Brad Pitt / Tom Ford Sartorial Arrangement

An elderly acquaintance of mine once patted me on the shoulder, and drawing in breath, calmly stated; ‘You’re young, you make mistakes; but you’ll get older.’ How true. Mistakes are best made when a man is young; mistakes in old age can be rather costly. Youth is the asbestos that guards us from the lasting damage caused by our various misdeeds; we learn early, we change. If we learn too late, we are already lost.

Even in the light-hearted arena of fashion it is possible to recognise the importance of evolution and learning. The phrase ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ has often been used for women who are disinclined to let go of the fashions for youth and there is a curious belief that men are not subjected to similar ridicule or scrutiny. This is untrue, and particularly untrue of men who spend their lives being scrutinised, not merely by those within their small sphere of existence but by the entire world, however remote and detached it may be.

Brad Pitt is an excellent example of a man who finds himself in such a position. As an actor, whose external image has been so important in assembling his phenomenal career, Pitt has attracted more scrutiny than most would be able to bear. He is fortunate in that most of the scrutiny has been to his credit; he is at the right end of the Victorian freak show of Hollywood. Despite the fact that Pitt never wants for admiration and never needs to market himself in a compromising manner, it is clear that the ‘Pitt package’ has gone through a recent change. And it is certainly a welcome change.

While never badly dressed, Pitt was never one of the Hollywood heavyweights who wowed sartorially. He was fortunate in his youth that he possessed excellent body and facial structure; that he could wear something plain and uneventful and no one would ever notice that it was so. Everything else was secondary to the physical appeal. Now that he has visibly aged a little, it seems that Pitt is determined to continue the process with grace and dignity.

His ‘partnership’ with Tom Ford, while it certainly benefits Pitt in terms of wardrobe, also benefits Ford in terms of marketing and credibility. I use the word ‘credibility’ with hesitation merely because Ford needs to garner no credibility from the fashion set – the magic he worked at Gucci earned him round after round of hearty applause. The ‘credibility’ sought is that of Joe Public; the chap who might purchase an Italian or Savile Row inspired suit from Ford’s new collection having seen Pitt look ‘mighty snappy’ in the wife’s glossy magazine.

Mercifully, Ford is a designer that adores classicism above all. Despite the variety of influences evident in his men’s collection; large lapels from the 1970s, loud checks from the 1930s and Tony Montana style satin, Ford is in love with tailoring. For the Row, he might appear a little fashion forward, but as far as the avant garde fashionistas are concerned, he is quite the opposite. He sits, very comfortably as far as I can see, between two worlds. And remarkably, there is considerable space to accommodate him. Celebrated designers have great influence in the contemporary world; a world where demand is great and supply expected to be instantaneous. Traditional tailoring is something the modern generation understand less and less. Their currency is a designer label, a brand they know and can feel secure in. Ford has the capability to sell the fundamentals of a good suit back to them, and uniting himself with Pitt is surely only the beginning.

And Pitt doesn’t do badly out of the arrangement either. Since he started sipping coffee with Ford, Pitt has really come into his own, sartorially speaking. Elegance was not a word you previously attached to the man but it is hard to deny that his recent upgrade, an acceptance of age and an agreeable willingness to polish, have given him a convincing façade of grace and style.

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Style Icon: Marcello Mastroianni

La Dolce Vita was on this morning. It has been an absolute age since I have seen it and I had rather forgotten what a strange but fabulously enjoyable film it is. As I have grown, I feel I have wearied of excessive emphasis on plot; Fellini’s collection of vignettes is a wonderful antidote because, as a movie, it allows your mind to wander as your eyes indulge. And indulge they do. From the earth-shatteringly famous scene by the Trevi fountain to the tender and sweet scene of the melancholy clown, La Dolce Vita is a film of some style.

And what style! It has one of the most beautiful sets in the world in the city of Rome, appealing photography and some lovely costumes. And then there’s Marcello Mastroianni. As I was watching him in the film, it struck me how slight his natural manner could be; how his status as a style icon has a lot more to do with subtlety than beefy bravado. His entrances were not glories of beauty and costume; there was no grandstanding, no self-satisfaction. Mastroianni seemed to float gently through Rome, quietly tipping his sunglasses. He was not costumed extravagantly or outrageously but something in his carriage, the way he wore his clothes – his ‘flair’ if you will – was remarkable. Some might credit Fellini, or the excellent wardrobe department, but I think Mastroianni was a natural.

I compared his talent for wearing simple clothes extremely well to the awkwardness of Gregory Peck. Whilst Peck was a talented actor, he didn’t have the louche coolness of Mastroianni. His shoulders, though magnificent, rather got in the way of channelling any kind of chic and there was something a little too earnest in his manner. Mastroianni meanwhile could act and brood aloofly at the same time. In some people, complexity of cloth is required to make up for, or conceal, the frank but ordinary man within. Mastroianni wore lovely clothes, but they were not dandified; they didn’t need to be. There were quirks, and little touches, but largely his personal costume as well as his on-screen wardrobe never needed theatrics.

As far as style icons go, Mastroianni is one of the most genuine and also the most difficult to mock. Genuine because he possessed something worthy of iconolatry; a complete style: the smile, the look, the sweep of the hand and the crossing of the legs were all a part of it. And it is these innate qualities that make Mastroianni so difficult to replicate. It is comparatively easy to dress like him. It is next to impossible to dress as him. This point was demonstrated in the wonderful Peroni Nastro Azzuro advert. It was an elegant homage to the Fellini film but the model playing the role of Mastroianni, though clothed and styled in much the same way, didn’t have that magical Marcello sprezzatura.

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Unmistakable Style of Matinee Idol

There was something rather special about the old matinee idol. Unlike the screen sex symbols of modern years, the idol inspired more than a little heat under the collar. They were objects of lust to be sure, but they were also something a little finer. In Robert Altman’s 2001 film ‘Gosford Park’, Jeremy Northam, himself no slouch in the screen idolatry department, played one of the classic 1930s idols, Ivor Novello. One of the most memorable parts of the portrayal was Novello’s slightness of manner. Apart from the troubadic interludes at the piano, the ‘Gosford Park’ Novello was a quiet and unassuming chap quite remote from the public image, the brashness of the billboard and the pomp of his music; he possessed a measured and universally pleasant manner.

Indeed some idols were quite the reverse of the noisy and showy characters they portrayed. Rudolph Valentino once remarked that women, despite many claims to the contrary, were not in love with him but with his picture on the screen; “I am merely the canvas on which women paint their dreams.”

This humility and private indignation with the sensationalism they caused was a rare quality of a matinee idol. Considered second rate in their quality as thespians by an envious theatrical fraternity, the idol was for many merely an extremely handsome clothes horse, a stylish but vitally empty creature of superficial whimsy. Characters like Errol Flynn endorse such description, but Flynn was a rare beast in the world of Hollywood men being more inclined to the boisterous bonhomie than the boudoir whereas chaps like Dirk Bogarde retained their sense of mystery with their casual elegance. They captured the imagination of males and females alike; conjuring as much admiration for their chic as for their exotic good looks.

They were somewhere between a sportsman and a dandy in style; never allowing their mighty neon names to take their image into absurdity and yet still managing to live up to their cinematic presence with powerful panache. They never had the ornamentation or the affectation of stage and screen fops; they were clean cut, elegant and yet somehow simple. Such attitude was reflected in their screen and stage personas and it was obvious, in the case of luminous leading men like Robert Donat, that their style was not part of an act but really a marketable part of who they were.

In many ways they were the cinematic muses: the marvellous and mesmeric men of celluloid, towering figures of the imagination, their timelessness and everlasting appeal displayed to magnificent effect and captured for all time on little reels of film.
Crucially, the one telling thing about the matinee idol was, that for all his supposed exoticism and ethereal splendour, he was frighteningly convincing as the Everyman. Richard Hannay may have been a fabulous and witty brick of a chap, but it was the honesty and goodness with which he was played by Donat that won the hearts of moviegoers.

The true magic of the movies was in taking something ordinary, something commonplace, and parading it in beauty and style; the matinee idol had an unmistakable and organic input in this process and that such idolization should continue off-screen was only to be expected. When something ordinary is done so very well, it is really rather a rare thing indeed; therein lies the secret of that unmistakable style.

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Gatsby Style

It ranks as one of the great works of American literature; one of the first ‘Great American Novels’ and the absolute dernier cris on the documentation of the Jazz Age. Though in my opinion it is not his finest work, it is still a wonderful yarn and it is the 180 pages for which Scott Fitzgerald is best known. In fact, it is so American a tale; the birth, life and death of the famous ‘American dream’, the tragedy of money and the fragility of frank and honest love, that I feel, as an Englishman, my ‘across-the-pond’ perspective is unwelcome. However, I take solace in the fact that Gatsby was indeed, ‘an Oxford man’; in the same way that Fitzgerald had intended when he was young. Poor Scott, he had to ‘settle’ for Princeton.

Although he had a great love for his country, Scott was somewhat European in taste. Moving to California caused him distress – he loathed Hollywood and found little inspiration there, preferring the quiet of the Deep South or the buzz and gentility of New York. He made frequent visits to Europe, holidaying with the Mark Cross-owning Murphys at Cap d’Antibes and propping up the Ritz bar with Ernest Hemingway in Paris – he was a literary boulevardier content with being an American export.

In much the same way, Ralph Lauren, who designed the men’s costumes for the 1974 film production of The Great Gatsby starring Robert Redford, though also an ‘all-American’, shares an affinity with F.Scott Fitzgerald for certain things which qualify as classically English. The sport of polo, despite its undeniably Indian past, has strong associations with the British elite who colonised the country and, appropriate to the heritage of the clothing, Ralph decided his brand should be marketed as such. And though Scott may have adored American football, he was fascinated with European systems and traditions; perhaps a reason why characters such as Amory Blaine and Jay Gatsby, received, or were intended to receive in the case of Amory, English educations and perhaps why the marvellous Jay Gatsby has clothing sent to his West Egg mansion all the way from the distant metropolis of London at the start of every season.

As far as costuming goes, there was surely no one more appropriate than Ralph Lauren, who himself dreamed Gatsby dreams, once writing in his school yearbook of his simple desire to be ‘a millionaire.’ What I liked particularly about his clothing in the Redford film was his use of colour, and the way in which Gatsby was differentiated from the rest; he wore the clothing of the period, but he wore it in his way consistent with his uniqueness. Tom and Nick were more honestly American in their delivery but Gatsby seemed to belong to one of the typically Fitzgeraldian fantasies detailed in the short story, The Diamond as Big as the Ritz: white and pink suits, daring candy colours and a mirror-like brilliance.

In the still of the three of them, standing next to the two motor cars, there is heavy symbolism in the costume. Gatsby, in his pale pink linen three-piece suit, is being regarded with a sneer by the scion of old Chicago money, Tom, whilst the poor and rather disapproving Nick seems to exhibit mounting pains with his own neutrality. There is no doubt that Tom regards Gatsby as vulgar, “Mr Nobody from Nowhere”, and yet we empathise more with Gatsby’s charming naivety than Buchanan’s dissatisfying breeding. Lauren captures this sentiment brilliantly by clothing him in a beautifully cut pink suit – such audacity is consistent with his cavalier derring-do and combat heroism, and his swashbuckling attempt to prize his true love from the arms of another man. On other occasions, Lauren stylishly captures Jay’s vulnerability by wrapping him in a silk scarf and blazer; cold and wintry in colour and style, in strong contrast to the brazen ‘candification’ of some of his splendid suits.

What is also impressive about Lauren’s clothing is that he manages to remain true to the period but still capture the Gatsby of our imaginations. Although, indubitably, there is a slight fattening of the tie, lengthening of the collar, widening of the trouser and polish of the bow tie, historically, the combinations are accurate. I myself am no scholar, but the seemingly inescapable 1970s touches are there for all to see, as is the wonderful attention to detail such as the mother of pearl cuff buttons or the double breasting of the waistcoat. For me, the real master touch is actually the product of the combination of Redford’s acting and Lauren’s tailoring; in all his splendour, the appropriate irony is that Gatsby, though he, in the words of Daisy, “always looks cool”, is ever so slightly uncomfortable in his clothes. When he is alone with Daisy, or visiting Nick in the pouring rain, he is unbuttoned and frank; more in common with the penniless bond trader than the extraordinarily rich polo playing Tom.

The only sadness of the whole affair was that Ralph did not receive the credit he fully deserved for his vision. The lion’s share of the applause was directed at Theoni V.Aldredge, a veteran of the costume design industry, nigh on aristocratic as far as the Academy was concerned. Symbolic to the end, this mirrored Gatsby’s own vain hopes of recognition and even his tragic death at the hands of a careless and frightened establishment.

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I’m Trying to Watch a Film Here!

Spicer is thrown to the floor as the mob closes in. His nervous twitch accelerates as panic grips him. Pinkie grins with that frozen, demonic grin that Richard Attenborough did so well.

Is that a belted suit?

Suddenly, a cut-throat razor slashes across his cheek. With the innocence of a child, Pinkie clutches his cheek as blood oozes between his fingers.

That tie clip looks good.

A whistle rings out. As the cops fight through the watching crowd the mob scatters. Pinkie ducks under an arm and escapes. Spicer is left on the floor, presumed (at least by Pinkie) dead.

Those three buttons are only about an inch apart!

I’m sure it’s happened to you, if you are the sort of person that reads this blog. At some point during a classic film, you realise you’ve been thinking about what the actors are wearing, and not the plot. In this case the film was Brighton Rock, the 1947 dramatisation of Graham Greene’s famous novel, directed by John Boulting and with an unforgettable Richard Attenborough in the starring role, as the sociopath Pinkie Brown.

Like so many films of the time, it is fast-paced. After an hour it feels like you’ve already watched a whole novel. But I couldn’t stop looking at the suits Pinkie’s mob wears. They are broad-shouldered, with wide, sweeping lapels. The waists are so tight there are stretch marks across the back.

Some of the jackets have a belt detail that doesn’t tie – it is just sewn in for effect – but emphasises the waist still further. All of them have one button or, as mentioned above, have three buttons that are about an inch apart. Again, the single fastening emphasises that wide, deep V across the chest.

It’s obvious what the style was aiming for. Strength and vigour suggested through breadth. It’s noticeable that Spicer, the weakest member of the gang, and Fred Hale, the traitor whose murder starts the film, wear more conservative suits. They look ragged, the jackets are undone and the ties are loosened. Pinkie’s tie is pinned by a tie clip almost ridiculously high, giving him a tight, jutting knot. Broad and neat = power.

If you manage to watch the film, keep an eye out for Pinkie’s jacket as well. I’ve seen sports jackets with “bi-swing” styles around the shoulder before – they are pleats built into the join where the shoulder meets the back of the jacket. They allow greater stretch by bellowing out when the arm is extended, but lying hidden when the arm is straight. They were designed in an era when men actually used sports jackets for playing sport. But Pinkie’s jacket has three, not one. Three bellows on either side! Surely fashion rather than function.

The pictures shown here do it some justice, but I also recommend watching the film. It’s a cracking plot, when you can concentrate on it.

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