Why The Fuss? ‘Effortless’ Style

“Yea, he’s cool” the girls nodded, glancing towards the unkempt, tramp-ish looking gent at the bar; a man so carefully careless in appearance and so studied, that the girls’ following remark (“He’s just so effortlessly stylish”) was a curious hilarity. On another occasion I was asked by a lady friend my opinion of her new boyfriend; an out-of-work actor of fascinating pretension. She particularly wished to know what I thought of his attire; “Don’t you think” she gushed, fanning her flushing face with her fingers “he’s just like, the BEST dressed man ever?!” Acknowledging her ardour, I provided diplomatic mutterings that conveyed a disingenuous approval. My true feeling was more of pity; for the gentleman was merely another example of a style which, once aligned to a greater art of sartoria, is known merely as ‘effortless.’

George Clooney is apparently the archetype of this style. His ‘ability’, according to his rather star struck columnist proponents, is ‘to look like the best dressed man in the world whilst seemingly making no effort at all.’ While Mr Clooney manages, armed with his considerable fortune, to look vaguely presentable at occasions which require a modicum of formality, he can scarcely be considered the best dressed man when he and ‘dressing’ maintain only the slightest of nodding acquaintanceships.

This ‘effortless cool’ has less to do with dressing and a great deal more to do with sexuality; sartorial sexuality, which for much of the Twentieth century, replaced propriety and ornament in female dress, is now the pinnacle of style for a great many men. Clooney is a desirable and attractive man who, apparently, manages to transform seemingly ordinary clothing into style choices of sudden and magnetic genius. The reason why is because Clooney, though outdressed in all styles by more ‘anonymous’ gentleman across the world, is smothered gracelessly in Hollywood’s secret sauce: sex.

‘Effortless’ cool used to be about a lot more than sex. It used to be about the way a gentleman could pair the casual with the more formal, largely for reasons of comfort or practicality, and still achieve elegance; the way he would close his dressing gown and knot the belt; the way he would quickly roll up his trousers when wearing loafers in the summer; the way he would tip back his hat to allow the sunshine to warm his face, or use a tie as a belt when feeling in a jaunty mood. The new ‘effortless’ cool offers no such invention or attractive pragmatism. It is not about ‘effortless’ dressing but simply avoiding dressing; shirts unbuttoned to the chest, contrivance of simplicity, avoiding details and shunning innovation.

The most important thing to note is that it only appears to ‘work’ on men of a certain physical appeal. If you are on the books of Storm, are the tall silver-haired totty of the boardroom, got paid $12 million for your last acting job or tend to make girls weak at the knees with the merest flutter of your eyelashes, you’re laughing; a slovenly ‘style’ will not distract from your other charms. If, like the rest of us, you are not so genetically blessed; feeling rather short, awkwardly made or simply lacking in what might be termed ‘looks that can kill’, there’s precious little of the superficial to recommend. Wandering around in an open white shirt, clumpy shoes and a suit of average aesthetic and ubiquitous style is not likely to make others confuse you with Mr Clooney. Making an effort, for the majority of men, is far more attractive, rewarding and interesting than appearing not to have made an effort at all.

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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.

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A World Of Imagination Adjusted

One of my joyous memories of childhood is the extent to which I exercised, and was encouraged to employ, my imagination. Imagination was always my friend in solitude, a make-believe sunshine on a rainy day. Unfortunately, my rebellious teenage years corrupted the fantasy and my early twenties were years void of invention. Now, in my 27th year, my innocence entirely expunged, I feel a pang for the days on which I was left with my playthings, a view of the sky and my own impossible dreams.

My imagination, which at one point in my younger years my mother commented, was so vivid that I would often replace the reality with the fantasy entirely and would vociferously reject any tired pleadings for my return to life, is not what it was. Years of the disappointing realities of life have broken the imaginative spirit. Mores the pity, for I have long thought that a good imagination is one of the most underrated qualities in any human; child or adult. Imagination is the glory of man, his triumph over the beast; the first intelligence in man was measured by his ability not only to observe but also imagine. All art, from cave paintings to cathedrals, shows a mind capable of soaring through the heavens.

When I wander the heavy laden racks of high and side street stores, glancing through price tags that rarely touch triple figures, I look around and see a disconsolate group of people doing the same. Rarely do they ‘see’ anything; they merely ‘look.’ Whether their unsettled state is due to their resentment at having to purchase in such establishments or whether they are bored by clothing I cannot say but I detect a lack of enthusiasm and, more importantly, a want of imagination that I find a trifle upsetting, for one of the few activities in which I consistently and happily employ what remains of my imagination is shopping in such environments.

I once asked a cynical friend, a designer label addict, to go shopping with me. I was determined to show him that though some places do not pre-package your perfect aesthetic onto mannequins, play you soft-and-crackly early Dean Martin and offer you an environment more akin to a boutique hotel than a shopping establishment, they can offer you garments which, imagination permitting, could be so much more than a sad little piece of cloth in a strip-lit thrift store. The key is not to buy into the aesthetic of any store but simply to create and maintain your own. If, for example, I had bought into the GAP aesthetic, I would never have altered the buttons on my £20 blazer, nor would I have paired it with a vintage waistcoat, French collar shirt, tie and punch-cap Oxfords.

If you like a particular style, say for example Hackett – who do produce some of the most arrestingly handsome window displays – don’t believe that only Hackett can offer you that look. It might take a little longer but you can find your own Hackett look without stepping into a single store. A lonely linen double breasted blazer in a cheaper establishment might not be sold as effectively as the Gatsby-esque displays at Ralph Lauren, but evaluate the product for what it is, imagine wearing it and, most importantly, imagine the way in which you will wear it.

“To look at a thing is very different from seeing a thing. One does not see anything until one sees its beauty.”

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Brand Review: Devonport

Who, where or what, you cry, is Devonport? Until a couple of weeks ago, I hadn’t the foggiest idea either. Google searches for ‘Devonport’ assist little. In fact, when you search for ‘Devonport clothing’ most of the results yielded are connected with New Zealand. So it transpired that I, sat in the smart waffle carpeted, leather chaired, better-decorated-than-Hackett Piccadilly store (at present the only store), searching on my phone’s internet for clues as to the origins of this perplexing arrival on one of London’s most famous and notoriously expensive streets, came to the conclusion that I had wandered into a Kiwi export.

Having smiled at the pleasant shop assistants in a way that conveyed more surprise than ease, I approached them for more information. I had believed that New Zealand had something to do with the store, so vague was the online information to hand, but the shopkeepers informed me that actually Devonport was an English company which manufactured most of its wares in Portugal. I informed them I had not heard anything about the store before and that its arrival was something of a revelation. They replied that this store was, at present, the only store and that the firms marketing had not yet stretched to an online presence.

The approach is slightly strange, although not illogical. Strange because to manufacture clothing, purchase a pricey Piccadilly lease and open shop without the slightest hint of marketing or PR seems extraordinary. I reasoned that the website was clearly still under construction and also that their address, the envy of dozens of retailers, would surely begin to draw in the right crowd of potential buyers, although when I visited on a sunny Saturday afternoon, the store was empty apart from my entourage. The store assistants assured me rather calmly, when I enquired about the success of the store, that they have experienced custom and that some buyers had even made repeat visits.

Despite the bewilderingly non-existent marketing and public relations campaign, Devonport will surely be a welcome addition to a street in London that was, appropriately, formerly known as Portugal Street. The style is simple but graceful. Fabrics include fine Italian cloth, chunky Scottish wool and cashmere. The suits are not shiny, small-lapelled fashion-oriented things; they are crafted out of fine materials – wool flannels and linen – and are offered in a very large range of styles and colours.

The suit room, one of three carefully planned ‘theme rooms’ (the others being a hunter’s cabin style casual wear section and a bright and airy front room for shirts, ties and accessories), is spacious and well appointed. As well as offering standard alterations on all suit stock, Devonport also offer a made-to-measure service that includes the possibility of adding a waistcoat in the same fabric to an off-the-rack suit. Detail on suits is excellent and finely executed; the canvas is horsehair, the corduroy suit buttons are smart knots of brown leather and I also noted with pleasure that the default aesthetic for the wool suit trousers was turn ups, though of course this can be altered according to the wishes of the individual customer.

Trousers, casual blazers, knitted waistcoats and cable jumpers are also on offer, as is an astounding array of shirts all neatly arranged around silk shaded lamps. Noting the prices of some of the latter, and their rather commonplace appearance, I did not foretell a happy future for this section of the store – with long-established Jermyn Street a hop, skip and jump away, how could they hope to compete in the shirt market? However, in other respects Devonport offered an aesthetic comparable to Hackett and Ralph Lauren and prices comparable to an upmarket high street store; it is the sort of clothing of great interest to style-conscious men ranging from a mere 35 to a grand 80 years of age. It has legs too; this is not experimental stuff. The designs are reliably derivative and well-made and offer a warmer, wiser, coffee-drinking European alternative to the brasher, younger-looking Hackett aesthetic.

The store manager informed me that a morning wear section is planned; tailcoats, waistcoats, sponge bag trousers, the lot, as well as the new spring collection, due in a couple of weeks, which will include linen suits, seersucker and summer blazers. She also keenly informed me they are looking for an English cloth provider and, potentially, a resident tailor. Expansion plans were not made evident, although it seems that this very European looking store – that brings together a London-via-Milan style – will be considering other large cities on the continent. However, bearing in mind the state of the retail market, this will probably be the only store for now.

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Spring Things

For the northern hemisphere, this winter has been a singularly long and cold one; snowstorms, biting winds, city shutdowns and days off school. The Bing Crosby fantasy of the ‘magic’ of snowfall wore rather thin in the December blizzards and there were certainly no punters in Starbucks, as they cupped their lattes between their frozen hands, singing along with Ella to the pollyanna winter classic ‘Let it Snow!’

Dark and bleak, with only the light of the festive season to warm hearts, this winter’s end cannot come soon enough.

Spring is around the corner. Soon the heavy overcoats, scarves, woolly hats and gloves will be locked away until the year end. The flowers will appear and the cold grip will cease. I like to begin each spring with a few new purchases, so thrilled will I be that I can rise each morning without fear of frostbite. After the monotony of wrapping up merely to chill the bones, the novelty will rejuvenate my somewhat jaded interest in composition.

Spring Tie

My choice of spring tie would have to be a Liberty print cotton paisley. Unlike my winter ties, all of a somewhat sombre style, my new tie purchase for spring will shout sunshine and songbirds. It’s rather flowery but this is hardly an inappropriate fashion for the coming season. Worn with a blue peaked lapel suit, a cornflower blue shirt and some brown wholecuts it will convey a sense of floral fun.

Spring Shirt

My choice of spring shirt would have to be the yolky yellow that has recently caught my eye in Lewin’s on Jermyn Street. Although about as subtle as a stretch pink Hummer, it can be pared down to a respectable level with clever choices of tie and suit. Darker is dignified in this case – a dark suit and dark tie (but not black) will calm the effect that such a strong and noticeable shirt will have on the populace. It will also look wonderful later on in the year with a summer tan, blue blazer and white trousers.

Spring Shoes

Loafers are perfect for spring. I have been rather taken by the idea of a pair of classic Gucci loafers with the classic metal bar decoration. I saw the promotional and on-set photography of the upcoming Oliver Stone film ‘Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps’ and noticed that Shia LaBeouf, rather stylishly attired, sported a pair. I had long doubted their versatility and their aesthetic but the photographs of Mr LaBeouf wearing them with suits and casual outfits, with equal flair, convinced me. Somewhat retro, with the right look – and the right cut of trouser – they convey a cool chic.

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