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What is it about Yves Saint Laurent that gets fashion lovers - even the po-faced kind for whom a year's supply of free Manolos wouldn't raise a smile - in such a tizzy? Leaving last night's show, magazine editors and stylists alike were whooping with excitement, relieved that, finally, they had seen something exciting in Paris. Have things really been that flat? Or is it a testament to designer Stefano Pilati's genius that he puts his finger on the pulse each season and delivers just what women want to buy?
According to Pilati, what we'll want next season is leather - lots of it, in every permutation known to man and cow. No garment was too unlikely to be rendered in leather, from a strapless zip-front swimsuit to a pair of cross-back dungarees.
A belted jacket in softest nappa, quilted for extra definition, came with a studded collar, while a buttersoft leather trousersuit had a biker-style jacket and loose trousers that tapered at the ankle.
Even the models' hair was scraped back severely inside a leather cap: a novel solution for anyone facing a bad hair day. In contrast to the heaviness of the leather were the shirts, in fresh white poplin with puff shoulders and a starched pussy bow at the neck. These were worn with grey flannel chalk-stripe pencil skirts with a mannish jacket slung over the shoulders.
The classic YSL smoking jacket was rendered long and lean, its lapels slightly off-centre. At times, the conservative tailoring was given a subversive edge by a black leather basque which peeped from underneath.
That's the thing about Pilati: he plays a subtle hand, his clothes devoid of any obvious, mainstream sex appeal in favour of a more offbeat approach. While he churns out It bags by the season, you sense his heart lies not so much in designing cult accessories as in the far less sexy pursuit of fabric innovation. For this collection, he borrowed thermal moulding techniques from the beleaguered car industry, bonding fabrics such as crêpe de Chine and foam so they looked sculptural.
From his throne in heaven, Saint Laurent himself gazed down and saw that all was good. Or at least, you imagined he did.
