Philipp Plein exists to serve those men who have graduated Ed Hardy but wish to keep the rebel spirit intact in their wardrobes. Judging by the throngs that mobbed his show, they're not in short supply. The sheer numbers—not only of guests, but also of Plein boutiques, in Moscow (three), Seoul (two), Monte Carlo, Cannes, Dubai, and Macao, to name just a few—are staggering. Maybe those numbers are the key to understanding what it is Plein is doing: pleasing the greatest number of people the largest amount of the time.

That might account for the breadth of his collection, which included lengthy interludes into tailored suiting, underwear (with "Playboy" and "Toy Boy" written across the butts), sweatpants, leather jackets, and studded gym bags—the five major food groups of the International Bro. There were certainly people bopping along happily at the jaw-rattling show, for which Isabeli Fontana lent her services as a goddess of fortune, pulling the lever on the giant slot machines that decorated the stage, just beyond the mirrored runway. Whether thanks to her intercession or not, those babies hit the jackpot. So did Plein, whose ability to play on ultra-accessible sportswear—occasionally accessed elsewhere, as in the case of his shoes' red soles—has made him a runaway success. His offer to his faithful in return is the good-time feeling that any and every Pleinsman can be a part of the party. That, and the cash that his tuxedo-clad models tossed into the crowd during their final walk. But on reflection, it turned out to be just Plein bucks. The house always wins.