Style Movie: The Brothers Bloom

An American couple stopped me the other day on the Mall for a little direction or two. A blistering day, they were short-and-sandled up, sweating like bulls. “Hot isn’t it?” I asked somewhat victoriously, knowing that our North American cousins are consistent detractors of our usually appalling climate. “To be honest with you” the chap wheezed, “it’s a little too hot. I’m rather disappointed. I thought I’d come to London and spend the 4th July walking in the rain. You know? See the real London weather.” As shocked as I was to hear that someone could be disappointed by sunshine and long for the dreariness of our stereotypical weather, I was rather delighted by this interesting remark. Here were a couple of visitors who had paid good money to get rain and we could only offer sunshine.

It put me in mind of a film I had recently seen which, stylistically, offered me my own cold dish of ironic regret; The Brothers Bloom was a movie which I had gone to see for its style and yet, whilst viewing it, wrestled with that very conceit and willed it to be a little less glamorous than it actually was. Generally speaking, stylish movies attract me because I am a follower of aesthetics; this one attracted me and from the first moments almost immediately repulsed me. It has been compared as a superficial paean to the sometimes plotless and glossy fancies of Wes Anderson (The Darjeeling Express, The Royal Tenenbaums) full of kooky costumes, improbable posturing and vivid colouring. It is like Anderson in that each frame is contrived to look like something from an older movie but it is unlike Anderson in that the costumes, for they are certainly that, are only occasionally attractive and nearly always out of context.

The leads, Adrien Brody and Mark Ruffalo, are attired in what I would call a jazz club uniform; white shirts unbuttoned with black silk ties, grey waistcoats, dark glasses and a pork pie hat. Until you see a certain motor car, you’re not even sure what decade you’re in. As confidence tricksters their attire is ludicrous; who would be conned by someone who looks like an out-of-luck bass player? As characters their costume is too stylised to be credible or likeable; their affectations of dress get in the way, they look too mawkish to be so whimsical in attire. Brody particularly grates in this regard as he delivers his lines of appeal so wanly that you want so desperately to throw a bucket of ice water over his head; it is positively bizarre to see so pathetic a character sporting a cravat and bowler hat.

Improbability continues on a transatlantic voyage on a vessel little larger than one of the Vanderbilt’s yachts which, while beautiful and a useful lesson in ‘how to travel’, does not distract from how contrived the prop actually is; style for style’s sake is usually attractive but in this context it is hideously out of place. After all the homburgs, bowlers, mouthfuls of silk cravats, teak decks, luxury trains and dark glasses I too found myself longing for the rain.

Style Icon: Andre Benjamin

You know the glossy man; the high-cheekboned, slick haired, brilliantly attired chap sat on the steps of some enormous Rhode Island mansion. Looking vaguely pissed off, impossibly wealthy and handsome to the point of vulgarity. His Fair Isle sweater, club stripe tie, rolled-up coloured trousers and saddle shoes are perfect in colour mix and context. A moment of exquisite beauty captured, many might say.

Of course, the reality is that these images – like the still life of the silver screen – are creations of fantasy and dreams. Men of such youth and high conventional appeal don’t swan around with linen pocket squares and silk bow ties on grand estates, musing over their gargantuan fortunes. As soon as the last camera has clicked, the lighting is disassembled and the set dismantled; the glossy man returns to his dressing room to remove his preppy clothing, ruffle his smoothed down hair and return to his Diesel jeans and D&G t-shirt. The whole tableau grinds down with a disappointing decrescendo, like the whirring demise of a carousel at the close of the fair.

No one believes that men dress like the glossy man. He is the unicorn of menswear. Certainly, plenty of men, older men particularly, borrow elements from such scenes. The tie perhaps, or the saddle shoes, but generally in a more conservative fashion; generally sober and sensible; generally without the Kiwi green punch or the purple pizzazz.

Andre Benjamin on the other hand does it with all the punch and just the right amount of pizzazz. He does it with charm, sophistication and energy – most importantly, he doesn’t look pissed off when he is doing it.

Famously down to earth and genuine, Benjamin is a talented man with an eye (and an ear) for artistic creation. Known variously as André 3000, Dré, and by his given name of André Lauren Benjamin, he is a fantastic expressionist of sartorial possibility; brilliant colours, a mixture of tailored and casual items, fearless experimentation that seems to pay off each and every time and a great sense of the importance of vintage cuts and style. He wears bright bow ties, a grand array of hats and mashes it altogether for playful, entertaining, attractive and mature ensembles that betray a natural creativity that, not so long ago, he decided to explore and exploit.

For Benjamin is not only a noted rapper, singer/song writer, actor and dandy-about-town, he has started his own brand, Benjamin Bixby, which after an extraordinarily preppy premiere (think Ralph Lauren meets the ‘Hey Ya’ video) has quickly matured into a vintage-inspired clothing and accessories line with a healthy dose of funk – avoiding the stuffy, starchy clichés of similar brands. There is the occasional gratuitous ‘B’ logo but Benjamin’s offering, so clearly bearing his mark and his ideas, is generally tack free.

His style is in the checked plus-fours, the tweed jackets worn with the bright green polo shirt, the tongue in cheek pith helmet and the double breasted blazers; he is one of those people I most admire in style terms. A seeker and an appreciator; you can envisage him searching for ideas in unlikely places, trying something because he saw it in a Leyendecker drawing or an old postcard, wandering through little shops in Paris and Rome without pomp or fanfare, just looking for the next thing.

The Politics Of Dress

One of the many things for which President Obama has received praise is his dress sense. Sadly, that is not something any of the Prime Ministerial hopefuls in the UK General Election will have to endure.

It seems that in modern British politics there is no place for style, flair, individuality or even quality. The requirement is to dress like a high–street bank manager, as the recent leadership debate highlighted beautifully. Standard issue uniform is a choice of plain midnight blue single breasted worsted wool suit, plain white or blue shirt and one of six shiny coloured ties – red, blue, yellow, green, pink or purple. Nowhere will you see the skilful use of textured cloths or the addition of knitted silk and god forbid a shirt should have a stripe, check or white collar and cuff. Their off duty wardrobes equally leave something to be desired.

In many ways politicians are a reflection of the people they govern. That may mean the majority of the people in the UK dress in a perfunctory and uninspiring way – which isn’t far from the truth. Or perhaps it is a sign of our immaturity that we should distrust men who dress well, or resent them having money to spend on clothes.

Winston Churchill was a patron of Savile Row’s Henry Poole & Sons – as they like to remind us. But should modern Prime Ministerial aspirants flirt with proper tailoring they cannot afford to let the public know they spend £3000 on a suit. Of course if you understand the art and craft that goes into such a suit it seems more reasonable, but most don’t. Indeed, we’re more likely to praise them for their thriftiness.

Historically British Prime Ministers have done reasonably well in the style stakes, with many developing signature looks. The most revered was of course Anthony Eden who is still regarded as one of the World’s best dressed men even today – the Eden Homburg being his legacy. Churchill had a certain Edwardian style; he also had his hats, and a tendency to dress in Forces uniforms. For Liberal Lloyd George it was capes, and Benjamin Disraeli was renowned for his fancy waistcoats which merely added to his exotic persona –perhaps one more reason why each in his own way is a man I admire.

The Importance of Being Louche: Serge Gainsbourg

One of the highest compliments one can pay a man of style is to say he wears his clothes well; that is, however tasteful and interesting each individual item he is wearing might be per se, the overall effect is that much greater for his having worn them with such panache.

It is interesting therefore to consider certain men who have attained lofty cultural status and are recognized as style icons despite – or perhaps because of?!? – sloppy sartorial habits.

Exhibit one:-  French singer-songwriter,  actor, and director and all-round flâneur, Serge Gainsbourg. With long lank hair, shirts unbuttoned almost to the waist, the signature cigarette smoke framing his disreputable-looking face, and his favourite accessory, English model, Jane Birkin, serving as arm candy, Monsieur Gainsbourg always oozes cool.

He has really mastered the art of looking good without giving the impression that he has made an effort. It is not simply that he makes no effort – for he clearly does. His clothes fit him well, compliment one another, and act as good ambassadors for his persona: any unacquainted observer would be bound to say that he has something of the aesthete and rake about him, whatever else they might pick up upon from his dress sense.

Most of the time I do not even like what Serge wears: his jacket may be too short or the stripes too loud but this does not detract from my admiration for his style because he always looks like he is having fun with what he is wearing.

It reminds me of a book I read a while ago (Height of Fashion: Lisa Eisner) which was a collection of photographs that people had nominated of themselves to show the moment when they were the brightest spark in the room and felt like they were the height of fashion. The pictures varied hugely in terms of what people were wearing, how old they were, and their location; most of the people looked objectively awful in clothes which mostly served to illustrate the difference between fashion and style i.e. the former does not age well! Yet each of the subjects makes a great impression because they radiate confidence and are having fun with what they are wearing.

Too often stylish men are effete: overly fastidious in choosing what to wear, preening themselves in the mirror or worrying unduly about how a pocket square sits in their jacket et cetera. Far better to throw clothes on and forget about them, confident in the knowledge that you do look great. That is what seeing photos of a guy like Serge Gainsbourg says to me: clothes can only do so much, you have to wear them with attitude, too.

And The Oscar Goes To…

Of all the events about which there is much ballyhoo and hullabaloo, the Academy Awards really takes the biscuit. 41 million people tuned in this year, equivalent to the population of Argentina. For an event that has so little bearing on the lives of those watching, it is certainly extraordinary; film industry back-slapping and back-handing is hardly the bread and butter of a meaningful existence. However, the punters seem drawn to the spectacle year after year, not least for one of its early sequences – the famed ‘red carpet arrivals.’

Thousands of people are squeezed into the street outside the ceremony’s venue, screaming for the stars - come rain or shine. Security staff fiddle with velvet ropes, cameras flash in expectation, reporters hyperbolise and finally the limousines, which have trundled along at a funereal pace, release their hand-waving celebrated passengers to a cacophony of noise.

The apogee of this anticipation is the sight of silver screen stars decked out in glittering gowns and borrowed gems; a catwalk of prom-dresses that range from the sleek and chic to the truly absurd. In between the teeth-flashing females are the dark figures of Hollywood masculinity; most wearing black tie, the odd few favouring outfits that belong at board meetings.

The women are, naturally, the focus of the camera lenses; having spent hours preparing for the rigours of the red carpet, they make the most of their moment. The men, though not neglected, are merely asked “Who made your tux?” It is a matter of sad predictability that the answer is invariably “Armani.” The male models on the world’s most watched catwalk show are no uniform group of ‘boys.’ They are one of the most representative collections of men; from the short and fat to the tall and lean, the impossibly attractive to the downright ugly. And the variation does not end there. Whilst it seems, from the glossy photographs in my compendium on the Academy Awards, that ‘old Hollywood’ ceremonies were occasions at which nearly all men and women dressed with a considerable level of elegance, these days, the right thing is done by fewer and fewer men.

Red Carpet Winners

And the Oscar goes to… Tom Ford

Tom Ford was, unsurprisingly, one of the most elegant gentlemen on the red carpet. Not only sporting a subtle hint of pocket square, but also a tasteful buttonhole, Mr Ford was a splendid advertisement for his own brand. His jacket was shawl collared, perfectly tailored and was worn buttoned which accentuated the quality of its shape.

Nominated: Ryan Reynolds

While not as recherché as Mr Ford, Ryan Reynolds was comparatively dapper in a single-breasted peak lapel number. No accessories adorned the actor but he cut a sleek figure on the carpet thanks to his physique and a decently cut, and buttoned, dinner suit that, mercifully, avoided vulgarity. A small bow tie that appeared to be a clip on was the only let down.

Nominated: Colin Firth

It was fitting that Tom Ford’s leading man, though evidently not ‘single’, represented the designer as well in the sartorial stakes as in the theatrical. His dinner suit, Tom Ford naturally, was similar to his directors. Firth looks good in a properly cut suit – his tall frame is flattered by a properly accentuated waist. His bow tie, undoubtedly hand tied, was charmingly imperfect. The subtlest ‘old Hollywood’ hint of white poked out of his breast pocket.

Red Carpet Losers

And the Razzie goes to… Jason Bateman

I had expected to award the Razzie to someone with a sheeny necktie like Zac Efron or Jeremy Renner. The former is too young to judge too harshly and, like Taylor Lautner, made a decent effort considering his unremarkable, teeny everyday wear. It would be too cynical and somewhat unfair to criticise those youths who were, no doubt, feeling extraordinarily lucky to be pacing the crimson pile.

And so the award goes to Mr Bateman for one of the laziest ‘dinner suits’ I have ever seen. If he were a penniless student who did not possess black tie and could not afford rental, he would be excused. As it is he is a successful actor with plenty of money and time on his hands. His suit, for it is certainly no ‘tuxedo’, has a skinny notched lapel, oversized arms and has a disturbingly tacky sheen. His bow tie, evidently a clip on, attempts to out-sheen the suit and though his inclusion of a pocket square is to be applauded, his shoes look like they’ve been borrowed from a sixth former.

Nominated: Robert Downey Jr

It’s sad to include Downey Jr as he is clearly having fun with his clothing; for the premiere of Sherlock Holmes he wore a fedora and a three-piece suit. However, as much as he is to be applauded for such a triumphant return to form, this celebratory outfit is awkward and, though interestingly whimsical, clownish in this context. Had the bow been smaller and self-tie and perhaps instead of wearing what appear to be Vans, he could have worn evening pumps (now that’s a real statement Downey) with light blue silk socks, he could have run away with the Oscar.

Nominated: Matt Damon

Considering the bucks at his disposal, you’d think that Mr Damon could afford to purchase a suit that actually looks good on him. As it is, he is attired in the sort of thing people who don’t care about clothes hire from Moss Bros to jeer, jest and vomit in. The lapel is sheeny-shiny, the suit is distractingly boxy, the tie is a satin clip-on and he looks like he picked up his clumpy dress shoes from GAP. Unfortunately, though he is rather different from them in taste, he looks a lot like the rest of the anonymous Hollywood-hunk crowd; uncomfortable in black tie.