Sunnei is the most original fashion brand in Milan after Prada, and you can be sure its founders, Loris Messina and Simone Rizzo, don’t have Prada’s resources. The set for their show, on Friday, consisted of a colorfully striped rug, which was rolled out once people were seated. That was it — a carpet in a relatively small room. Because Rizzo and Messina literally use their audiences—models have previously crowd-surfed and been mixed in with guests — you never know what to expect, though it will certainly be funny. Humor is miserably scarce in fashion, probably because making money is paramount. Rizzo and Messina, as it happens, possess the best kind of humor. They play it straight.
As each model descended a staircase and crossed the carpet alone, the soundtrack captured what were supposedly their thoughts. One guy couldn’t wait to eat pasta. Another model had to pee and was trying to hold it in, to the sound of rushing water. A girl wondered if she could have an affair with the show’s producer. Another said, These clothes are nice but put together like this? We all look like a bunch of clowns…There were roughly 28 thoughts, not counting humming and what sounded like the tiniest of burps.
Spectators of shows have thoughts of their own. Those clothes are garbage. That collection looks like Zara. Before Gucci, also on Friday, as I was watching a VIP guest constantly touch her clothes and hair, I thought, Stop fussing with yourself. You look uncomfortable. There is so much silent shade and drama around fashion, often more than great clothes. And Messina and Rizzo were throwing that reality back at the audience.
But the collection itself was also marvelous, and more sophisticated than what we’ve seen from Sunnei. There were chunky sweaters with thick (possibly detachable) cowl necks adorned with squiggly fringe; a pair of well-shaped knit coats, in black or ivory, with an attached long scarf; a cool oversized shirt in charcoal gray with matching trousers, and a high-collared, dark brown barn jacket, possibly in washed denim, that brought to mind Phoebe Philo’s utility aesthetic, and which looked chic with wide-leg matching pants.
Rizzo and Messina know that if you dive into the basic elements of a show you can often find new depth and meaning. Halfway into their presentation, they sent out five looks made from the same striped carpet material, except none of the garments was stitched. Instead they were closed by snaps; and when completely opened and spread out, as the designers’s press notes said, the shapes bore an uncanny resemblance to animals like a frog, a butterfly and a hippo. The actual pattern-making forms were also printed in the notes. What the eye cannot see… In the end, the models all converged on the carpet and flopped themselves down.
An hour later, Francesco Risso, the creative director of Marni, was also taking his own path. Because it is Marni’s 30th anniversary, he said he wanted his design team to begin with a clean slate, without references. So he had the studio completely veiled in white material, not unlike the white sticky paper that plastered the ceilings and walls of his cavelike show space.
“I wanted us to lose all reference points, the mood boards, the icons,” Risso, dressed in white, said in the chaotic backstage. “I wanted us to go on instinct.”
That produced a collection of stark and powerful silhouettes in black fabrics bonded to hold their forms, which verged on classical couture. But it was hard to say. Futuristic? Possibly. The usual details of those garments, like darts and pockets, were completely smoothed away. There were also exaggerated leopard prints; tunics or tops in a shaggy vanilla-colored material that suggested monkey fur, and egg-shaped pieces that looked like molded plastic but with the texture and form of feathers. Against the whiteness and with a choir performing, the clothes were strange and masterful and struck, as Risso uniquely can, a spiritual vibe.
By all rights, Gucci should be a main event at the Milan shows, and not merely because it’s a major business with clout and a history. But that’s not quite happening under its creative director, Sabato De Sarno, who presented his second women’s collection for the brand. Despite evident savoir-faire and skills accrued from years at Valentino, De Sarno cannot design clothes that light up a runway, that make you want to change how you’re dressing — as Prada can and even little Sunnei.
De Sarno’s essential day look is a neat, close-fitting jacket with hot pants or a generous coat over said shorts, with riding boots or platform loafers. I can see young women falling for a shortsuit in banana yellow wool/cashmere, in part because the cut of the jacket has the ladylike romance of vintage couture. Also nice were tops and slip dresses in embellished black lace and claret-red velvet.
But though the clothes are all beautifully made — De Sarno takes pride in that, as a designer should — the collection wasn’t much of an advance over his minimalist spring clothes, which are now hitting stores. He said his first show aimed to lay the ground for a wardrobe. But I felt he was mostly repeating himself, which might be a good strategy to acquaint customers with the classic turn at Gucci.
Still, talking about wardrobe-building, while it may sound good — given the cost of clothes — amounts to a defensive position.
“If my clothes are commercial, I don’t care,” he told me two days before the show. “My goal is to see people in the street in my clothes.” But it’s possible, as many designers have demonstrated, to have both: the commercial success and the creative sparks.
Versace was just plain depressing: an icon of original creativity reduced to cookie-cutter shapes — pantsuits, houndstooth-check minis, black head-mistress dresses with round, jeweled collars — that you’d find in a department store, perhaps with a few brand details. Even the evening clothes seemed thin on substance. This was another collection, and there are many today in high fashion, that seemed conceived by merchandisers rather than a creative director.
