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Dolce & Gabbana

Remember when Milan was all about boring beige, and you longed for a shot of excitement? Well, be careful what you wish for.<BR><BR>

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Remember when Milan was all about boring beige, and you longed for a shot of excitement?

Well, be careful what you wish for, because the city has turned into a bizarre hub populated by space babes, Mods, pinups, print-frocked Lolitas and plastic princesses — missing only were in-heat desert dwellers.

Until Thursday, that is, when Domenico Dolce and Stefano Gabbana corrected those omissions with a soiree of desert gals — as in Priscilla, Queen of, and her flashy friends, the showgirls of Vegas.

Oh, for a peek into the dual psyche: What were they thinking? Did the designers intend parody, joke, pure entertainment? The only thing they could not have been shooting for was a trace of seriousness. Which is a shame, because the work, the craftsmanship and technology that went into these pretend clothes was amazing.

They were plastic-ed, PVC-ed, Lesage-ed and lacquered and presented as high glitz and dominatrix gear, along the way working a veritable alphabet of references from A to V (Azzedine to Versace).

Would that some of the effort had been lavished on what the designers do so brilliantly: chic, sexy day clothes and drop-dead gorgeous eveningwear for real women and red-carpet regulars alike.

As it was, save for a couple of suits and drapey dresses, the merch getting the most play was eyewear and bags. The assorted S&M divas provided lots of spectacle, but nothing new nor a germ from which something new might sprout, not even in the curve-enhancing corsets that packed fake poundage onto those underweight models (take that, Spain).

As for the Vegas finale, corny, colorful, choreographed to be sure, but what happens in Vegas should stay in Vegas.

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