Dior Fall Winter 2026-2027 Menswear “THE GLITTERING FUNERAL OF TASTE”. Story by Eleonora de Gray, Editor-in-Chief of RUNWAY MAGAZINE. Photo Courteay: Dior.

Let us begin by offering our sincerest condolences to Monsieur Dior. May his legacy rest in peace, for what just walked down the runway was not evolution — it was exhumation. And the culprit? Jonathan Anderson, a man with the artistic finesse of a provincial theatre director reimagining Labyrinth with a Primark budget and a VHS tape of Velvet Goldmine melted in the sun.

This collection, we’re told, is a “play on history and affluence.” In reality, it’s the fever dream of a British schoolboy who once saw a poster of David Bowie, misunderstood it entirely, and built his personality around that single misinterpretation. Bowie? Please. This was less Ziggy Stardust, more Zara Stardust, sprayed with hair gel and desperately begging for meaning.

Anderson’s Dior “aristo-youth” are allegedly roaming Paris like flâneurs. How poetic. But one suspects they’ve wandered out of a nightclub bathroom in Shoreditch and mistaken Dior’s flagship for a vape shop. The dramatic device of stumbling across a Paul Poiret plaque — like some enchanted fashion portal — is charming, if you enjoy the narrative arcs of children’s picture books.

Now, on to the clothes. Imagine raiding your great-uncle’s closet, your mother’s attic trunk, and a party city costume rack — and wearing all of it. At once. We were treated to “mercilessly-shrunken blazers” (because what’s more luxurious than discomfort?), balloon-backed field jackets (for the man who wants to cosplay as a hot air balloon), and long johns replacing trousers (because nothing says haute couture like thermal underwear in public).

The tailoring is apparently “precise.” Precise in the way a toddler precisely draws on the wall with lipstick. The masculine-feminine line is “blurred,” but not in a boundary-pushing way — more in a “we couldn’t decide, so we threw in everything and hoped for applause” kind of way.

And what’s that? A brocade bomber flowing into a cape? Because who among us hasn’t yearned to look like a Renaissance vampire going through a midlife crisis? Accessories include lace-up heels (perfect for running from good taste) and soft messenger bags for carrying all your dignity, if you can find it.

The Tree Pièce de Résistance

Look one: a washed-out denim blazer over pirate cosplay cargo shorts, apparently styled by a history major who just discovered “Napoleon chic” on Tumblr. The buttons — gilded, oversized, and unapologetically pointless — scream, “We had a budget, and we blew it on Etsy epaulettes.” The styling suggests either an H&M clearance rack or the wardrobe department of a BBC children’s drama set in dystopian Cornwall. Choose your fighter.

Look two: someone took Napoleon Dynamite, gave him mustard fringe epaulettes, and said, “You’re fabulous now.” The floral pajama trousers could be best described as haunted upholstery, while the hair — electric yellow, lifeless as wet spaghetti — completes this festival of misplaced intentions. One wonders if Anderson has been watching too much Eurovision with the contrast turned up.

Look three: a military parka, oversized and exhausted, attempting to cosplay a Dior silhouette — but ending up as a rejected look from a forgotten Hunger Games district. Paired with what appears to be grandma’s ribbed tights and plumber chic white clogs, the model trudges down the runway like a draft-dodger from a 1980s fashion apocalypse.

This is not Dior. This is not Bowie. This is not even coherent. This is what happens when you give a provincial conceptualist the keys to Versailles and he remodels it into a Wetherspoons. Enough.

Conclusion

The press release coos about “joy” and “spontaneity,” but let’s not confuse chaos for creativity. This isn’t style as discourse — it’s style as delusion. A game of unbridled associations, yes, but like a game of Clue where everyone forgot the rules and the board is on fire.

The result? Dior, once the epitome of sculpted elegance, has been reduced to a playground for Anderson’s unresolved art school impulses. And… “Sink the sub… Hide the weasel… Park the porpoise… A Bit of the old Humpty Dumpty, Little Jack Horny, the Horizontal Mambo… The Bone Dancer, Rumpleforeskin, Baloney Bop, a Bit of the cunning linguistics…” like Mrs Doubtfire once put it.

If this is the future of the House, then the House needs an exorcism. Fast.

Otherwise, in one more season, Dior will cease to be a fashion house and become a historical reenactment troupe for East London drag brunches.

Fin.

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