No grand unveiling. No messiah in monogrammed loafers descending from the heavens to rescue Gucci from its latest existential wobble. Just another show, another placeholder, another polite nod to the fact that yes, fashion marches on, even when it’s leaderless. It’s been exactly a decade since Alessandro Michele was plucked from relative obscurity, tasked with salvaging a collection in five days flat, and in the process, rewrote the house’s entire trajectory. Sabato De Sarno? He barely had time to unpack before being unceremoniously escorted out. And for a fleeting moment, the industry held its breath—would we see another eleventh-hour savior? A seismic shift? A moment?

No. Instead, we got an interim collection—the second in as many years—stitched together by Gucci’s in-house design team, who took a well-earned bow in their matching Gucci-green sweatshirts at the end. (Ancora Verde, a quiet rebuff to De Sarno’s Ancora Rosso.) There were dozens of them, a visual reminder that fashion, despite its obsession with singular visionaries, is an ecosystem. A machine. The press release, in its corporate-poetic way, reinforced this idea: Gucci is a “continuum of craft, taste, and culture,” shaped by artisans, designers, marketers, even customers—each a guardian of the house’s legacy. (A noble sentiment, but let’s not pretend anyone’s lining up to buy a handbag designed by committee.)

And yet, we crave vision. The next big idea. That ineffable thing that makes a show feel like a jolt to the system instead of a contractual obligation. Without a clear direction, today’s collection felt like a mood board in motion: A remix of Gucci past lives, scavenged from across the decades. The shimmer of ‘60s jet-set mod shifts. The familiar scuff of Michele’s once-iconic, fur-lined loafers (minus the fur). Rhinestone GG emblems flashing across velvet catsuits à la Tom Ford’s ‘90s sex-glam reign. The acidic silk slips of De Sarno’s brief but bright flame. A particularly interesting yellow peacoat—classic at first glance, but featuring a gathered inset in the back—felt like another leftover from the De Sarno era, a whisper of what could’ve been.

The overall aesthetic? Kooky bourgeoisie—the kind of woman who throws a faux fur over a pencil skirt but forgets a blouse, whose baseball cap requires a silk kerchief, who insists her leather gloves match her handbag. For men, the look skewed more streamlined: double-breasted suits in matching shirts and ties, car coats in vinyl, patinated animal print, or tweed. Nothing risky. Nothing revolutionary. Just a carefully composed synthesis of Gucci-isms—past, present, and whatever this transitional purgatory might be.

So what is next? That’s the question. The show notes pointed out that Gucci’s archives are deep—this year marks 70 years of the Horsebit bag, a detail that found its way into multiple looks. And yes, brand codes are the foundation of any luxury house, but codes alone don’t spark desire. The Gucci of the past decade thrived on its excess, its weirdness, its point of view. And today, for all its refinement, what was missing was just that: a point of view. A person behind the curtain. Someone to light the match.