Style Icon: Thomas Crown

I was written to recently by a young man who had become interested in my blog but, due to his own admittance of his naivety and insecurity, was unsure that he would represent himself well in, as he put it, such ‘frilly, theatrical garb.’ He was, he wrote, ‘more concerned about what people think…’ Instead of providing what would have been a knee jerk response, damning his insecurity, slapping his proverbial back and sending him off in the direction of ‘frilly’ retailers, I considered his position from his point of view; a young man tired of the graffiti-trends of his peers, hateful of hoodies, tired of trainers he is evidently trying to mature his wardrobe. The difficulty being that many bloggers tend to be altogether too affected, too dandy or absurdly avant-garde – he cited one who chose to wear women’s heels and handbags – to inspire such a cautious self-improver.

Fortunately there are, I informed him, more influences than self-photographing self-promoters. Of course, for such a youthful, inexperienced upgrader, some alternative sources of influence will doubtless prove too far fetched – pointing him in the way of flower beds for colour coordination, though valid, is likely to perplex rather than enthuse. Seeking heroes of style in popular culture is a common refuge for the uncertain and cinema is a glorious medium; beginners and sartorial ‘professors’ alike gaze at the screen, following attractively dressed characters, storing imagery in their minds and pondering a little plagiarism.

Thomas Crown, a character originally brought to the screen by Steve McQueen, is considered something of a style icon, as much for his adaptability and ‘Modern man’ mantle as his sharp tailoring. Even the Crown in the Pierce Brosnan remake is applauded for exuding a deep, Everyman quality – Brosnan is as at ease in the air-conditioned boardroom in tailored wool as he is, linen shirted, watching the sunset from his Caribbean hideaway. He carries the viewer through Bond-like fantasies of tailoring, the cameras gorging on Turnbull & Asser shirts and ties and Gianni Campagna suits. Never over or underdone, the combinations emphasise the importance of simplicity and fit – a Brummellian manifesto – above all else.

These elegantly uncomplicated ensembles mirror the extraordinary knack McQueen’s Crown exhibited for not dressing up, or dressing down, but simply dressing well. Colours may tend to be minimalist, suits traditionalist (but hardly basic) and ties ‘uniform’ but what is remarkable is that on my last viewings of the original and the Brosnan update, the beautifully attired Mr Crown had aged little since the films were released. Others more in sway to the ‘fashions’ of the periods look decidedly dated.

The lesson to inquisitive but nervous improvers, intent on discarding the present uniforms of inelegance is simple; an upgrade of material and of shape, an embracement of maturity and felicitousness. Crown is no fake – heavily ironic considering his duplicity – when it comes to dress; his style is no ‘bullet proof’ armour or pomp of a parvenu. It is a symbol of his taste, success and earned position. It looks as it should always look: entirely natural.

Young Style Icon: Chuck Bass

Regular readers might remember a derogatory article I penned about the brand Abercrombie & Fitch – the success of which I attributed, partly, to the strength of its presence in the powerful television series that portray the glamorous but tragic lives of American youth; a formula of attraction that captures the imagination of Americana hungry teens worldwide. The ‘dramedy’ fixture appeals, and is therefore marketed, to young girls. There is very little evidence in these well-packaged productions that young males are a target audience. And, of course, why should there be? Young boys are expected to be out playing sports, surfing, engaging in pubescent banter and chasing girls; there’s little time or consideration for following the boring, made-up lives of cry-babies.

And yet there will be those who, with a willingness to please, catch a few scenes with their girlfriend; there will be those who are more than vaguely aware of the characters names, who’s been with who and who wears the best clothes. The characteristic of many of these shows has been that while the girls can be well catered for in the wardrobe department, with significant product placement and even fashion leadership; Chloe handbags, Juicy Couture tracksuits and Paul Frank t-shirts, the boys are – aside from a few cult logos – A&F, Penguin and Fred Perry – uninspiring and rather ordinary. Marketing is a huge part of these programmes. In fact, some programmes are so blatant as to even mention the designers during an episode – a brutal kind of marketing that angers some parents who are press-ganged into making these child-pleasing purchases.

However, the chief problem, in my view, with acceptance among young school-age boys and girls, has a lot to do with timidity; boys don’t dress in ordinary, ugly clothing out of any sort of pride but fear – a fear of being unconventional, of constituting something girls might consider odd or even threatening. Popular culture wields a mighty hand in dictating fashion; it’s no surprise that in the UK thousands of girls began to ape the cutesy short-skirted, pigtailed image of Britney Spears in ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’ after only a few bars of ‘Oh baby, baby…’ It is therefore encouraging that the hit television show Gossip Girl, about the sheltered, seemingly perfect lives of young Manhattan socialites actually features a positive male style role model for any transfixed teen; it matters not that gazing at the screen are mostly hearts-a-fluttering young girls, sighing and blowing kisses, the exposure of such style to an audience so used to a style aesthetic of printed t-shirts, skater jeans and Converse All-Stars is a positive thing; I can imagine the love struck young ladies sighing up and down the country; ‘I never thought bow ties could look so cute.’

Chuck Bass is without doubt one of the most popular characters on Gossip Girl. And alongside his devilish good looks, precocious cynicism and intimidating manner, he also attracts a huge amount of attention for his sartorial style. Of course, some say, he’ll look good in anything – but that’s hardly the point; the point of this particular form of style leadership is that items of attire youths previously associated with out-of-step fathers and grandfathers now have a completely different association; you can guarantee that an observant, self-confident young man somewhere will walk into a house party to whispers of respect and admiration rather than ridicule; ‘Look’ the girls twitter ‘he dresses like Chuck Bass.’

There isn’t really a signature look for Mr Bass. He certainly loves using colour, wears shoes rather than trainers, embraces supposedly ‘poofy’ materials like silk, cashmere and velvet and though there is always a trend-twist to his ensembles, his overall look promotes good grooming and an appreciation of detail. Some might dismiss the looks as typical American prep; the sort of aesthetic Ralph Lauren has advanced since the mid-Sixties. However, Bass is no stiff, Brooks-Brothers-of-old cut-out; there is a charm and energy to his exciting ensembles that reveals an inner confidence bordering on priggishness. Most know-it-alls in teen dramas are vilified; made out to look shallow, geeky and ultimately unattractive but Bass has depth. Bass manages to turn up in a bow tie, powder blue suit and sockless loafers, sip a cocktail and deliver cruel putdowns in the manner of Max Beerbohm – an unlikely crush perhaps, but the result is generally irresistible.

Hollywood Gold

When I overheard a conversation between two persons, neither of my acquaintance, the response given by one to the other’s question rang, rather violently, in my ears; with the Academy Awards coming up, the constant comparisons between our ‘economic climate’ and the Great Depression and our never ending fascination with celebrity, it couldn’t be more appropriate; “Hollywood” the lady had replied “is not what it once was.” This remark, now such a cliché, is a favourite of those who criticise Hollywood’s perpetual self-reference; who point out that Hollywood lacks creativity and ingenuity and compensates, rather inadequately, by overspending and overproducing. There has always seemed to be a little Narcissian weakness in Tinseltown, but considering the monumental success of its output, this is hardly surprising. From the era of Chaplin and Doug Fairbanks to the present day, success has been the toast of the evening; art is a goal, but success has been the narcotic of choice for everyone from Louis B Mayer to Lana Turner.

As gigantic and influential as Hollywood now is, there is still a sense of loss amongst veterans, an indulgent nostalgia for ‘the way things used to be.’ This pining has led those of influence to christen new Hollywood as old; George Clooney is ‘the new Cary Grant’, Scarlett Johansson the ‘Marilyn Monroe of the Noughties.’ “You see” said an elderly member at my good friend’s club “there’s nothing appealing about Hollywood anymore. It’s all about recycling; the movies, the stars, the parties…” Whilst too cynical a view for my taste, I conceded some truth. Hollywood is always in love with itself; the ponderous ceremony of the awards, the glitz and razzmatazz are, apart from the music industry, never seen anywhere else. It is a tad self-congratulatory but then, why should it be anything else? I for one am all for the warm nostalgia that is sprinkled over the industry at this time of the year; recalling ghosts and years past of style, glamour and legend.

Look at Clark Gable arriving at an Academy Awards ceremony in the 1950s with Grace Kelly, squinting into the glare of the camera flashes, a neat pocket square poking out of his overcoat; or Marlon Brando, looking like a textbook 50s model in shawl collar and ‘cocktail’ bow tie; or Douglas Fairbanks Sr, recalling an even earlier Golden Period, in a light, three-piece suit with white shoes, remarkably appropriate for the warm climate of California. Hollywood needs this depth of style as a reminder; far from forgetting the pattern of elegance and attraction that built the legend of Hollywood, it needs to always be conscious that fame itself is a by product of what the fantasy of the studios was capable of doing; delivering dreams to it’s devotees.

Cecil B. DeMille, by his jodhpurs and boots, gave birth to that stereotypical and romantic depiction of a film director. The seemingly bizarre combination of an equestrian/military lower half with a rather more conventional torso is nevertheless a successful marriage that, like many of Mr DeMille’s films, captured the imagination of faithful Hollywood. These little bijoux, stories and captures from the Golden Era, merely affirm, many contend, that Hollywood, stylistically and artistically has lost its way and, like an impoverished aristocrat, calls on former glories and splendour to add glitter to its name. I rather think this point of view is growing in tediousness; Hollywood ‘gold’ may be gone, but bravo to those who ensure it is not forgotten – in Hollywood, they all need a little ‘direction.’

Style Icons: The Cincinnati Kid

“I’ll see your two thousand and raise you five thousand.” Gasps around the room. The Cincinnati Kid leans back in his chair, hand on chin.

Is that a knitted tie he’s wearing? It’s so hard to tell in black and white.

“Lancey’s got the jack!” “Nah, the Kid’s got the jack.” “Don’t be stupid, no one’s got it.” The crowd argues in whispers as Lancey leans forward, mockingly.

Look at how Steve McQueen’s grey shirt contrasts with the prim attire of Edward G Robinson and the rest.

The card is turned. Lancey has the jack; it’s all over. Fast cut from the Kid to Lancey to Christian to Shooter. End scene.

Lancey really has all the trappings of a establishment man – from the tie pin to the waistcoat.

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As long-time readers of this blog will know, I often have trouble concentrating on old films for all the wonderful tailoring on display. Brighton Rock was the first described here. The Cincinnati Kid is the latest - another victim of my wandering attentions.

The Kid is a lesson in the virtues of standing out, and in how to do it well.

Steve McQueen is the outsider in a group of high-rolling gamblers. The gamblers have money, and silently, implicitly try to outdo each other in displays of riches. The kingpin, Lancey Howard, declares that money is merely a means in gambling, not an end; just like breathing is a means to debate. Money has to be seen to be unimportant, and so it is lavished on embroidered waistcoats, silk gowns worn over their suits around the house and tie pins that glitter around the poker table.

McQueen’s clothes reflect his status. They the epitome of downbeat cool. For much of the film he wears a shawl-collared sweater with his shirt, instead of a jacket. When he goes out to a cockfight he wears a charcoal, round-neck sweater underneath his grey suit. At the table, in the culminating game of the film, he wears a grey shirt and black knitted tie with the suit.

As the picture of the cock fight here illustrates, everyone else is in white shirts (often with pinned collars), silk ties and either waistcoats or double-breasted suits. He is the exception. The eye immediately goes to him (though Melba’s legs help).

To enjoy men’s clothing as much as we do, there has to be a willingness to stand out. You will be wearing something different to most men in the room. Better, in our opinion, but different. The Kid is the best example I know of how to stand out in style while actually being more casual. Well dressed, well fitted but casual.

Reality Bites: Is It All Strictly Useless

I am not one for reality television. I hardly watch anything on television as it is; whatever draws me to the box has to be something one-off and unscripted (such as a football match) or a particularly good drama series. Following reality television is as alien to me as drum ‘n’ bass music or ‘installation’ art; and it’s certainly not old age, I have never understood these concepts, even in the flower of youth. However, I am not in the majority for there are many who follow, and value, reality television. Those who challenge my support of sport – the sense that you are following something real, that the outcome is unknown – often suggest that reality television, particularly competitive programmes such as Big Brother and I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here!, offer the same kind of thrill. I contend however that reality television is in most cases, aside from the public’s input, to some extent ‘scripted’ otherwise it could never receive the financial backing from those who have facilitated its filming. Investors always like to know what they’re getting for their money and reality television is no exception.

I also believed that reality television contributed to our new zombie nation. That many viewers are actually susceptible to manipulation through performance should concern, or delight, all who are in positions of power. However, recently during a viewing (which I had to endure) of Strictly Come Dancing – a ridiculous title for a show – I realised that there might be some good to come of the format of reality programming after all. For despite the asinine opinions, garish lighting and levels of glitz and sparkle that would make Elton John blink, the show does have redeeming qualities. Dancing is an attractive and admirable activity to advocate; it’s good for health, promotes elegance and reengages the public with, in our current musical climate, what is really a dying art – moving in a complementary fashion to a melody and rhythm. It also has the benefit of reengaging the public with clothing that is often seen as fusty or (I despise the tag) ‘posh.’ Rugby players, admired actors of stage and screen and crumbling celebrities have all been seen in dazzling white tie, no doubt provoking comments of ‘Oh! Don’t they look smart?’ in many sitting rooms up and down the country. When such beloved and ‘humble’ figures are seen to dress thus, it is peculiar how acceptable and acknowledged it becomes. No longer is it something they ‘don’t understand’ – for they had seen it last Saturday on their favourite leading man.

The other benefit of this show is the presenter Bruce Forsyth who, despite the garish surroundings of the studio, manages to dress with a restrained flair. Much to my relief, the show advocates black tie like no other – and it demonstrates the impact of the practice, and its superiority, by its juxtaposition to the ‘modern’ black tie. The only characters who dress well are Mr Forsyth and one of the judges, Len Goodman. Their staple is black tie but they vary the style of their evening dress from week to week – colours of waistcoat, width of lapel, size of bow – all contributing to the likely positive acceptance by the public of the differentiations possible with evening dress, and the idea that elegance is desirable and achievable. Both achieve solid 8s and 9s. By far the most poorly dressed of the male quartet, Craig Revel Horwood and Bruno Tonioli dress in that careless, ‘young Hollywood’ fashion; Tonioli with his ghastly, glittery tone on tone bringing back nightmares of a similarly attired Chris Tarrant, and Revel Horwood, though he has occasionally worn a bow, in his inoffensive but cheap and lazy ‘modern’ black tie. Both would be very lucky to receive anything more than 4.