Near the end of Vivienne Westwood’s show, a model ambled out holding a watering can. She sprinkled H2O over a wilted phallus drawn graffiti-like on the stage backdrop, then, teetering on towering heels, messily stumbled down the runway, falling flat on her derrière a couple of times.
It seemed to sum up much of Westwood’s collection: It was fun — even funny — but it wobbled near the tipping moment throughout. Not that the feisty designer, who scampered down the runway at the end, didn’t deliver on her signature disheveled dresses, slouchy trousers and the punk-meets-Baroque attitude her clients love: It was there in her graffiti-printed capes (replete with scribbled phalluses) and tailored skirt ensembles assembled like the mismatched cutouts of a puzzle.
Even the lace-doily-like dresses and the evening ensembles in dramatic satin certainly would be fetching on the right lady.
But when a model came out holding a baseball bat, one couldn’t help thinking that Westwood had just grounded out.