose strewn frill-yoked maxi dress, a floral appliqued satin bomber, gold T-bar shoes… these are not your standard anarchic fare, but once Michele’s worked in some of those oversized metal-rimmed specs that remind you of terrible British DJs circa 1975, chucked in some Gucci trimmed baggy cardigans, worked in a pearl trellised Juliette cap, washed through discordant colour mixes, ordered in some wrinkly Lurex socks and attached a few more overwhelming ruffles, you realise you’ve been played. What you get at Gucci isn’t what you thought. It’s far more subversive.Read more at:long evening dresses | marieaustralia