Savile Row on TV

Those in the UK are being treated to a three-part TV series on Savile Row at the moment. The launch pad for the programme, evidently filmed last year, is the opening of Abercrombie & Fitch’s London flagship store at 40 Savile Row – the rather imposing old building at the end of the row that used to be the London tailors’ bank.

Cue shots of dapper men standing on their porches, sniffing as the hoardings for Abercrombie are put up – black-and-white shots of chiselled male torsos. The sniffing reaches a crescendo when the store actually opens, and teenagers cue round the block to get in. The Abercrombie philosophy of pumping music, dark lighting and piled-high goods couldn’t be much further removed from the Savile Row aesthetic.

But the truly interesting observations are at the margin of this drama. For example, most of the men sniffing on their porches are younger tailors, dressed a little flashier than their older colleagues, hair greased down, face and tone competitive if not aggressive.

The more senior tailors are a little more relaxed. They realise that Abercrombie is only there as a gimmick. It wanted the address, nothing more. It is not competition and it is more than likely that it will not be there in 50 years, or it will have moved to Oxford Street. A meeting of the senior tailors of the row is described by our narrator as a “council of war”, in response to the Abercrombie opening. Yet no one at that meeting looks particularly upset, and nothing seems to come of it. The subject is quietly dropped during the programme, in order to concentrate on a trip to the Isle of Harris for some genuine tweed.

It is equally interesting that the tailors have, to a certain extent, a right to be there. While rents might be expensive, the landlord has it built into the letting contract that only the work of tailors or clothiers can go on there. This doesn’t prevent the landlords turning the top floors into apartments, or stop Abercrombie (as it strictly speaking could be described as a clothier) but it does partly explain why Savile Row has maintained its consistency and security of address over time.

Another fascinating observation, made in passing, is that few of the tailors are rich. While all of the bespoke suits they offer are expensive, starting at around £2500, they are genuinely made by these experienced old men, by hand, on that site in central London. Given the number of hours it must take to make and fit each one, it is not surprising that the profit margins are not huge. Those trips up to Harris to personally order a few bolts of tweed can’t be cheap either. Remember that next time you are comparing Savile Row tailoring to the big fashion houses (and their profit margins – see posting on January 25).

The Savile Row series screened the second of its three parts on Monday this week. However, all the episodes can be seen in retrospect and by those abroad on the BBC’s iPlayer.

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A Good, Honest Umbrella

The text read: “You’ll know this Simon, where do I get a great umbrella in London?” It was from my cousin Harry, but I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t know what to answer.

Being absent-minded at the best of times, I’ve never spent more than five pounds on an umbrella. Even the free brollies from various law firms that litter the office get lost. I take them out when it’s raining, and they get left on the tube, the bus, the Pret a Manger counter. I once bought what seemed a rather nice umbrella from Muji for five pounds. Full-length, a mossy green and smart without being boring. It got left on the bus on the way home.

Ashamed by my lack of brolly knowledge, I didn’t reply to Harry. Being the sort of wandering fellow he is, though, he spent the next hour exploring Bloomsbury and its environs. And I got a triumphant text: “Found the most brilliant umbrella shop. Old, musty, lovely men inside. Didn’t buy anything, but there was a great one with a sword inside.”

The only thing he could tell me was that it was on New Oxford Street. But a bit of research easily identified his find as James Smith & Sons, purveyors of fine umbrellas, sticks and canes since 1830.

From the website it looked as though most of the umbrellas would be out of my price range. With city umbrellas starting at £79, it would be foolish to spend that amount of money on something that could be lost of the train back to Dulwich.

For the sake of research more than anything else, I wandered in there last week – not intending to buy anything, but merely to gain sufficient knowledge of the place to be able to answer a text (and perhaps its detailed follow-up) the next time around. 
The inside felt practical. Rough and ready, with a taste of sawdust in the air. Somehow, a place so unpretentious makes you feel that you are implicitly getting value for money. The sheen and gloss of a fashion brand may seem alluring, but you know you’re paying a sizeable premium for that excitement, that sense of belonging. At no point does it seem honest.

Anyway, turns out James Smith does a rather nice range of city umbrellas that start at £39. For your handle there’s a choice of cane, redwood and a rather rough wood that looks as if has just been hacked off a nearby trunk. They are long-lasting, and can be repaired at any time on site.

I opted for redwood, and am rather pleased with it. It’s lovely to extend that feeling of luxury or tradition to another part of your attire. I really hope I don’t leave it on the train.

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Putting Waistcoats into Practice

Someone commented to me recently that I wasn’t living by my waistcoat theory (see postings on January 16 and 18). Given that Men’s Flair is “men’s style as seen by those living it” this is probably a fair criticism.

The waistcoat theory suggested that modern air conditioning meant a waistcoat and trousers would be the work attire most in line with traditional menswear. As men never wear a jacket around the office, the beneficial effects of a suit are almost entirely lost. A waistcoat, on the other hand, retains the shape and elongation of a suit while being comfortable for work at a computer and not too warm for an office with central heating.

This was meant as a theory more than anything else – to make a point about how a suit, despite all the time people spend thinking about it or having it made, is actually worn. But it wouldn’t be much of a theory if it was never put tried in practice.

So today I opted for a grey flannel waistcoat and trousers (two pieces from a three-piece Ralph Lauren suit), dark brown derby shoes from Richard James, and blue shirt and dark blue tie.

One tip: both waistcoat and tie should be plain. Most people have memories of an awful waistcoat some relation or other wore to a Christmas lunch. This is not a wedding and the waistcoat should not be fancy. The tie, equally, should not be aimed at drawing attention to itself. If anything the shirt should have the pattern, perhaps a thin stripe, which will also help add width that the waistcoat lacks as opposed to the jacket.

There is one problem with the theory though – most waistcoats are made too short. Originally, all suit trousers sat on a man’s waist (above the hip bones and probably just under the belly button). At this height, the waistcoat and trousers would overlap by at least an inch or so, allowing a man to sit down or stretch without exposing his shirt.

Today, most waistcoats are made at the same length, but trousers are worn closer to the hips. This can create unattractive ballooning out from the waist of the trousers, particularly if the shirt is not particularly fitted.

Some waistcoats are made slightly longer in recognition of this. And while they will never completely correct the problem – as they would have to go down over your bum to overlap the trousers by an inch or more – this is a step in the right direction. I recommend Flight, a company that sells high-quality suit separates in green, blue and grey flannel.

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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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Why English Want to Be Italian (and Vice Versa)

In style, the grass often seems that little bit shinier and slinkier on the other side of the fence. As the proverb suggests, however, that is merely because you happen to live on one side.

The English want to be Italian. To them the Italian knows more, spends more and fits better into his clothes. It’s been a long time since brands proudly displayed on their labels that something was Made in Korea or Made in Taiwan. Now the location of production is hidden on an inside label unless, of course, it has been made in Italy.

Marks & Spencer has its Italian range, with the location of production proudly displayed on labels and advertising, and all against a deep red that suggests sophistication. Unfortunately for Marks, this wasn’t always true. The chain was successfully sued a few years ago when it emerged that pieces it claimed were made in Italy were actually manufactured in India and Egypt. Now the claim is that the pieces are of Italian design.

But while the English want to be Italian, Italians often want to be English. Or, at the least, English clothes and shoes inspire an idea of history and longevity, tradition and excellence. It wasn’t until I was on honeymoon in Italy that I realised how true this is. One chain called Sir Winston I found in Turin, Florence and Milan, and stocked every English brand I could think of from Edward Green to Barbour, Church’s to Mulberry.

It proudly claimed that all its shoes were made in Northampton. But to people with only a passing interest in clothes (probably those that shop at M&S) Northampton is not synonymous with fine English shoemaking. It’s just another northern town. Just like being made in Italy doesn’t necessarily mean quality, or sophistication, to an Italian.

Of course Americans want to be Italian and English, and few Italians or English want to be American. But there are brands that create a unique appeal to those on the other side of the Atlantic.

One of these is Ralph Lauren, and this brings me onto my second point about grass and its greenness. To a certain extent, foreign buyers are immune to the dilution of a brand that goes on at home. I am a big fan of Ralph Lauren here, but I’m sure if I lived in the US, and everyone I knew wore large, shapeless pony-branded polo shirts, that enthusiasm would be dampened.

Plus Ralph Lauren is sub-branded into so many categories in the US that the impression of quality suffers – alongside the Polo, Purple and Black labels there is Polo Jeans, Lauren by Ralph Lauren and even I believe Ralph by Ralph Lauren. Recently they launched another at the bottom of the scale, entitled Rugby. Unlike other brand divisions, such as Old Navy/Gap/Banana Republic, or Bershka/Zara/Massimo Dutti, the spread between Ralph Lauren’s top and bottom end is now so big that it’s hard for your opinion of the top end not to suffer.

So I am saved by my limited exposure to RL, only witnessing it in the beautiful Bond Street store.

The English equivalent may be Paul Smith, which while I am a big fan of, has an association with chavviness or laddishness in the UK (for readers in the US, this is the bottom end of the market). It has this association because of its sub-branding into Paul Smith, Paul Smith London, PS and Paul Smith Jeans. The brightly coloured t-shirts at one of the scale can’t help but affect your impression of the suits at the other.

Abroad, however, I know Paul Smith is very popular, and escapes this association. So the message should be, enjoy your view of the greener, slinkier grass on the other side. If you lived there it may well lose its luster.

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