There is little left to conclude about this particular Dior line, other than: It needs to burn in a very focused, well-contained Dumpster fire that claims no lives nor vital personal property, but savagely reduces these wares to ashes. It’s aggressively irritating to me. It is putting its thumbs in its ears and wagging its demon fingers and forked tongue in my direction; I want to yell at it and kick sand in its face. It’s like making a pan of brownies and then baking them for only five minutes, or taking only the first two pages of the S.A.T.: Why bother at all if you’re not going to finish what you took the time to start? As I say to my kids all the time when they’re f’ing around, assuming they can be adorable enough that I won’t make them finish their homework: “No one thinks this is cute but you.” It’s just silly. You could fit my patience through a door and its jamb. And leave the branded waistbands to Joe Boxer, please, for the love of GOD. This is from the new head designer’s first collection, but it follows through on a thread first woven by her predecessor Raf Simons, and like, do not let THAT door hit you in the bobbin on the way out, dude. GOOD DAY SIR. I SAID GOOD DAY.