Branded Male

Go Figaro

As much as I appreciate this new image of Maddie by Steven Meisel, I was disappointed to learn that the Louis Vuitton ad was shot in a café in...Los Angeles. If I were in a philosophical mood, I might have erudite things to say about the hyperreal nature of luxury advertising and its need to provide an imagined landscape rather than an authentic one (cf. Umberto Eco, Faith in Fakes).

Instead, for those of you who crave a bit of fin-de-siècle glamour without travelling to Café Figaro in Los Angeles, I suggest you come here to Paris and try the real thing. I can recommend La Palette (rue de Seine) and Café Charbon (rue Oberkampf) for genuine bohemian ambience. Fishnet stockings optional.

The cult of Tyler Brûlé

While we're on the subject of magazines (see below), I thought I'd take a chance to mention Monocle, which is currently celebrating its first anniversary. The founder of the magazine is the unsinkable Tyler Brûlé, who is occasionally accused of sounding like a menu item but is actually a media genius.

I've been a bit of a fan of the man ever since he launched Wallpaper* (the asterisk is part of the masthead) way back in  1994. At the time it was revolutionary: a jaunty magazine about global design that appealed to young aspirational types who couldn't afford half the items it featured. He sold it to Time-Warner a couple of years later and parted company with it in  2002. The magazine has never been the same since, because it worked best as a reflection of his own quirky tastes.

As far as I can work out, Brûlé loves airports, Tokyo, Switzerland and Scandinavia. He is into retro minimalism, multiculturalism, clean lines, craftsmanship, efficiency and v-neck pullovers. He likes things that, as the Honda "Cog" ad once put it, "just work." It isn't surprising that Munich topped Monocle's list of the world's most liveable cities.

I was a little unsure about Monocle at first, due to its grainy paper and chilly photography, but the "global briefing" quickly got into its stride. All the Brûlé obsessions are intact - a bullet train hummed on the cover of the last issue - together with reportage, quirky business ideas, unusual fashion and the next big brands you've never heard of. There's an original idea on every page. What other news magazine would have the balls to end with a Manga cartoon featuring a half-Japanese, half-Danish secret agent? Sounds like pure Brûlé.

GQ à la Française

The French version of GQ was launched today, so I picked up a copy with my International Herald Tribune, at the slightly plaintive introductory price of one euro. Presumably Condé Nast is counting on the GQ brand to make the publication work, because upmarket men's magazines have historically dragged their feet in France: existing titles like Optimum, Monsieur and Dandy are barely on the radar. The problem is that French men tend to prefer news magazines - L'Express, Le Point and Le Nouvel Observateur - while occasionally dipping into their partner's Elle. Glossy men's titles fall into a black hole somewhere between the two.

This may be the reason that Condé Nast hired a journalist from Libération, a lefty newspaper with a shrinking circulation, to edit GQ. The wisdom of doing so, along with the added complication that the person concerned is a woman, has yet to be proven.

Certainly the first issue, while displaying the rich, ad-heavy coachwork of a typical Condé Nast vehicle, is something of a disappointment.

The familiar features of actor Vincent Cassel loom out of the cover, as they have out of so many others. Anne Boulay's debut leader is oddly dispassionate, consisting mainly of an apology for the magazine's funny foreign name. The opening section is light on photography, providing instead a hit-and-miss series of short essays about familiar subjects: salaries, dating, shopping...and even the pleasures of irony, which the rest of the magazine (ironically) lacks.

Fortunately, a number of high points follow. Of the three fashion spreads, two are rather good: inspired by the resurgent preppy look on the one hand and post-punk on the other, they feel sharp and relevant. There's also an interesting report on the Taliban by Christoph Reuter, although the photos - by Karim Ben Khalifa - really make the piece. And I enjoyed an article probing the disturbing fact that French journalists are forever marrying politicians.

A vaguely erotic photo-spread shot by legendary snapper Jeanloup Sieff draws attention to the main problem facing French GQ: in a world where the press is being challenged by the internet, this brand new magazine does not move the debate forward one iota. A blend of every other blokes' mag you've ever read, it boasts neither the tongue-in-cheek polish of British GQ nor the Rat Pack hipness of the American edition. In fact it's so determined to appear upmarket that it ends up seeming frostily distant.

Maybe French GQ is like a new suit from a renowned designer. It looks the part, but until it has worn in a bit, it lacks soul.

Standing up to "The Best of 2007"

It's the time of year when every newspaper and magazine in the known universe wheels out its "Best of 2007" list. In lieu of doing exactly the same thing, I decided to compare the culturati's lists of things I should have read, watched, listened to and worn with my actual choices. We rarely agreed.

BOOKS

I should have been reading: Man Gone Down, by Michael Thomas: "This first novel explores the personal histories behind four desperate days in a black writer's life." (The New York Times Best Books of 2007)

I actually read: The Janissary Tree, by Jason Goodwin. This superbly entertaining mystery set in the Ottoman Empire is Goodwin's first novel and the debut outing of the detective Yashim Togalu. Debonair and cultivated, Yashim just happens to be a eunuch. He's also an excellent cook, but I don't think that particular talent is related to his misfortune.

MOVIES

I should have seen: 4 Months, 3 Weeks & 2 Days. "Greeted with universal approval from the critics, an exceptional, masterful piece of film-making that combines social realism, political comment and nail-biting tension" (The Times, 100 Best Films of 2007)

I actually saw: The Lives of Others. By far my favourite film of the year, this masterpiece set in East Berlin before the fall of the Wall has it all: love, loyalty, betrayal, suspense, political sophistication and terrific, heart-stirring music.

MUSIC

I should have bought: M.I.A - Kala. "The Sri Lankan-born U.K. rapper's inspirations run all over the globe, with a Day-Glo sensibility rooted in the Native Tongues hip-hop of the Jungle Brothers and De La Soul, but with the political rage of Public Enemy." (Rolling Stone, The Top 50 Albums of 2007)

I actually bought: Stacey Kent - Breakfast on the Morning Tram. One of the finest jazz singers of our time interpreting lyrics by the novelist Kazuo Ishiguro: what's not to like? (Oh, and like anybody else with a soul, I got into Amy Winehouse, too.)

FASHION

I should have worn: Tim Hamilton. "Nominated for the CFDA's 2007 Swarovski Award for new talent, Hamilton is well on his way to becoming America's next great menswear guru." (Refinery 29, Best New Designers of 2007)

I actually wore: Made-to-measure suits from obscure Paris tailors. Shoes by Edward Green, StefanoBi and Santoni. Shirts from Thomas Pink and Eglé Bespoke. Spectacles from Oliver Peoples. Various items from Paul Smith and Agnès B. And surprisingly nice wool trousers from Benetton.

PRODUCT

I should have acquired: An iPhone. "Choosing the product of the year is usually a tricky business...Not in 2007, when there was only ever one serious candidate - Apple's iPhone." (International Herald Tribune)

I actually got: A Tag Heuer Carrera Automatic watch. I'm also in love with the Pilot Vanishing Point fountain pen that the Branded Female bought me for Christmas. Beautiful.

In fact, all this consumerism is making me feel queasy. I'm off for a walk around the city. One of the very best things to do, on any day of any year.

War of wordcraft

Hollywood and Manhattan both seem a very long way from here, but I've been following the writers' strike with interest. As a full-time writer myself for more than 20 years, I've always been irritated by the low wages and general lack of respect that my craft (and it is a craft) commands. Even marketing consultants, that strange breed of freelance opinion-givers, are able to charge higher fees than writers.

Cinema audiences tend to forget that if they've enjoyed a movie, it's due in large part to the writer. Yet it's the director who invariably gets all the media attention. The most telling thing about the writers' strike is that way that various supposed "comedians" - Jay Leno, David Letterman, Craig Ferguson, Conan O'Brien et al - are lost for words unless they have a team of writers behind them. Leno has no less than 12 writers, it transpires. I do a little stint on French TV once a week and - guess what? - I write the whole thing myself. I can barely imagine how witty I might be if I had 11 other guys writing with me. It makes me wonder what these American TV presenters actually get paid for. Pointing their suits at the camera and working their jaws, presumably.

But what the writers' strike has most effectively drummed into me is how cruelly underpaid I am. Under the original contract negotiated by the Writers' Guild, the major Hollywood movie studios must pay a minimum of US$106,000 for an original screeplay. Wanna know how much I got for my last book? It will never be that much, long tail or not. Reports also suggest that the average Hollywood writer takes home about US$200,000 a year.

Maybe I should move to Hollywood, like my friend Lisa Marks? Better still, maybe I should stop being grateful for the financial crumbs that magazine editors and advertising agencies dish out for my words and start demanding higher fees.

There's an early New Year's resolution for you.

Another clog in the machine

"Aha!" I thought today. I'm sure you've had them yourself, those "aha!" moments: and I'm not referring to the 1980s Norwegian pop combo (left). What I mean is that delightful feeling of enlightenment that washes over you when you read or watch something that either inspires you, or seems to plug directly into your thoughts.
Today's aha-mation came when I read Scott Donaton's latest article on the Advertsing Age site. In case you're too lazy to click on the link, Scott was talking about his new occasional blog, which he has termed "a clog" - a cross between a column and a blog. The clog is a medium for lazy bloggers. Or rather, for bloggers who don't see the point of posting just for the sake of it. We (for I am definitely a clogger) only post when we have something to say. The form particularly appeals to journalists, like myself, who are unused to dispensing wisdom in daily doses.
Well done to Scott for adding a new word to the media lexicon. This is Mark, clogging off.

Magazines for men: a personal history

"Esquire has unveiled its new look with the September issue, [which] makes no secret of the high earners it is targeting." Campaign magazine, 17 August 2007

I was in on the birth of British men's magazines, and they were a revelation. When I was a teenager, the only way to ogle supermodels one minute and read about the new Porsche the next was to have a copy of your mother's Elle magazine open next to a copy of the Sunday Times motoring section. That was until 1986, and the launch of Arena. Finally, here was a magazine that covered clothes, girls, cars and travel in equal measure. Not only that, but the writing was witty and polished. A British edition of GQ launched a little later, with urbane politician Michael Heseltine on the cover. (Try doing that today, when the circulation people tell you that only female flesh sells.)

Men's mags were launched from the swaggering shoulder pads of Thatcher's Eighties. They landed softly in a field of aspirational consumers. The terrain became bumpier in the 1990s, when publishers identified a new market of young, loutish yet wealthy male consumers. And so "lads' mags" like Loaded emerged, serving up street-smart wit and plenty of cleavage. Noting their humungous circulations, formerly suave titles like GQ dumbed down with them. For a while, everyone cleaned up. And then, they didn't.

The circle has been closing for some time now. The lads have grown up. They're business men or fathers, or fashionably dressed kidults with smart apartments and PlayStation addictions. Either they've abandoned magazines altogether, or they're after more challenging fare. Their younger brothers are all online. Dylan Jones, who edits British GQ (and was the first editor of Arena), recognised this some time ago, and took the magazine back upmarket. Esquire was bound to follow.

My perfect magazine would be a cross between Wired and The Economist, with a chunk of Vogue mixed in. But that's immaterial, because I read stacks of magazines. For a while now I've preferred the US edition of Esquire and the UK edition of GQ. I loved the US edition of GQ under its late editor, Art Cooper. His successor does a fine job, but it's a bit like listening to Michael Bublé instead of Sinatra.

It strikes me that men's magazines have always followed their audiences rather than leading them. I think that's something to do with the power balance between the two. If you look at the history of women's titles, their original readers were housewives who dreamed of living the unattainable lives of the editors of Vogue and Elle - people like Diana Vreeland and Carmel Snow - who seemed to exist in a perpetual Riviera cocktail party. The readers of men's magazines frequently earned more money, and had higher-powered jobs, than the people writing for them. And so the relationship has been flatter, more clubby. Women's magazines tend to talk down to their readers. Men's mags are conspiratorial. Frankly, some of them seem to be grateful that anybody reads them at all.

Laird Hamilton has it covered

 

I consume men's magazines from all over the world (well, let's not exaggerate: mainly from the UK, the US, France and Italy) and this month a French title has the others licked, cover-wise. There's an ongoing debate, particularly in the UK, about whether it's wise to put a guy on the cover of a men's general interest publication. Needless to say, the stats show that a half-naked starlet works better at newsstands. But sales of men's magazines are falling worldwide, and many publishers suggest that with the glut of flesh available on the web, there's room for a more sophisticated approach in print. The British editions of both GQ and Esquire have gone more upmarket.
So here's a magazine I judged by its cover. Although I can't surf to save my life, there's something about the outlaw lifestyle of surfers that appeals to me. Plus, the colours scream summer. And the contradictory effect of Laird Hamilton surfing in a tux resembles a scene from a Bond movie. Then you're asking yourself: "What's with the paddle?" In the end, you just can't help plucking the mag from the rack.

Vogue male

The revamped Vogue Hommes International has hit newsstands, now under the editorial leadership of French Vogue editor Carine Roitfeld. With its poppy typefaces, practical sartorial tips and androgynous models, it's clearly attempting to appeal to a broader readership while hanging on to its gay readers. The editorial balancing act is exhilarating to watch.
The best lines in the magazine come from the redoubtable Colin McDowell, who pins down the perfect male wardrobe: "A smart suit, a tweed suit, a trench coat, a tuxedo (only for those over 30), a sports jacket, a leather jacket and a well-cut pair of jeans. Add some bespoke shoes, cashmere pullovers, piles of English shirts, ties from Hermès and Charvet: that's all!"