Why Celine Works

Here’s the consensus from Paris: Michael Rider is good at this.

Hours before I slid into Celine’s presentation on Saturday, a designer who had already seen the clothes relayed to me that Mr. Rider’s first full men’s collection for Celine was cunning, inviting, good. He was right.

On the wall at Celine HQ were outfits rigged up by Mr. Rider. What stood out? An ivory field jacket with sleeves in a slightly different shade of cream, a navy half-zip with a key holder looped onto the zipper and a collarless overcoat that landed at the knees, like a Bar jacket that underwent limb-lengthening surgery.

I lingered over a black wool jacket, the offspring of a sport coat and a Harrington. It was dressy with roped shoulders, yet chopped straight across. I wanted to grab it off the wall and try it on, to feel its swing. I was less sold on the white jeans it was styled with. Great in theory, thorny to pull off. Ditto the ballet plimsolls, which looked too lithe for the cobblestones in the courtyard below.

Why is this working? Mr. Rider designed for both Celine under Phoebe Philo and for Polo Ralph Lauren. He works at a frequency that critics (and shoppers) expect from a Parisian luxury brand, but also has spent years ruminating on an aspirational American look. That combination works. A pillowy alabaster bomber and a chunky chain-mail ribbed turtleneck? You could detect some Phoebe in those. Blunt-edged rep ties, pre-battered jeans and columns of logo sweaters in rainbow shades were evidence that he’s a graduate of Ralph University.

Mr. Rider is making something fresh at Celine. It can’t be lumped in with the masses of vintage-ripping collections I’ve seen in Paris this week. It’s winky but wearable. Or in Mr. Rider’s words from the press notes: “Classics with bite.”

My one quibble: It would have been nice to see that field jacket swish by in motion or understand how loose those dress pants were on a person. Perhaps next time he’ll stage a runway show. These clothes deserve it.

Other things worth knowing about:

Enter Kiko Croctadinov. This was an especially restrained showing from the Bulgarian designer Kiko Kostadinov. Picture a troup of monks from another planet in Loro Piana wool tunics, batwing black jackets and lapel-free blazers of angel white. The shoes brought us down to earth: platform Crocs in mesh and faux pebble leather, like lace-ups you’d find in a gardening store. More evidence that Crocs isn’t a clog brand any more. It’s a shoe brand.
At Magliano I relished the breadth of fabrics. This show, the first in Paris for the Italian-born designer Luca Magliano, was a jumble of thick-as-taffy cords, shantung-like pinks and a plaid out of an L.L. Bean catalog. The styling did a lot of the work: Blazer collars turned up to the wind, sleeves were scrunched, scarves escaped over shoulders. One final cheeky call-out: a knit cardigan with an alphabet motif, where “A” was for Antifa. “We love to say important things in a nice, naive way,” Magliano said.

You know what brand I hear mentioned at least three times a day? Charvet. The classics, folks. They’re classic for a reason! (Read more about them here.)
Skants? A pirt? Sacai sent out pants with flappy, skirted sides. Inventive? Yes. Necessary? Well …
Doublet is like a more wicked Moschino. Where else do you get a frowny face handbag, a suit with fake copies of The New York Times plastered to it, shoes with air-pump heels, an intarsia smokestack sweater with toile poofs of “exhaust” and a skirt that looks like a windblown pair of pants? The Japanese label’s surrealist sundae always makes for a zany last dish in Paris.

“I quit the most beautiful job in the world.”

— Véronique Nichanian, departing Hermès after nearly four decades as its men’s wear designer. Her final collection was like all that came before. Poised, cool, radar-targeted at men of means.

The Indelible Fit of the Day

There’s nothing extraordinary here from the Japanese label Ssstein. Just some reliable pieces, arranged with confidence. I particularly enjoyed the way the powder blue shirt flows, untucked into the bleachy bluejeans. An easy outfit, in all senses, on a Sunday morning.