It’s true that after turning Gucci into a Venetian bazaar for children of the moon, Alessandro Michele wasn’t suddenly going to embrace minimalism at Valentino. But was it really necessary to repaint Rome in the colors of Saint-Germain-des-Prés after a bad trip to San Francisco?

On Sunday, at nap time, in the Piazza Dati sacred temple of Italo–Parisian couture the neo-hippie sanctuary on LSD, Michele held his grand mass for Valentino. The setting? A dark hall with ceiling lighting that irritated Di Meo, sitting next to Marisa, who was made up like a stolen car. An inclusive fashion festival sponsored by a Pantone color.

On the runway, a procession of baroque angels dressed in crumpled taffeta, lace, and drapery vaguely reminiscent of an over-ironed opera curtain. The models seemed to recite a pagan prayer to lost beauty, repeating, so far, so good. It was pure Michele: a blend of bourgeois woman in search of sex and a chic Notting Hill flea market.

The fans cried genius, the investors simply cried. The new Valentino, apparently, wants to “reconnect the soul of the house with the youth of the world.” Translation: sell Zara-style shirts to Gen Z kids convinced that nostalgia is sustainable and production in China is artisanal. All, of course, at prices that would make a Saudi princess blush.

Valentino once dreamed of a divine woman; Michele offers us a cosmic priestess who forgot to pay her rent. If Count Garavani saw this, he’d ask for his red and his silence back. But to be fair, amid this aesthetic chaos, there is something sincere — and, above all, perfectly tailored cuts. Michele truly believes in his jeweler’s opera; it’s just that sometimes poetry costs a bit too much, especially when sold by the meter.

FM