Haider Ackermann titled his show A Carte Blanche Named Opium, and the elegantly spare book (he called it a carnet de voyage) that was distributed before his Spring presentation in Florence promised an appropriately dark, sensual head trip. That was a lot for the clothes to live up to. They were beautiful, yes, but so exquisitely studied that the carte blanche, the drama, went missing. Still, the scenario was seductive—the women in their languidly draped palazzo pants and layered silk tanks, the men like exotic brigands in rig that was part samurai, part corsair. It was easy to imagine the latter sweeping the former onto an Arab stallion and riding away into the desert, civilization surrendering to barbarism, even if what actually happened was more measured and polite.