Dior Homme

When the eerie tall hats came down the runway at Dior Homme, it seemed as if Kris Van Assche had seen the fantastic horror film Jeepers Creepers. But it was soon clear we were watching a modern interpretation of American religious conservatism, Amish-style. Off-white ensembles evoking rural Pennsylvania church service for urban manorexic twinks came out one after another, making for a clever, clean collection ideally suited for the linen-tote, skinny-jean set. Simplicity was the sermon of the day as fussy details took a backseat in the horse-drawn carriage.

But the sinister vibe of the collection was inescapable. The cream tones and blacks on expressionless, chisel-chinned models brought out the preacher’s deviant son, emphasized by clerical-looking, long-waisted jackets that buttoned only at the neck. These were clothes for upstanding guys with deep-seated secrets. One couldn’t help but hum that Dusty Springfield hit: “And the only one who could ever reach me was the son of a preacher man, yes he was.”

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