Upper Park Avenue is the domain of the doyenne. Marc Jacobs has held his shows at the Armory here time and again over the years, but this season the choice felt right on the (pardon) mark. This wasn’t “downtown,” girlish Marc. Guests on arrival were served glasses of vodka, neat. That’s not kid stuff.
The collection, set to a screamingly loud instrumental score (creepy, anxious string-section sawing from “Requiem for a Dream”), was proper, precise, even matronly at times. Or would have been, had it not been amply seasoned, as several shows have been this season, with a dose of kink. Leather trim dangled from the models’ belts, and their hands were sheathed in leather gloves. Their dresses tied at the back of the neck with long, trailing ribbons. Pull one, and they’d drop.

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