It fell to Louis Vuitton to throw a gigantic end-of-collections party that lit up the rococo exterior of the Petit Palais like a giant L.V. trunk and celebrated the reopening of the extraordinary art-installed high-tech wonderland that is its Champs-Elysées flagship. It therefore fell to Marc Jacobs, too, to match the hedonistic moment by doing something majorly loud and celebratory on the runway. In that way, he did not let the side down: Out charged the L.V. girl army in short, hot-pink, body-conscious, bejeweled clothes. Clanking with gold medallions, weighed down with charm bracelets, and toting plastic-covered scarf-print bags, they looked almost as if they'd walked straight out of eighties Italian fashion photographs, by way of Graceland. Versace, Krizia, Ferré—Elvis!

Why did Jacobs choose those references? Partly, no doubt, to annoy the grown-ups—who tend to come over queasy when forced to face a flashback of their eighties embarrassments—and to reinforce the fact that Louis Vuitton is aimed at global twentysomethings, who are currently loving a bit of revived Versace. And partly, just for the hell of it. "Why not? We were looking at decoration and color and sun, and at designers whose work we haven't looked at for a long time," he declared. "And, you know—it really doesn't matter any more. The truth is, everything you want to wear is fine and great. Vive la différence!" As a last word on the season, that couldn't help but set the brain whirring about what will happen next. Is fashion about to plunge into its first outbreak of exuberant excess since Tom Ford left the scene? If so, it's about time.