It isn’t hard to see why John Galliano felt entitled to throw himself a party last night.

Nowadays a model is lucky if her career lasts 18 months. Flailing designers are signed up and spat out of fashion houses in two seasons. Galliano has held down the job as head designer at Dior for the fashion equivalent of eternity. He was appointed the year that Tony Blair became Prime Minister. The difference is that ten years on there is no obvious successor to Galliano. His appointment, which was held to be something of a risk at the time, has turned out to be a critical and commercial smash.

Moreover, 2007 is the 60th anniversary of the founding of the House of Dior. And 1947 was a busy year for Christian Dior: he invented The New Look – that wasp-waisted, full-skirted, fabric-gobbling, unashamedly nostalgic silhouette that had some denouncing him as an antipatriot. Most women loved it. And love it still.

All bona fide reasons for hosting the mother of all parties at – where else? – Versailles. Dedicated to Galliano’s right-hand man, Steven Robinson, who died aged 38 this year, the invitation requested supreme elegance. I saw Marisa Berenson in floor-length silk. Elsewhere Juliette Binoche, Kate Hudson, Sofia Coppola, Monica Bellucci and Pedro Almodóvar flitted about in evening dress.

There were Russians in puffballs, French women in black satin, Chinese in miniature tiaras. I saw a woman wearing an ivory satin dress with a train – and a man clearly hired for the night to carry it.

It takes quite a show to compete with that. Beneath the towering vaults of the Orangery, once home to 1,000 orange trees, Galliano paid tribute to the influences that had inspired both Dior and himself over the years. Here was Helena Christensen in a skin-tight black velvet dress with sparkly black inserts and a sweetheart neckline that cupped her famous assets – apparently inspired by the great Fifties photographer Horst.

Linda Evangelista wore embroidered red taffeta prompted by Caravaggio. Ahead of her came Naomi Campbell in rippling pale-pink chiffon (a nod to Alma-Tadema, although it could just as easily have been a nod to Beyoncé).

Stella Tennant, in black mantilla, was there to represent El Greco, and at the end of the catwalk Amber Valletta threw her body and a baby-blue bustle of a dress into a curve, as a homage to Renoir.

There wasn’t one dress that wasn’t at the very least stupendous and dazzling. Most were also beautiful.

What prevented the whole experience from being mere historical pastiche were the modern details and proportions: from the slim dress that turned itself into a giant 3-D rose, to the fetishistic elbow-length leather gloves and drag queen-inspired make-up. And those shoes: huge curved platforms that brought the models to a standstill.

Poor Karen Mulder, back on the catwalk after more than ten years, was almost defeated by hers. First she summoned one of the bouncers to escort her.

Then she simply sat down on a gilt chair and refused to risk further life and limb. There’s something not right about shoes not made for walking. But over in these parts they call them the height of modernity.

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