UPON entering through the hallowed arches of Miu Miu’s show venue this afternoon, one couldn’t help but draw parallels to religion and the church. The church of Miu Miu? These were the sort of arches that felt makeshift, cut from wood and erected up with limited resource. It was the sort of church a cult might build. The cult of Miu Miu? Why not. This brand, perhaps more than any other, has legions of fans that worship at the altar.
This season felt like a greatest hits of Prada. It looked like a stroppy younger sister had spent an afternoon raiding her big sister’s bedroom, rummaging in her Prada wardrobe and pulling out all her favourites and remixing them with her own bits and pieces. The shiny satin pencil skirts, the glossy red leather, the silky bed coats that looked like they were made from an eiderdown (a beautiful one nonetheless), raw-edged plaid bra tops – in the heat of her fury, this younger sister probably took a pair of scissors to those pieces and started hacking away with glee.
The Baltimore-born director, John Waters was referenced. He began making films in the Sixties and he screened them in church halls (another reason for those sacred arches perhaps) to audiences who had heard about them word of mouth.
There will be nothing word of mouth about this collection. It was a scream it from the rooftops kind of a hit.