This year, Cannes got rules. Real ones. No nudity. No gowns wider than a Vespa. No disruptive silhouettes. Somewhere, a stylist cried. The red carpet got scared straight… Or at least, straight-coded. And just when it seemed everyone had agreed to behave, Alexander Skarsgård walked in looking like he runs a members-only dungeon beneath a wine bar in Stockholm. Quietly, confidently, he became the unexpected hero of a newly buttoned-up festival—serving leather, kink, and just enough menace to slip past security without flashing a single nipple.
Let’s start at the Pillion photocall, where Skarsgård showed up looking like a Berlin gallerist leather father figure (read: daddy). He wore Loewe leather pants—already a power move before you clocked the vintage Tom of Finland T-shirt, featuring a faceless leather boot pressed into an open mouth. Subtle? Never. Effective? Devastating. The nod to fetish art wasn’t incidental—Skarsgård plays Colin, a dom, in Pillion, and this look read like character research via KinkTok. It was black and white, brutal and beautiful.
Then came the night. The Pillion red carpet. The moment Skarsgård officially became fashion’s most well-dressed threat. He wore a full Saint Laurent Spring 2025 look, centered around those now-iconic over-the-knee leather boots—yes, the same dangerously hot silhouette Pedro Pascal wore earlier this year. The boots were sculptural. Architectural. Unapologetically horny. Paired with razor-cut tailoring and a come hither stare, it delivered full seduction—slick, sinister, and extremely Cannes-unfriendly in the best way.
Just when I thought we’d reached the style summit, he took a hard left into sartorial surrealism at the Eagles of the Republic premiere. I love when actors take fashion risks. But this one was less tux remix, more algorithmic wardrobe roulette. He wore a pinstriped Magliano blazer, a pink satin bow tie, and Bianca Saunders blue sequin pants—three pieces from three completely different visual universes. It looked like a group project where no one exchanged notes. Separately, each item had merit. Together? It was a fashion ménage à trois without emotional compatibility.
And still—somehow—he sold it. Because that’s what style is. Not perfection, but commitment. Skarsgård wears his looks like declarations, not questions. He doesn’t ask for approval; he radiates inevitability. Even when the vibe’s unhinged, the delivery is surgical. Also, drop dead fuckable. Then came Lorraine.
That morning, on British daytime TV, Skarsgård wore an S.S. Daley plaid shorts set with G.H. Bass loafers, and reader, I short-circuited. I wear outfits like that. Religiously. Year-round. (I wore a similar, full S.S. Daley look to a Vogue summer party a couple years back…) In rain, shine, heartbreak, brunch. It was like watching a hotter, richer, six-foot-four version of myself walk across the screen and not acknowledge me. I would be buried in shorts if the coroner allowed it. And now Skarsgård, Norse god of film and fashion, is dressing like me? It was a full-circle moment—and by full circle, I mean full spiral.
“Bitch stole your look,” i-D’s editorial director Steff Yotka texted, sending me into further emotional free fall. And senior editor Nicolaia Rips just said what we were all thinking: “It’s finally time for your ‘shorts’ piece.” They were right. It started with the shorts. But it’s never just about the shorts.
Of course, I reached out to Skarsgård’s stylist, the brilliant Harry Lambert, who has quietly become one of menswear’s most influential storytellers. Lambert was unable to comment—but the shorts speak for itself! It’s fashion with subtext. Looks that function as narrative arcs. And somehow, in all this leather and edge and elegance, Lambert managed to bring Skarsgård back to me.
So yes, I’m spiraling. I’m spiraling because he wore my shorts, my dreams, my whole vibe (not to be dramatic or narcissistic—but maybe a little), and somehow made it feel completely new. Because in a year when women are being policed for showing too much on the Cannes carpet, Skarsgård turned up fully clothed—and still managed to look like the most indecent man in the room. He didn’t break the rules. He bent them until they looked good on him. And honestly? I hope the women get to do the same again soon. (Never thought I’d say this: I miss naked dresses.)
Alexander, if you’re reading this: thank you. But please let me have my shorts back.