Gucci takes its mesmerising weirdness to Paris Fashion Week

With a surprise performance from Jane Birkin alongside Alessandro Michele’s now trademark eclecticism, Lisa Armstrong finds the label in rude health

The mesmerising weirdness of Alessandro Michele’s Gucci is one of the cleverest games in town. Today’s fashion consumers adore a frisson of subversive oddness when they splurge on a status-heavy bag or a monogrammed key-fob. Michele’s shows and ad campaigns allow them to think that’s what they’re getting.

Nothing at Gucci is what it seems. Apt then that half way through this show, Jane Birkin stood up in the middle of the stalls and began to sing. It was the perfect metaphor. A Parisian icon of considerable charm and charisma, born in the English home counties, Birkin has always enjoyed a venerated sideline as a singer, despite not being much of a singer in any conventional sense.

What a show it was, held in a Montmartre theatre that became the Studio 54 of Paris in the Seventies and

Nothing at Gucci is what it seems. Apt then, that Jane Birkin stood up and sang

Eighties. Outside, hordes of fans blocked the narrow street and screamed (they were there to catch a glimpse of one of the guests, Korean pop star Kai). Talk about mingling the ghosts of the past with the present.

Michele’s models – a by-now familiar roster of gender-non-specific introverts – trooped lugubriously through the auditorium and gathered in motionless lines on the stage. With the celestial pools of light bathing each outfit, the cumulative impression was of a magnificent museum retrospective. Given that he has only been in situ for four years, no one could say the self-effacing Michele lacks chutzpah.

But before all that began, he screened some grainy Seventies art-house footage from the experimental duo Leo de Berardinis and Perla Peragallo – cue endless lacunae interspersed with lingering shots of distressed looking young women with smudged mascara and what appeared to be clothes from current Gucci collections. Curiouser and curiouser.

En masse, there’s no doubt Michele’s Gucci looks impressive. Collectively, it also makes criticism that he’s working on a constant repetitive loop somewhat beside the point. His aesthetic may be fixed in the twilight region of obscure horror films, even more obscure philosophical and religious references and the exuberant kitsch of Seventies Elton John, but that gives him a huge area in which to play.

Nor should we overlook his talent for making head-to-toe sequins, glitter and Lurex look lushly antique, or cramming so many disparate references into a single look: a hippie broad-brimmed hat, beaded flapper dress, a feathery ethnic waistcoat, track pants and Princess Margaret white peep-toe shoes; or a male model in red leather fetish knickers, checked preppy shirt, beige silk socks and English-style brogues. There were a further 82 ensembles with similarly insane juxtapositions.

It doesn’t necessarily mesh with the consensus of trends that emerge at other labels, but that too is the point. Gucci is a trend unto itself and endlessly copied by brands wanting to emulate its commercial and critical success.