Ghostly gowns, dreamy dresses

PARIS — It was one of those spectacular Paris Fashion Week moments. At the center of the runway, in an empty glass pyramid that recalled the I.M. Pei landmark at the Louvre, a solitary speck of light appeared. Slowly it grew into a hologram. Caressed by folds of white organza, with tendrils of blond hair, a ghostly mistress began to take shape. The apparition twisted and danced for a while before it became clear that it was a vision of Kate Moss, the personification of female fragility. Then, all at once, the form began shrinking and vanished into thin air.

The finale was the kind of runway magic only Alexander McQueen could create, and the collection that preceded it was just as memorable. It’s a good thing, because the heat is on for McQueen, Stella McCartney and the other small labels owned by luxury conglomerate Gucci Group. Chief Executive Officer Robert Polet has put them on notice: Turn a profit by 2007 or risk being sold.

For fall, both designers answered the challenge. Crossing a Highlands theme with a spin through Shakespeare’s “Macbeth,” McQueen’s collection was brimming with ideas, not the least of which were the bird-winged headdresses. This designer with the tough exterior is a romantic at heart, and boy can he make a dress. Witness the red tartan cocktail confections, edged in black lace and puffed up with crinoline skirts, the fragile cream tulle gown encrusted in gold bullion, the dreamy trapeze dress with cloudy white ostrich feathers at the hem, and the brown column that fell to the floor in pheasant-plumed ruffles.

But he’s also a haberdasher who got his start on Savile Row. And the show’s solitary pinstripe pantsuit with razor-sharp shoulders and the added flourish of a fierce fur hood for the runway, was one of the season’s best. In keeping with fall’s hard edge, there was a touch of punk perversion to this story too, on a dress constructed from a patchwork of tartan kilts, with sheer black lace sleeves. But the finale gowns were ethereal and light. Inspired, McQueen said, by the ghosts of “Macbeth,” in tattered and disheveled white tulle, or cloudlike tiers of organza, they were icing on the cake.

Retailers have complained that McQueen’s clothes have a tricky fit, if they end up being delivered at all. If capital is the problem, this show should be proof to his bosses that he is worth investing in. McQueen’s showmanship alone could sell a fortune’s worth of perfume and accessories.

McCartney’s collection was refreshing in part because it was the rare show of wearable sportswear in Paris. She excels at knits, and this was a good season for them, including a swingy sweater dress in a blue and gray melange as well as a cowl-neck cardigan style in a taupe and indigo stripe.

Wide-leg indigo tweed trousers had a real-world ease, when worn with a slouchy blue sweater, while high-waist jeans as skinny as leggings topped with a navy cashmere peacoat had a more fashiony look. For evening, a V-neck charcoal sweater dress was sprinkled with matte sequins.

But McCartney’s attempt at doing gowns was less successful. Empire-waist creations in ivory tulle with dainty silk ribbons applied to the front were unremarkable and frankly unnecessary. She should have stopped while she was ahead.

Elsewhere on the runways, designers continued to push a new toughness for fall. Junya Watanabe woke everyone from their Saturday-morning stupor with an apocalyptic vision of war, set in a dank warehouse with trash strewn on the runway. The Sex Pistols’ “Anarchy in the U.K.” gave way to Mozart minuets as models appeared in reworked Army-green military jackets and combat pants, with scary-looking spiked face masks.

But more than just a political statement, this collection was a show of technical prowess. With the skill of a couturier, Watanabe riffed on drab Army jackets in dozens of ways, adding bell sleeves or olive lace insets, shaping them into peplums or 18th century tailcoats. They were worn with holey black net leggings or skinny cargo pants, and shoe boots covered in sharp spikes.

Standard-issue olive sweaters came marled, some color soaked with red, white and blue. And a tweed overcoat was circled with a barbed-wire belt.

Comme des Garcons’ Rei Kawakubo explored the war between the sexes, sending models out in Venetian carnival masks and men’s pants suits that had polka-dot dresses superimposed on top. As the show went on, the contrasts became less jarring, on a dynamite blazer with a black corset seamlessly incorporated into the bodice, for example.

Then, Kawakubo reversed things, and the man was on top. Wide trousers dissolved into red tartan ruffles in the back, and a buttoned boyfriend sweater sprouted dress sleeves. Everything was topsy-turvy, then at last perfect harmony was achieved: a beautifully tailored tailcoat, gently pleated in back with leg-of-mutton sleeves, and a red lace dress with softly shaped black satin lapels joined to form a collar.

At Chanel, Karl Lagerfeld seemed to be suffering from cognitive dissonance. The look could best be characterized as Victorian mod, with tweed miniskirts worn with frilly, high-neck blouses and glossy white thigh-high boots. This season, the famous boucle jacket was white, edged in tweed and trailing chiffon shirttails. (Would hate to get that caught in the escalator at Neiman’s.) It was paired with skinny, high-waist black pants and a ruffle-front blouse. And the ubiquitous 1960s shift came in black festooned with gumball-sized gold beads, lacy white doilies or clusters of jewels in stained-glass colors. The new bag was 10 gallons big, in slouchy black patent with a short chain handle, and the shoes were black-and-white spectator pumps with block heels.

Palazzo pants looked new for daytime, worn with shaped coats. But when they appeared in chiffon for night, layered under dresses that resembled nightgowns, Barbra Streisand’s 1968 bell-bottom Oscar fashion horror came to mind. With Chanel, Fendi and now his own label on his plate, perhaps the famously svelte Lagerfeld has at last stretched himself too thin.

Since the departure of head designer Phoebe Philo earlier this year, Chloe is being designed by a team of assistants. And this collection proved why the formula does not work. Fall’s wide, masculine pants were here, super-sized like Yohji Yamamoto’s. But these looked sad and clownish drooping from suspenders. Dresses were a rerun of last season -- baby-doll styles, swinging voluminous skirts, the best in paper-thin white leather with flower cutouts. Even the accessories were a disappointment. Clunky, stacked heel lace-ups were such a hazard, one model fell flat on her face while walking the runway.

Looking around at all the Chloe bags in the audience, it became clear that to keep the momentum, this label needs a little of McQueen’s magic, tout de suite.