CHANEL is what a fashion show looks like in Robert Altman’s film Prêt-à-Porter: endless catwalk, vast, slightly hysterical crowds and the designer as demi-god.

Yesterday Karl Lagerfeld took his bow in Lurex fingerless gloves and cravat, flanked by two moody looking bouncers with swivel eyes. Were they expecting one of the frail-looking, social X-rays in the front row to lob a quilted bag at the maestro? Models pounded the catwalk in rumpled thigh-high leather boots, schoolgirl kilts, straight-as-a-poker hair extensions they could sit on and a plethora of unusual accessories and styling tricks, from satin bows that tied round the knees of drainpipe trousers, to Lagerfeld’s current obsession: the cravat.

It was Britney Spears crossed with the 1960s model Penelope Tree, evidencing a touch of Nicole Kidman at her most fashion-wayward.

While others explore the 1960s’ stiff, architectural lines, Lagerfeld is drawn to its swinging Carnaby-Street girl: one who wears tweed or transparent tulle leggings with an above-the-knee, bouncy skirt and jacket and then throws in a pair of tweed bovver boots for a laugh.

At times the results were chaotic. Strip away the layers and there were plenty of beautiful outfits and individual items. A cream, woollen 1960s shift with black trim on the pockets was one stand-out piece; a pink, fawn and black tweed dress with jewelled chiffon panels was another.

The evening wear was beautiful, in a formal, Jackie-Kennedy-in-the-White-House-years kind of way, made from black silk faille, cut narrowly over the body and flaring into bell-shaped skirts.

Alexander McQueen’s show last night was one of his sunniest. Based on Hitchcock’s heroines, it mined yet more 1960s’ references, but these were ultra-ladylike, harking back to when women wore dainty gloves, huge beehives and men uttered things like “My God, you’re beautiful”, when they took off their horn-rimmed spectacles. It could have been a clever pastiche — there were beehives, horn-rims and prim-but-sexy stilettos galore. But they were cleverer than mere pastiche. Every piece, from the extraordinary strapless black ballgowns with fishtail hems, in silk that clung to the model’s curves like a shadow, fanning out from the knees over a snow cloud of white tulle petticoats, to a tweed coat that was cut tight at the front, but pouched over the shoulder blades, had been filtered through a modern sensibility, and cut with an awe-inspiring precision and lightness.

While these clothes might be a bit too rich for most women’s consumption, they will make enduringly chic evening wear.

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