Cast off for luxury with the V&A's lavish Ocean Liners show

Government policies have a way of triggering unexpected consequences.

In the 1920s the United States, worried by immigration, cut the flow by putting tight quotas in place. For almost 70 years, ocean liners had been making a tidy profit packing their ships out with third class and steerage passengers leaving Europe for a better life. When that market evaporated, they turned their attention to the wealthy. First class had always been there, of course. But from the '20s through the arrival of commercial air travel, all the effort went into enticing the upper crust to take, and enjoy, long sea journeys. Thus came the golden age of the great ocean liners.

And there's your explanation for why the Victoria and Albert's new show, Ocean Liners: Speed and Style, won't give you much about the experience my ancestors had crossing to America, or what it was like to work on these giants. This is a show about style and glamour, a reputation now so ingrained that even the cheapest and cheerfullest of today's cruise ships still play on it as they pack thousands on board. Our fantasies will always live in first class, however, and that's what the V&A delivers with its usual panache.

After a brief introduction and a bit on marketing ... including a fascinating and beautiful range of posters and brochures ... we dive into the interiors. The great ocean liners were, quite literally, flagships for their national reputations, attracting their best designers and often receiving government funds. From the first late 19th-century interiors on display we see distinctive national styles emerging. The Germans went for bold, showy nationalism. The French for royal opulence. (Yes, there's Louis XIV's sun king emblem wrought into the ironwork of The France) The Brits are more subtle, letting the internationalism of their style remind travellers of scope of empire: William de Morgan tiles evoking the paradise gardens, exotic mosques and palaces of Arabia; Chinese themed lounges with lacquer walls; marquetry panelling with an array of hard woods from British possessions in. From the inter-war years, both the Americans and the Italians start to show their flair for modernism.

Early ocean liners made their first class passengers feel at home with interiors similar to the chateaux and country houses they occupied on land. Beautiful, but derivative. A more distinctive style developed after World War I, when the need to replace ships destroyed when doing war service combined with the world's desire to embrace the new. Art Deco perfectly matched the brief, and perhaps found its greatest expression in the floating palaces of the inter-war years.

We're treated to chairs, carpets and decorative items from the Queen Mary, Britain's pinnacle of the style now preserved and moored permanently in Long Beach, California. The ship's Catholic altarpiece and Torah cabinet, displayed side-by-side and both given Art Deco interpretations, remind us how every aspect of life was catered for. It's all quite subtle compared to the French interpretation. The Normandie only operated for four years before it was commandeered as an American troop carrier and burned in New York harbour during its conversion. Luckily that was after its luxe interiors had been removed, so we're treated to a variety here including a towering metallic wall mural of exercising youths and a range of fixtures and fittings. If you missed the point of the opulence, a film capturing life on board drives it home. It makes the German artefacts nearby look dowdy in comparison, though you can indulge in the uncomfortable fascination of watching everyone fall all over themselves to delight Hitler as he toured their flagship entry into the liner race.

After a hiatus during World War II, when many liners were once again pressed into military service, the grand ships saw a final flowering. There's a room of gorgeous 1950s modernism, heavy on Italian contributions. Perhaps a hint towards why so many of today's ships are built in Italy? The labels don't say. My favourite item in the room, however, is a glass panel from the SS United States etched with waving coral to give you the illusion you were under the sea, matched with the clean lines of a glass and steel cocktail table. The ship's interiors were designed by an all-female firm;  given the 1951 date, I would have liked to have known more about those trend setters.

Up until this point the displays had all been lavish treats for the eyes, but I'd been disappointed by the traditional presentation. Unlike the V&A's outstanding Opera show late last year, there was no audio guide, no accompanying soundtrack and no innovative signage. All very old school. Turns out they were saving the fun for the massive, penultimate room of the exhibition.

After passing through a room on engineering ... interesting but seemed at odds with the design focus of the rest ... you emerge onto the promenade deck. The entire wall to your right has been turned into a single projection of a sunny seascape with a liner occasionally crossing it. Deck chairs and a frosted glass version of a pool are to your left, where stylised bathing beauties show off a history of swimwear to the occasional sound of splashing. Beyond, a double-height room stretches before you, dominated in the centre by tall screens showing gorgeous flappers and their escorts in white tie and tails striding down a "grande descente".  (The central staircase was considered an essential part of any grand liner, and still features on most modern cruise ships.)

The room around this showpiece is dedicated to life on board. While music of the Jazz Age plays, Normandie. With six options including a vegetarian regime for the pooch trying to watch its weight; though I think my boys would prefer Le Regal de Sweeney with viande hachee, carottes, epinards et toasts.

you get to wander through marvellous clothes, luggage, jewellery and a section dedicated to food on board. There's an exquisitely-beaded flapper-era dress here that proves clothing can be art, and a diamond tiara given added lustre by the story of its rescue by a diligent lady's maid as the ship went down. But surely the greatest testament to the luxury of a world gone by is the dog menu from the

The exhibition ends with a gallery devoted to ocean liners in the popular imagination. At its centre, "floating" on waves created by dappled light, is the largest single artefact ever recovered from the Titanic: an ornate piece of carved panelling from one of the first class lounges. And there, on a movie screen behind it, we see the scene from the eponymous film where Jack hauls Rose onto a piece of floating panelling to get her out of the freezing water. You may not like the film, but you have to give James Cameron credit for historical accuracy. The prop is an exact copy of the piece before you. Elsewhere in the gallery we're reminded of the design legacy ships left back on land, and see more clips of films set aboard. I thought The Love Boat was sadly lacking ... surely the biggest definer of the magic of cruising to my childhood imagination ... but sponsor Viking Cruises may have over-ridden the reference to competitor Princess Lines.

Corporate sponsorship rarely gets more appropriate than this pairing. I've admired Viking's marketing since I first ran into their costumed Norse raiders standing beside their sponsored garden at the Hampton Court Flower Show. As a company that targets affluent, mature adults and emphasises local culture as part of the experience, their association with museums and classical music around the world makes perfect sense. (In the same weekend I toured Ocean Liners in London, friends in New York were seeing a Viking-Sponsored Downton Abbey exhibition.) It seemed unfair that Viking's only tangible presence in the exhibition itself was a model of one of their ocean-going ships, with a label that gave a nod to their interior design but nothing further to show it.

As I've experienced myself, Viking is obsessed by design. Their ships are elegant fusions of modernity and tradition, filled with thoughtful design details drawn from their Scandinavian roots. An etched glass panel or elegant chair from one of their Winter Gardens (above), or even a series of fabric swatches and a few light fixtures, would have brought the design ethos celebrated in the show right up to the modern day. You may no longer pack your tiara, nor can you bring your dogs for their own menu, but the obsession with style and elegance explored in this show is still alive, well and floating on the high seas ... if you know where to look.