Giambattista Valli's show raised interesting questions. Like many in Paris it was about highly sophisticated, almost line for line reproductions of the elegant clothes of the 1950s and early 1960s. A time when models like Suzy Parker and Dovima were posing for photographers such as Irving, Penn and Richard Avedon, to produce classic images of an almost unattainable perfection of elegance. Many designers and stylists fell in love with them then, and they still do, copying clothes and mood as closely as they can.

But the problem is this. Modern runways are full of young girls neither trained to respond to elegance nor to walk in the way such clothes require.

The result is that they look lost, as if wearing clothes stolen from their mother's wardrobes, and that totally kills the impact of the clothes. The other thing that worried me about Valli's excessively derivative show was the hats. A designer who allows a stylist to plonk a badly proportioned hat, half-Welsh lady, half-Stetson with such clothes, without any apparent irony is simply not understanding the clothes either.

There were happier moments with Sonia Rykiel, whose show has become the epitome of what Paris was when she was young. Sexy, fun and showing her best bits for several seasons, this show was full of joie de vivre - as was Rykiel herself. Her runway turn at the end of the show is, like Viviene Westwood's, a joyous and moving moment.

Not much joy in the rest of the day. Chanel gave us a big production, but the ideas were little. A clunky re-run of Courreges in the 1970s, the colours and proportions missed the mark as modern fashion. The whole expensive production had a depressing little old lady quality and not even the little old ladies who make up a high proportion of Chanel's clients want that look.

Things were no better at Alexander McQueen where delusions of grandeur and some dodgy genealogical fantasies swamped the clothes like a tidal wave.

What went wrong? Where should I begin? First the location - a vast space on the edge of Paris - was not a clever choice for a Friday evening. And it rained. And the security guards were especially aggressive and unhelpful.

And women in expensive shoes who had splashed through puddles looking for entrances with little in the way of signs wondered who had organised this little slice of theatre of cruelty, and why it was necessary for a 15 minute show of frocks that some people took three and a half hours to complete. It took over an hour to pack in the audience, surely an unnecessarily large number, even for a designer's ego.

And finally the show. I don't know whether or not McQueen fulfils its purpose as the clothes or the event. I do know that if it is the former, that as an event it was a disaster. In a vast and dark arena, the models crossed and crisscrossed followed by lights. They were so far away that they seemed like little dolls and so badly lit that we could see no details. The general shape seemed based - not so flatteringly for most women - on the scarab beetle, rerunning McQueen's obsession with body armour which we have seen many times before. But, sitting in total darkness, we couldn't in any case write down our impressions. What a disappointing evening for the designer whose audacity, skill and love of beauty have so often thrilled in the past. Next time, Lee, give us a break please - and maybe some clothes we can see.

Hermes designed by Jean Paul Gaultier did what Hermes always does, giving rich and probably not so young women stylish clothes which avoid the wilder shores of fashion. Here the story is about quality - top quality - whether in fur, skins, cashmere or wool. Everything on the runway looks back to the glamour days of privilege, from 1930s Hollywood to 1950s colonial life in places as far flung as Rangoon or Saigon, all shady terraces, breezy decks and general luxury. In Gaultier's hands, the look still works today, for customers who want a dedication to quality and continuity that rises above fads or gimmicks. And I guess that includes quite a lot of rather wealthy women.

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