Sportswear is not Dirk Bikkembergs' prerogative. Where Thom Browne had fun with fencing at Moncler and Miuccia was gaga for golf at Prada, Vivienne Westwood went the whole hog and chose the Olympics as her inspiration for this season, British noblesse oblige. Of the three, the onetime queen of punk's take on sports was by far the least disciplined. There were items as literal as Olympics-themed logo tees and the laurel wreaths that crowned one or two models' heads. But the designer's intention was also to show "what one could wear to attend the formal ceremonies" in London, hence the gray pinstripe 3-piece suit that invoked a different kind of master of the universe. Alongside came gigolo types in unbuttoned shirts, their foreheads dripping with huge globs of sweat courtesy of some makeup department voodoo. At the end, Mrs Westwood took a haphazard victory lap with her husband, Andreas Kronthaler, whom she was keen to credit as her co-creator ("the greatest talent I've ever met", she called him backstage. Everything about this show was off-kilter, including the shorts with their off-center button-front flys. If nothing else, that gave new urgency to the old tailor's question as to whether sir dresses to the left or right. Duh.
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