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Alexander McQueen

MILAN, January 17, 2006
By Tim Blanks
A preacher ranted apocalyptically on the soundtrack, Johnny Cash croaked Personal Jesus, a blood-red moon hovered above the catwalk—the scene was set for another cinematic Alexander McQueen spectacle, this one a vision from hell, as he took care to point out in his accompanying notes. The presentation seemed (to this viewer at least) to depict the eventual transformation of healthy young men into the cadaverous undead, courtesy somewhere along the way of a bite from a very stylish vampire, a descendant perhaps of the Dracula that Gary Oldman portrayed some years ago. "Healthy" in McQueen's context meant healthily ambiguous—things kicked off with a parade of silk- or broderie-anglaise blouses, a fox fur draped over a languidly voluminous suit in a Prince of Wales check, trousers so high-waisted they would give Beau Brummel pause for thought. One droll touch was a Fair Isle sweater with skulls replacing the traditional pattern.

A (not-so) gay zombie hussar signaled the arrival of a passage of more extreme ambiguities, such as a plaid kimono top with chrysanthemum appliqués that managed to be both punkish and effete. A sequence of robes de chambre—blood-red velvet, mustard-yellow silk, black-and-red satin—suggested Dracula at leisure in his library. Meanwhile, his handmaidens solemnly stalked the catwalk in the spectral form of ghoulish geishas.

As for the man behind these visions? By comparison with the lost boys and girls who peopled his show, McQueen himself looked almost obscenely healthy as he took his bow in a chunky cable-knit sweater.

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