High fashion is truly dead.

Last week, legendary fashion photographers Bruce Weber and Mario Testino — the latter a favorite of the British royal family — were accused by multiple male models of decades-long sexual harassment.

Designer Alexander Wang just joined Tommy Hilfiger, Proenza Schouler, Rodarte, Altuzarra, and Thom Browne in dropping out of February’s New York Fashion Week — whose biggest star, Tom Ford, has openly acknowledged his profession’s irrelevance.

“Most of the American population is switched off fashion,” Ford told The Hollywood Reporter in 2016. “[It’s] become a spectator sport for the most part.” (Ford has largely pivoted to a successful career writing and directing films.)

Last Sunday, Victoria Beckham — who has spent nearly the past 10 years rebranding herself from tacky pop tart to arbiter of high fashion — incited widespread scorn for casting an emaciated model in, of all things, an eyewear ad.

Facebook lit up. “[I] didn’t even notice the glasses!” wrote one critic. “The model was the focus.”

Indeed, the fashion world has never seemed more ridiculous, more out of touch, more irrelevant. If Hollywood is mired in a post-Weinstein existential crisis, the fashion industry is in a death rattle, owing as much to cultural concerns as commercial ones.

Commercial first: Retail is dying, killed off by e-commerce and a post-recession preference for experiences over things. In 2016, author and retail prognosticator Doug Stephens wrote that no retail problem “is more deadly than the pandemic of sheer consumer boredom that shoppers are being subjected to. Most retail is just painfully boring.”

Crucially, fashion hasn’t produced a must-have shift in dressing since the skinny jean in 2005. There is nothing we, as consumers, feel compelled to buy — not out of need but sheer desire. No longer do we believe in the illusory life a single garment or handbag seems to offer.

The supermodel, too, is long dead, replaced by generic reality-TV celebuspawn. Top designers churn through luxury houses, wrung out by inhuman production schedules. (Kim Jones at Vuitton and Phoebe Philo at Céline are just two recent examples.) It’s why the deadly serious fashion-centric film “Phantom Thread” — albeit a period piece — plays like unintended comedy: the Great Male Designer, in all his fussy hysteria, waiting for the muse to alight. It’s a romantic idea that never existed, let alone seems comprehensible now. This is a $3 trillion global industry that cares little for the human toll in creation. The great designer Nicolas Ghesquière said as much upon leaving Balenciaga, a house he revived, in 2013. “[Demands] accelerated to such a degree that at a certain point I was totally miserable,” he told 032c magazine that year. “There are days when frankly you don’t know what planet you are on after work.”

Such exhaustion and anemia has had a trickle-up effect, rendering once-hallowed gatekeepers mere figureheads. Who really cares what Anna Wintour says anymore? Millennials and the generation behind them follow bloggers and YouTube stars. Vogue remains Wintour’s fiefdom, but since becoming artistic director of Condé Nast in 2013, she’s consolidated her power by firing star editors and hiring no-name apparatchiks.

The result? Every magazine, an ex-Wintour staffer told The Post last month, ends up “looking the same: Vogue-esque.” (If only Vanity Fair had hired rumored contender Janice Min — a bold editor who traffics in the compulsively readable.)

Vogue no longer moves the needle, nor is it part of the conversation. Textually and visually, it’s been a drag for decades. The last Wintour cover to make a splash was Kim and Kanye in April 2014 — only because the off-brand Kim Kardashian seemed a desperate attempt at relevancy.

Wintour later admitted as much. Were Vogue only to cover “deeply tasteful people,” she said that November, “nobody would talk about us.

“It’s very important that people do talk about us.”

Vogue no longer moves the needle, nor is it part of the conversation

As for glamour jobs in fashion magazines — the Cinderella fantasy rendered in “The Devil Wears Prada” — those, too, are a fiction. Recently, no shortage of fashion-world expats have revealed the viciousness and meaninglessness within Condé Nast and the industry.

“It’s a shame that magazines have lost the authority they once had,” said an admittedly bitter Lucinda Chambers, fired last year as British Vogue’s fashion director. “They’ve stopped being useful. In fashion, we are always trying to make people buy something they don’t need . . . So we cajole, bully or encourage people.”

In a poignant essay that ran on The Cut last year, former Lucky editor-in-chief Kim France wrote about the annual terror of the Condé Nast holiday lunch, the insuperable feeling she didn’t belong.

“There was simply no way to ever feel polished enough,” she wrote. “I always felt a distinct spirit of exclusion the moment I walked in the door.” And France, for years, was one of Condé’s top performers.

Imposter syndrome, con artistry, bullying and starvation and sexual predation: There is no glamour to be had here. There never was, but it was nice, for a time, to believe.