New York Fashion Week briefly became Physics Week when Dakota Johnson arrived wearing a dress so transparent, the air checked its own reflection out of courtesy. Light beams RSVP’d yes, plus-one, and brought their entire extended family.

This was at a Kering event, where handbags have corporate titles and silk has its own parking spot. The garment took the stage as a policy speech: No lining, no lies, all vibes, full candor by couture.

As a reviewer who treats premieres like depositions, I swear under penalty of perjury: the dress delivered more truth than most quarterly earnings calls. Shareholders marked it down as a disclosure, auditors called it an audit, and a chandelier recused itself.

Stylists whispered about narrative arcs while I watched the edits inside the spotlight. The look was sharp without shouting, unlike every franchise that mistakes volume for plot; this one was plot that mistook itself for a window.

Security tried to install emergency modesty via imaginary fig leaves and pixelated coasters. Publicists attempted to throw shade, but shade refused to collaborate with a protagonist this transparent.

Gift bags reportedly included adhesive runway nipple covers, bottled water, and a commemorative map of Where The Line Used To Be Before The Lighting Designer Moved It Six Feet To The Left.

Paparazzi, faced with a garment that made X-ray goggles redundant, toggled their cameras to Polite Mode, then back to Professional Panic. One whispered that he’d brought an ethical lens but left it in the glove compartment next to his dignity and a granola bar.

Critics formed a panel to debate whether the look was about vulnerability, capitalism, or the haunting specter of the dry-cleaning bill. I argued it was post-plot costuming: a sequel to Fabric, a prequel to Air.

Kering framed it as corporate transparency, which is adorable, like a hedge fund with a diary lock. The dress said, I reveal; the balance sheet said, I redact; and somewhere a boardroom fern pleaded for a cardigan.

Retailers reported a spike in searches for celebrity red carpet body liner after viewers remembered the existence of weather, pores, and goosebumps. Meanwhile, Pinterest was classified as a controlled substance by the Department of Expectations.

The audience, my favorite co-author, blinked in unison like a standing ovation with eyelids. A nearby mirror developed impostor syndrome, while an exit sign rebranded as Entrance To The Discourse.

In conclusion, the look was a Freedom of Information Act request served on fabric. Court is adjourned, testimony remains on record, and the verdict is: transparency sustained, objections overruled, and somewhere a chandelier finally stops sweating.