Visit our special Oscars section for the latest news on the 2007 Academy Awards

There are many questions that present themselves at couture. Why has the beauteous Cate Blanchett started dressing like Cruella de Vil? Who decided that Armani should be allowed to dominate the week with so many Armani-centric events – the press conference to launch the £200ajar face cream; the press conference to explain the Privé collection; the showing of the Privé collection; the dinner for 600 after the Privé collection; the official guided tour of the new Armani store on the Avenue Montaigne; the cocktail party . . . I could go on (no, actually I couldn’t).

And where do all these gorgeous dresses, each representing hours, days and weeks of dedicated craftsmanship, end up? One or two might just make it to the Oscars ceremony although, if recent form is anything to go by, most nominees will eventually opt for something marginally less memorable than last week’s grocery list.

To give Blanchett her due, she doesn’t play it safe. She no longer uses the stylist Jessica Pastor, who made her look like an ethereal elf princess, and the results can be volatile. She flew in from Louisiana especially for the Armani show and there are no doubt euphoric expectations at the house that she will go with the collection’s one-shouldered silver dress with matching drainpipes and turban on the night, which would certainly be memorable.

This was Giorgio Armani’s homage to Indian maharajahs, we were told, although arguably it dealt a greater blow to that nation’s sense of self than Jade Goody. Jackets were peplumed and high-waisted, skirts were pencil-slim and did something strangely puffy at the hems, whence those wrinkly trouser-leggings sprouted. These were presumably Armani’s take on the shalwar kameez, just as a beaded dress cut away round the waist had a look of the sari about it.

But where was the glorious Technicolor of the subcontinent? Diana Vreeland famously said that pink was the navy blue of India. Armani took it and, along with every other vibrant shade, nuked it into ashy greys and beige.

Still, Dior and Lacroix pullulated with colour combinations worthy of an art exhibition. Burnt orange with jade, eau de nil and tangerine (Lacroix); graduated shades of black tulip, claret, mint and emerald at Dior. Both houses were in their favourite territory – the origami folds and oriental influences at Dior demonstrated Galliano’s phenomenal gift for marrying disparate influences, in this instance the Japan of geishas and emperors with Dior’s own 1947 New Look. Lacroix was back with his beloved panniers and 18th-century necklines and ruffles, all made as light as soufflés.

Technically both were virtuoso displays, but ultimately Dior’s clothes just require too much effort for most women, even those who are paid to look good on a red carpet. They exist in a vacuum of icy perfection, while Lacroix’s clothes require some lateral thinking before they can be worn: one neon-yellow, floaty chiffon column with the filmiest neckline and a single silk rose between the shoulder blades would steal the show in a more conducive colour.

In the end, Armani and Valentino are surer bets. Valentino’s sparkly lace dresses and heavily jewelled trains didn’t make for his best collection by a long shot. There were too many bows and flounces, too many stiff Sixties reprises and too much trying to have volume and slimness in the same outfit and getting away with it only because the models are 7ft tall in their platform heels.

That said, Valentino’s nose for impeccable fabrics and workmanship manages to make the showiest women look like class acts. As for Armani, however odd his clothes look when he is doing what he imagines to be “fashion”, away from the catwalk his crystal-studded column dresses never let a woman down.

Couture isn’t just about Oscars or selling jars of cream, of course – or so say the designers. But with the dollar on the floor and clients in scant supply, it was hard to focus on much else. Even the celebrity stylists were conspicuously absent, apart from the ubiquitous Rachel Zoe (the woman who put Nicole Richie and friends into mega sunglasses, mega bags and micro dresses). But Zoe’s following is not what it was. Nor is the designers’ patience. They have been asked too many times by celebrity stylists to provide numerous sketches – and finished garments – only to watch, heart in mouth, on the night as the damn woman collects her award in some dress they have never seen. As Armani explained rather wistfully: “Nowadays the nominees don’t want something from the couture collection that appears on the catwalk.”

Funny, that.

Get the latest news from the shows on the Times Fashion Week blog

Times recommends

• The pink mile: women on death row
• The top 10 richest streets in the world
• Japan's new professional seducers