Forgotten Style Aces: Edward Hughes Ball Hughes

A friend recently told me that they believe there is no better, more flattering combination of shirt and tie for any man than that of black and white; a white shirt, with a black tie. Traditionalists might scoff at the practice of wearing black ties to anything other than a funeral or an evening function; until quite recently, the modern practice and code has been to wear all colours of tie during the day, except black.

Some I have encountered remark that wearing a black tie makes you look like personal security, or a doorman, or a chauffeur: a man in service to another. They are often surprised when I inform them that you can trace back the ‘invention’ of the black tie (or cravat) with the white shirt to a gentleman who represented anything but the image of servitude. A man who lived a life so wildly fantastical that his interesting tale is refuted as Aesopian myth; but he was real and he was indeed credited, and credit was always to be his downfall, with the invention of the black cravat.

Edward Hughes Ball Hughes, known in society as ‘The Golden Ball’ due to his extraordinary wealth, was a friend of the Prince Regent and a noted dandy. He was, in addition to being fabulously rich, a handsome man and, no doubt due to his notoriety as a hedonist and colossal gambler, influential in matters of fashion. Ball Hughes was still at Eton when Beau Brummell was gambling his last farthing at the tables in St James. His spells at Cambridge and in the navy must have been brief; by the age of 19 he had inherited a fortune of £40,000 a year. With such riches, connections to the highest circles will have been expedited.

In the days of the Regency, and indeed the era of George IV, men like Ball Hughes were the Hollywood stars. In the capital of the largest and most influential empire, society concerned itself with sex, scandal, money and fashion; Ball Hughes was one of those at the centre of attention. He bought Oatlands, Henry VIII’s great palace in Surrey, from the Duke of York and spent his honeymoon there with his beautiful new wife, a sixteen year old Spanish danseuse. He would famously be seen, set striding across his newly acquired estate, hunting in his latest creations for fashion; an army of servants carrying guns, wine and food behind him.

However, despite his undoubted influence in fashion, it was for his career as a gamester that he was best known. Gambling at anything from cards to shuttlecock, Ball Hughes dissipated most of his fortune away through his speculations at the tables. He was written letters by concerned friends, fellow members of his clubs, that there were conspirators, vultures; ‘they seek [to] knock down your whole fortune in one night.’ Though he gained little reward but pleasure from his gambling habits, the Oatlands speculation was one of his few triumphs. Much of the land was sold for the development of villas and Ball Hughes was able to live out his remaining few years in the luxury he had enjoyed throughout much of his life.

So for gambling he was known, but for the black cravat he is remembered. His legacy for his heirs had all but disappeared but the most important legacy; the daring to flaunt an alternative style, however conservative that style appears in the modern day, preceded one of the most common practices and combinations of tone available to men today. I often think to myself that I could credit few individuals with the appreciation that they were the reason I do a certain thing, or dress a certain way – largely because if they did exist, they are unknown to me. I relish therefore the opportunity to raise a glass to a single figure in history whose accidental power and influence is the reason I am flattered by monochrome today.

The Enigma of Flusser

Alan Flusser knows a lot about style. Anyone who has read his books knows that, and knows that he has a gift for communicating his knowledge (though I would say that he had a better editor on Dressing the Man, which has a lot less flowery prose than Style and the Man).

The enigma of Alan Flusser is that, although he knows a lot about men’s clothes, he doesn’t necessarily follow his own advice. In a recent comment on this site, one reader pointed me to a video interview with Alan on men.style.com, the GQ men’s style website. The video can be seen here.

In the interview he is wearing a charcoal-grey pinstriped suit, white shirt, black tie and a pink handkerchief. It’s a combination of strong tones that some might find hard to pull off – that black tie and white shirt could easily make you look like you are at a funeral, and a strong colour like pink can easily look cheap against black.

But it seems to suit Alan well, and he has obviously decided (pace his tonal recommendations in Dressing the Man) that his is a high-contrast complexion, complemented by high-contrast clothes.

Half way through the video, though, the camera pans down to reveal Alan wearing a pair of pale, ripped, rather baggy jeans. It’s hard to think of a starker failure of marrying formal and casual – indeed, as in our previous discussion, in wearing jeans and a jacket – well.

The textures of material are at completely different extremes (worsted, denim) as are the colours (white and high-contrast, blue and subtle) and the patterns (pinstripe could not be more formal, ripped jeans hardly more casual). It is an archetypal Newsreader Look.

So I am afraid I have to disagree with the reader on this point – Alan here is doing the exact opposite of everything I have professed and argued. Try wearing that combination yourself and then wear it to work.

But, and it is a big but (no sniggering in the cheap seats please), I have complete confidence in Alan Flusser. His books are too good, and have been too fundamental to my passion for clothes, for me to think that he does not know what he is doing. He knows the rules and he knows he is flaunting them.

Alan also has a rather personal take on style generally, as can be seen in the other photos shown here. I can only presume that when you know all the history and traditions of men’s cloth-combination, you want to do something a little different. You can only break the rules well when you know why they are there, after all.

Brideshead Overstated

There was always something a little fishy about the choice of Castle Howard as the setting, once again, for Brideshead; the seat of the aristocratic family, the subject of Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited. That the film makers of the feature length version simply had to choose this famous baroque pile in Yorkshire for the family home of the Marchmains, to match the 1981 miniseries, made me a little less optimistic about its release. It revealed a lot about the mindset of the adaptors. They were clearly wary of the power and enduring appeal of the Granada masterpiece and yet, instead of choosing to source their own Brideshead, to craft their own mystique, they lazily borrowed from earlier artwork. I had the horrible feeling that I was entering a theatre to watch, not a story and characters I had loved and admired, but a curiously unnecessary revalidation of the thought that one visit to Brideshead was quite sufficient. Were it not for the costumes, I might not have entered or endured.

One of the most fabulous treats of a period drama, no matter how it is massacred by the screenwriters, the juvenility of the green actors or even an overbearing score, is that you are certain to be delighted by onscreen beauty in setting, architecture and above all costume. For the recent film The Duchess, the actors did not have to compete with each other, the director or the composer for the best reviews; they had to compete with the costumes and the sets. Our love for period film has turned us into visual gluttons who love to see the fashions and worlds of yesteryear as an on-command pageant in front of our eyes. This has ensured that accuracy in costume, and budget revision, has been one of the key considerations of period filmmaking. You can even hear them before pen is put to paper on script: “Well, we don’t have a story yet but Steven, this is Victorian London! It’s going to look fabulous!”

The danger with this is that sometimes, budget accords too much time and effort to costume. In a bid to win back the cost of production, the wardrobe departments sometimes veer into the fantastical and improbable; you see costumes and not characters. In Brideshead Revisited, this happened more than once. Some of the costume lacked period accuracy, as did much of the film – one boo-boo was to feature a summertime visit to Venice offering the pleasure of Carnivale which actually takes place far earlier in the year. That mistake summed up the intention of the filmmakers (or financiers – what you will); this was a rearrangement of the story, of the characters and even the cities in which they frolicked. Accuracy in costume would be hardly noticed. There were strange 1950s neckties and 1940s lapels, out of place in pre-war Britain, suspiciously 60s Missoni style scarves and some very modern cuts of suit that paid no heed to the lines or construction of 30’s tailoring. It was attractive, and extravagant but one was frequently wondering; “Would they have worn that?”

Having said that, there were some wonderful ensembles that cleverly displayed the differences between middle class Charles Ryder and aristocratic Lord Sebastian Flyte; their first ‘encounter’, when Charles peered over a bridge to watch Lord Sebastian lolling in a punt as Anthony Blanche entertained those surrounding with his recitation, had Sebastian dressed in blue Henley jacket and waistcoat, white trousers and white shoes. The very picture of patrician progeny. Charles was dressed, due more to budget and social position than taste, in a more bland fashion. His artistic soul appreciated the Decadents but his middle-class awareness prevented him from following them too closely; in clothing, as in life, there was always something holding him back from a world he had dared to suppose he could be a part of.

Roger Moore: More Than Dressing The Part

I have always been intrigued by the stories of artists who rest very easily on a previous period of titanic greatness; musicians who write that one great album and then escape to a beach house on St Barts; novelists who churn out the ‘most important book of the age’ and then disappear, quite intentionally, to live out the remainder of their life in quiet contentment. In many ways, I fancy it is because we expect too much regularity from our artists; we work and push them to work in the same way but theirs is a strange world. In many ways, artistic work can be understood by imagining that creativity has a limit; what lurks in the imagination of an artist can be surprisingly small. So small in fact that revealing the quantity can lead to others exclaiming; “Is that it?”

I chanced upon an interview with Roger Moore in the Daily Telegraph where the actor and UNICEF ambassador was being asked about his book ‘My Word Is Bond.’ While certainly a good deal older than most will remember him, as the eponymous spy in the 1970s and early 1980s James Bond films, he still defends the concept of ‘mental youth’; that the mind does not age, only the body. He also defends his light-hearted portrayal of Bond with a suggestion that the supposed ‘spy’ is actually scripted very unlike any spy would ever be; “who turns up in bars and hotels around the world and everyone says ‘Ah, Mr Bond. We’ve been expecting you.’” Normally, the interviews at this level are gushing and blushing; bouts of obsequious comments and over generous praise, however this was a rather tame affair. So tame in its fawning stamp in fact that criticisms, and there were a few, stood out rather strongly.

One criticism was that Mr Moore dressed ‘rather ridiculously.’ My eyes rolled at the suggestion; here was a man approaching old age rather graciously, who does not seem to take himself too seriously. While his dress sense is certainly classic, almost textbook regal, it is far from ridiculous. Why should smart jackets and carefully woven ties, not to mention excellent colour understanding and coordination, be considered so on a healthy old gentleman? Moore, in my opinion, rightly eschews the casual carelessness of actors in his generation who are happy to be ordinary, even over-the-hill, in terms of dress. Not for him the tired dishevelled ‘No one cares about me anymore anyway’ self-pitying (or loathing in some cases); Moore, despite having a rather humorous view of himself, actually considers that self-presentation should not wither with age.  He is, for some tastes, perhaps a little brash (French collars and cuffs and large shiny silk ties) but he dresses for the occasion rather perfectly and his jovial, winking smile as his ally, looks all the more youthful for his consideration.

Although it was remarked that Mr Moore dresses ‘like Bond’, I would in fact suggest almost the opposite. Aside from his immaculate black tie ensembles, Moore’s wardrobe leans more toward the archetypal Bond enemy; the sort who owns pet crocodiles, gigantic yachts and cavorts carelessly with young attractive women. The large collection of sunglasses, in an interesting array of tints, lend something of a continental finish to a very English Englishman; putting one in mind of the late Yves Saint Laurent. He is marvellously self-deprecating, referring to the royalty cheques for his Bond work which still flow steadily in through the door of the Moore household; his professional life after Bond, which he exited in his late fifties, was not exactly firing on all cylinders. There must have been offers, which makes one wonder whether he always did want to be remembered as the man who replaced Sean Connery; or whether, the Moore ambition and artistic ejection complete, he more or less retired to his current life; official ambassador for UNICEF, unofficial ambassador for well dressed gentlemen everywhere.

The Style of Sherlock Holmes

One of my favourite treats of entertainment is settling down, in great comfort, to watch a period detective mystery. My two favourites are undoubtedly Agatha Christie’s Poirot, as portrayed by David Suchet and Sherlock Holmes as portrayed by Jeremy Brett. I admire the detectives for their manner; their habits logically conform to their methods. They are introverted but fully capable of a civility that borders on seduction. They are powerful, mesmerising figures – glorious creatures of detective fiction that expose the weaknesses and strengths of humanity in one intoxicating character. In addition, the soundtracks are fabulous and grandiose; tender touches of romantic melodies that lift the heart and glorify the imagination.

My admiration for Brett’s Holmes is relatively recent – I had always been a Poirot man but I have enjoyed Holmes, altogether a different character, in many ways. I had always marvelled at the costumes of Poirot; particularly the elegant ensembles for Hercule himself. Wonderfully tailored items, exquisite crispness to the cloth and an enviable shine to the polished shoes. Poirot could also be quite decorative. Holmes by comparison is invariably clothed in gloomy black; a simple white shirt and that curious necktie that is mostly hidden under a turndown collar. In many shots, Holmes is attired as darkly as an undertaker; it is only that Brett’s Holmes possesses such outrageous wit and brilliance that we come to accept his Dracula-like dress as part of his wonderful character.

However, such simplicity is seductive. As costume, Holmes’ clothing is revolutionary and distinctly modern. He is also clean shaven and, rather famously, does not conform to the strict day and evening dress codes of Victorian England. The plainness of his attire is in a sense soothing as well as surprising; as his dignified appearance and perfect diction lend to an image in the imagination of a conformist. The reality is somewhat different. He has, of course, his own methods and his wardrobe perfectly illustrates this trait; a simple bow to decency and honour, that he should always be turned out exquisitely but simply. Following from that everything about his dress suggests a lofty contempt for the inadequacies of a fashion follower. A confident introvert, you have every sense that Brett’s Holmes is as concerned with evening dress as he is with the asinine mutterings of the bumbling Lestrade; whether this attention to detail is to accentuate his eccentricity I do not know, however if it were for the reasons I have advanced I would surmise that such an intent shows a greater understanding of subtlety. Brett’s portrayal is eccentric enough and to believe that the great detective dresses in a modern but very well-tailored manner because of his deep understanding of the ultimate unimportance of trend and at the same time, the mystical allure of a signature, is rather satisfying. While not flowery or effete, Brett’s portrayal of Holmes borders on a variety of cold dandyism; he has all the hallmarks of a superiority complex and the languid poses of a late Victorian lounge lizard. And yet, he is so much more. There is, I would wager, a varying amount of Brett’s Holmes in all of us.