THE show must go on. At least Marc Jacobs, the modern day incarnation of P.T. Barnum, thinks so. Tonight's vision for spring was a spectacle that that fused Jacobs' special brand of theatricality with the ribald attitude of a dance hall girl. Even if one were to subtract the strange events leading up to the show - rumours of Jacobs taking over Dior, a last minute schedule change due to Hurricane Irene, an announcement stating that the celebrity quotient in attendance would be minimal (Dakota Fanning and Sofia Coppola were there, Courtney Love missed the 8:30pm start time), the sudden cancelation of pre-show press coverage earlier in the day - tonight was just further proof that while Jacobs loves to make good clothes, his garments are only one element of a much bigger performance.
Upon entering the New York State Armory, his usual space, the audience was greeted with a large proscenium stage shrouded in gold lamé curtains that gave way to a catwalk divided by a wood beamed divider. As the show began, the drapes parted to reveal a tableau of every model posed and backlit in silhouette, much like the dime-a-dance girls in Bob Fosse's Sweet Charity. If each Marc Jacobs show is a cocktail of divergent elements to create one strangely cohesive whole, this tasty drink was one part showgirl courtesy of Fosse, the legendary Broadway director and choreographer, one part cowgirl, and a splash of wholesome Americana—shaken, not stirred. Look one featured a razzle-dazzle sequin and tulle sweater worn with a fringed skirt of shimmering synthetic fibers (the program says "film") under a leather coat with subtle Western fringe and clear plastic cowboy boots. The rancher tassels would show up at the hems of iridescent skirts or edging leather jackets, eventually developing into lustrous paillettes on sleeveless shifts. Textural experimentation was strong in this collection, seen in the luminous and opaque draped silicone skirts, high-low nylon and cashmere sweatshirts and the eyelet lace made of plastic studding. Hokey ginghams, á la Judy Garland as Dorothy, were tamed and incorporated as a polished nod to farmers (think of a soignee version of the musical Oklahoma! and jingoistic Americana. There was a certain cocktail hour femininity to the (literally), flashy pieces, but Jacobs is far too shrewd to ever let them become simply pretty or girly.
Yet underlying all this was a sinister, angst-ridden fraudulence—a seemingly shiny exterior that belied the seedy underbelly raging underneath. Perhaps this was a reference to the idea of showbiz in general, both a fascination of and temptation to Jacobs. It's easy to understand his love of Bob Fosse. Like him, he struggled with addiction and a reputation as a rebellious maverick, but below the surface lay the sensitivities of a brilliant, perverse mind. When the final girl returned to her place in the tableau—which at this point had taken on a startlingly confrontational passive aggressiveness—Jacobs came out for his bow in a snug black V-neck T-shirt and a slinky black pair of trousers that, for lack of a better word, looked like dance pants. The designer had taken on Fosse's persona of controlling auteur, happiest only when onstage, or, at least, controlling the actions on it.
SEE THE MARC JACOBS SHOW ARCHIVE