Versace had me with the opener — strapless, corseted evening looks with gathered puffer skirts, like wearable black tie sleeping bags — but it lost me with the cheetah-print teddy under a black suit jacket.

Or maybe it was the guy in a coral overcoat lined in gold and turquoise silk, shown with a clown tie in brown and gold? Or the muddy leathers, somewhere on the color spectrum between caramel and upset stomach, and knits with battering ram shoulders and sparkly Western V pockets worn with high-cut panties? The leopard and lingerie mix? The net effect of the whole high-wattage crib sheet of brand archetypes?

There has always been a full-frontal flirtation between elegance and vulgarity in a Versace show that makes it a blast to watch. That, at its best, bestows permission on everyone to glory in their own kind of unabashed aspiration (and cleavage). But the joy was missing this time around. Each piece seemed more like duty-free Versace rather than va-va-voom Versace, the plot lost somewhere in the frenetic zigzag between “Babygirl” power women playing tacky in the bedroom and rhinestone cowboys doing the tunnel walk.

You can understand it if you look at the position the company is in. Capri, the American group that owns Versace (as well as Michael Kors and Jimmy Choo), is in trouble. It was being acquired by Tapestry, the owner of Coach and Kate Spade, in what was billed as a “luxury mega-merger” until the deal was blocked by the Federal Trade Commission last year. Versace always seemed like an odd fit with Kors, a luxury line that rests on a foundation of lower-priced stuff. Revenue at Versace fell by 15 percent in the last reported quarter.

Reports are now rife that Capri is trying to offload Versace. Backstage at the Prada show on Thursday, Miuccia Prada, when asked if a Versace acquisition was on the table, replied, “Isn’t it on everybody’s table?” That must be a disconcerting atmosphere in which to work.

Especially for Donatella Versace, a woman who has given so much to the brand and to fashion. She pulled the house back from disaster after her brother Gianni was murdered, struggling with her own addictions and all the doubters who said she couldn’t do it. She triumphed by never losing her belief in the power of a chain-mail evening dress (those were in the show, too) and the golden Medusa that doubled as the Versace motif.

She is the rare woman in a power position in the industry. The day before the show, Donatella had appeared onstage in Milan at an event with the Vogue editor Anna Wintour in which she bemoaned “being told what to do, being told what’s going to sell.”

Still, if this whistle-stop tour through the archives was supposed to be a riposte, or even a sales pitch, it wasn’t a great one.

(On the other hand, leaning into the most recognizable, most “Versace” prints and clichés of the popular Home line was a clever reminder that the fashion house was one of the first to figure out the power of brand extension.)

The show was held in a former train depot, and the runway stretched for what seemed like miles. Maybe it was intended as a display of dominance — our catwalk is longer than your catwalk! — but by the end it seemed more like a metaphor: There’s a long way to go.