Dior Cruise 2027 Los Angeles County Museum of Art “Where Savoir-Faire Meets the Venice Beach Skater”. Story by Eleonora de Gray, Editor-in-Chief of RUNWAY MAGAZINE. Photo Courtesy: Dior / GettyImages.
While the Dior of today is embracing luxury, Jonathan Anderson seems to have been left outside on the sidewalk too long. Perhaps someone forgot the key to the David Geffen Galleries and left him to wander the local costume shops under the hypnotic synth of AIR’s “Kelly Watch The Stars.”
The grounds were gracefully inhabited by Bill Pullman, Al Pacino, Jeff Goldblum, and a luminous Sabrina Carpenter—a refreshing departure from the usual clutter of vulgar “influencers.” This assembly of genuine talent lent a necessary gravitas to the evening, acting as a sophisticated anchor against the runway’s more peculiar detours. Complemented by a significant and striking presence of Asian stars, the crowd was truly exceptional.
The result? A Dior Cruise 2027 show at LACMA that can only be described as “Quiet Luxury” if the quiet in question is the stunned silence of a crowd watching a white-sausage-roll-themed apocalypse unfold.
The cinematic illusion of Los Angeles was certainly present, complete with ornamental streetlights and vintage cars, but the real “film noir” was the mystery of how Marlene Dietrich’s legendary “No Dior, No Dietrich” mandate survived this transition. We were promised Hollywood glamour; we received a collection that felt like a high-fashion reporting of a “dangerous person” seen laughing nervously in the shadows. If you see this woman, or this wardrobe, or Anderson please report it to the nearest aesthetic authorities.
The show opened with a triad of semi-sheer dresses that looked as though they had been caught in a particularly aggressive garden mulcher. A vibrant purple pleated number arrived, sporting a subterranean ring of oversized, fuzzy rosettes that resembled nothing so much as mutated anemones clinging to a sinking ship. It’s the kind of garment one wears when they want to signify they are “intellectual” while simultaneously being unable to sit down without crushing a small fabric ecosystem.
Then there was the “Quiet Luxury” crown jewel: a dude sporting a headpiece that screamed “BUZZ” in a font usually reserved for mid-2000s energy drinks or a very localized, very specific nightmare. One has to wonder: were you hanging around for too long near tweezers and nail polishes, or perhaps hurling into Ubbi diaper pails at a Five Guys? It appears some are still taking style cues from that latest cinematic pile of “revenge” trash rather than looking at the pulse of actual luxury.
He walked the runway with the haunting gaze of a man who knows he is the visual punchline to a joke about urban bees. This was paired with a grey tweed jacket that was remarkably normal, save for the fact that it was styled with the frantic energy of someone who forgot their shirt in a Venice Beach locker.
The “white sausage” aesthetic reached its zenith in a dress that can only be described as a collection of padded, ivory tubes—presumably stuffed with the hopes and dreams of Monsieur Dior himself—spilling out from under a black overcoat like an escaped pasta experiment. These dangling, fabric-covered tentacles reached for the floor, trailing behind the model like a chic, albeit extremely dangerous, jellyfish.
It is, as Anderson implies, the new Savoir-Faire: the art of looking like you’ve been beautifully entangled in the remnants of a wedding tent.
And let us not overlook the denim. Ah, the “Bar Jacket” meets the skater. Anderson presented a tattered, frayed Bar jacket paired with jeans that looked as if they had survived a high-speed encounter with a cheese grater. In a move of peak sarcasm, the rips were meticulously stitched back together with silver chains. It’s a trompe l’oeil effect that says, “I have enough money to buy Dior, but I still want the valet to think I might steal his car.”
Even the evening wear couldn’t escape the fray. A cream-colored, ruffled confection appeared, looking like a tiered cake that had been dropped down a flight of LACMA’s stairs, held together by a black crochet cardigan that your grandmother might have made if she had a very dark sense of humor and a Dior budget. Accessorized with a handbag that appeared to be encrusted with the floor sweepings of a florist shop, it solidified the thesis: Hollywood glamour is dead, long live the elegantly distressed.
In the end, Anderson’s first Cruise for the House didn’t just draw on history; it shredded it, stitched it with silver chains, and asked us to call it “art.” As we stood among the ornamental streetlights, one couldn’t help but feel that the real cinematic illusion was believing this was a Cruise we’d actually want to sail on.
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