Jonathan Anderson’s First Dior Menswear Show

Jonathan Anderson is not lazy (hear the show soundtrack’s reading “I’m just a lazy girl caught in a popular body”. That much is clear. What wasn’t clear, at first, was whether he wanted us to think he was. 

The crowd that entered his debut Dior menswear show looked like they had walked off a casting call for The Office. Crinkled shirts, undone collars, messy hair covered by Dior logo caps, and the kind of male energy that says, “I dress myself in the dark but I work in finance” or “I’m a 1988 dad heading to the airport” or “I’m a straight guy heading to brunch”. The styling (or intentional lack thereof) felt so aggressively mundane it almost read as a protest. Dior, a house that loves pomp, suddenly looked like it had RSVP’d to a casual Friday with the tech bros (nothing against tech bros, but you get the point. Also, that was a very long pre-show).

And that’s precisely where the trick was.

When the show began, all bets were off. The first look immediately signaled something sharper. There was construction, rhythm, and play (and relief). Coats with twisted ties and sculpted gilets. Overlayed jeans with flaps begging for a street style moment that I hope we will see. A cast of Victorian silhouettes filtered through Anderson’s signature chaos and jeans. What looked at first like nothing was actually layered with intent—just held back, hidden behind the glare of beige poplin and bad lighting.

Let’s talk strategy. Anderson dressed his front row in anti-style to keep the good stuff under wraps. A small act of villainy? Absolutely. But also a reminder: fashion is theater, and misdirection is part of the magic.

The accessories followed suit—mostly conservative, stiff, designed to reassure the brand’s loyal male consumer. But then, the beige monogram reappeared. Not just any monogram, but the Marc Bohan classic, revisited through the lens of Galliano’s early 2000s colorway. Finally, something archival with an edge. It felt like a quiet reclamation, a coded nod to a past Dior hasn’t quite dared to revive in full. I expected further archive calls when it came to accessories, but that was pretty much it asides from also the collaboration with Sheila Hicks’ take on the Lady Dior, which was Anderson’s undeniable connection to the art world.

Of course, this wasn’t a perfect show. The repetition in silhouettes—voluminous shorts, layered looks, washed denim—dragged slightly. But let’s not pretend Anderson controls the number of looks Dior demands each season. This is a machine that thrives on excess. Editing is a luxury rarely afforded in luxury.

Compared to Kim Jones’ polished tailoring and inclination to a much fluid sillhouette, this collection may have read as “safer.” But that would be missing the point. Anderson doesn’t operate on shock value—he teases, he distorts, he unravels. There’s genius in the lazy styling, the slouchy elegance, the undone tie that still catches the light just so.

He’s still settling into the house. Dior hasn’t bent to him yet—but you can feel the beginning of something bending.