Branded Male

Upstairs at Lanvin

I had never set foot in the Lanvin Hommes store in Paris until last week. But I was on my way  back from a meeting near Rue Saint Honoré and feeling curious, so I dropped in. I was the classic disinterested customer: "Just looking."

Until I met Monsieur Maurice.

He is a small, pear-shaped man in perhaps his early fifties, with frazzled silver hair and smart steel-rimmed spectacles. He looks somewhat ill at ease and flustered in his slim-cut Lanvin suit and narrow tie. He approached me cautiously and hovered on my perimeter, keen to help but anxious not to impose.

"Everything looks wonderful," I said, truthfully, admiring the nonchalantly crumpled raincoats and sleek yet casual jackets. The label's designer, Lucas Ossendrijver, is generally considered to be a menswear visionary.

That was when Monsieur Maurice pounced. Before I knew it, he had a slender dark blue suit jacket on my back. Apart from the typically overlong sleeves (as far as I am concerned, most off-the-peg jackets are cut for primates), it fit beautifully. I looked trim and elegant.

"I knew it was your shape," said Monsieur Maurice, his eyes shining slightly.

Then I uttered the fateful words: "Actually, I am getting married in May."

I don't remember the journey up to the third floor, the tailoring department of Lanvin. All I know is that I found myself on a black leather sofa, sipping espresso and looking through swatches of material. Together, we picked out a Prince of Wales check. I wanted a three piece suit: I was quite insistent on that. Monsieur Maurice looked delighted.

The following day - a Saturday morning - I returned to the third floor to be measured for my suit. Monsieur Maurice was waiting for me, along with another silver haired gentleman. The floor, which is quite large and spacious, was more bustling this time. A woman who sometimes models for Jean-Paul Gaultier was there, said one of the younger staff. And also a soccer player.

I told Monsieur Maurice I didn't recognize either of them. He smiled understandingly. And for the first time I detected a faint tension between the older men who work upstairs at Lanvin and the younger, more excitable types who work on the fashionable second and ground floors.

Monsieur Maurice's colleague measured me, talking knowledgeably about vents and padding (he debated the possibility of a double vent with Maurice, who pushed for single and eventually prevailed). He noted that my right shoulder was a tad lower than my left. Nobody is perfectly symmetrical, he reassured me - and the difference is so slight that only a tailor can detect it. Once he had approved my choice of a five button waistcoat, he was done. The suit would be ready in a few weeks, but for now I was free to go.

Except. Monsieur Maurice remembered that the boutique would shortly begin a special offer on made-to-measure shirts. Perhaps he could do something for me. He disappeared downstairs like a white rabbit down a hole.

When he returned, he smiled victoriously: I would get a free shirt with my suit. It was simply a case of measuring me again.

To give me an idea of the style he counselled, Monsieur Maurice let me try on a Lanvin shirt that was more or less my size.

Of course, the sleeves were too long.

Lanvin Hommes, 15 Faubourg Saint Honoré, 75001, Paris.
Photos courtesy Lanvin. See The Sartorialist for another interview with Lucas Ossendrijver.

Parting shots

I don't part my hair: I have a longish crop that falls where it chooses. My conversation with the hairdresser rarely goes beyond the French for "a trim, please". But the other day she suggested I might try a parting, and asked me which side I wanted it on. I was surprised, because anyone looking at my hair can tell it grows vaguely to (my) left. Which means the parting would have to be on the right.

In the end we abandoned the idea, because I haven't combed my hair since about 1987 and I don't intend to start now. Shower and go, that's my philosophy. But curiosity impelled me to see what the internet had to say about hair partings and the significance thereof. And guess what I discovered? Your hair parting affects your personality. Or vice versa.

According to a May 2008 article in Fortune magazine, many successful CEOs have their hair parted on the left. That's because left brainers are dynamic types who understand arithmetic. Creative right-brained people, on the other hand, tend to part their hair on the right.

I began to wonder what would happen if I defied my own nature and parted my hair on the left. Would I become less creative, but more entrepreneurial? Would I rush out to get a job in finance (not that there are any left) and take out a loan for a BMW? Would I swap reading Russian novels for a subscription to...well, Fortune? After all, hair is influential stuff. We all know that Samson came a cropper after his locks got the chop. And as the immortal Danny says in Withnail & I: "Hair are your aerials. They pick up signals from the cosmos and transmit them directly into the brain. This is the reason bald-headed men are uptight."

To reassure myself that the "right parting equals failure" theory was utter bullshit, I looked up some of my heroes online. And, yes, Gregory Peck, Cary Grant and Steve McQueen all parted their hair on the right. 

Of course they are actors, which proves nothing. But at least it means that if I ever get an urge to part, I will be in good company.

On a Paris street: inspiring trash

I happened to have my camera with me this afternoon when I spotted this little pile of intriguing garbage. My eye was drawn by the dusty wine bottles and old travel brochures. By the time I got home, I found that it had inspired a short story. I've decided to call it Lost and Found:

After the funeral, Luc Tessier went to his father’s apartment on rue de la Tour d’Auvergne and started to clean it out. Books were stacked in cardboard boxes, clothes were bundled into black plastic sacks, decisions were made about which paintings and items of furniture would be sold.

Luc set aside the photo albums: he would take them home with him. At one point he found himself standing immobile in the salon in the grey February light, staring at his father’s passport. Frédéric Jacques Tessier, born in Paris on September the 12th 1937.

Luc’s relationship with his father had not been easy. An only child, Luc had never been forgiven for opting for a sensible job in finance rather than starving in a creative profession. His father had been a renowned theatre critic. After retiring, the veteran reviewer had turned his sarcasm and barbed wit on his son. And yet Luc came to the apartment almost every Sunday night to listen to it all, watching the level of wine slowly falling in the bottle.

Luc lit the lamps and sat at the coffee table, a little museum of objects spread out before him. They were so emblematic of his father that he was unsure what to do with them. Four empty bottles of Bordeaux – including one Luc remembered as a very good 1986 Chateau d’Yquem. The little saucepan in which the old man had boiled water for coffee every morning. A newspaper article about the singer Yves Duteil. And a handful of bright travel brochures from the 1960s. Tessier senior had often referred obliquely to his travels in Italy, which appeared to have been a lifelong source of inspiration. Later, though, he had taken his vacations in France – preferably in wine country.

Luc often wondered why his father had never returned to Italy. Were some of the memories painful? Had he known someone there – a woman?

The final item was a scrawled quote – barely legible – from the book The End of Certainty, by Ilya Prigogine. The chemist and philosopher had been a strong opponent of determinism: the idea that the future was as solid and unmoving as the past. Prigogine felt that the unpredictability of nature disproved this theory. Luc’s father, with his deep pragmatism, had embraced the idea that life was entirely random. Nothing was written. There was no justice, kindness or cruelty. There were just occurrences.

After a while, Luc tipped the items into a plastic sack and placed it beside the others. One by one, he took them downstairs, where the refuse truck would collect them in the morning.

When he got home, he kissed his wife on the cheek and reassured her that the experience had not been so bad. Then he went to his study and sat down at the computer. He booked a flight to Venice, followed by a train to Florence. It was the most impulsive thing he had done in years.

Over supper, he told Elise that he was taking a trip.

“Why?” she asked him, in a surprised tone.

He took a sip of red wine, unsure what to say. Finally he answered: “I’m going to look for my father.”

Dressing on a shoestring

I've been wondering how one should dress for the recession. According to the recent men's shows in Milan and Paris, we should all be wearing suits - which seems odd, considering that many of us will no longer have jobs. Surely casual wear would be more appropriate?

I predict a backlash next season. Everything will be loose, crumpled and faintly rebellious, with a sportswear twist. Maybe that's why Lanvin was one of the few collections that looked relevant, with its nonchalant ease and immaculate sneakers. It's a shame none of us will be able to afford the clothes.

Where else can we look for examples of recession chic? It always pays to take inspiration from the past, so we should probably examine the Depression - the 1930s original, of which today's blip is a pale reflection. Sure, there were a few suits around. Fred Astaire even went so far as to don a top hat, white tie and tails in the movie Top Hat (1935) - but he was starring in a frothy escapist musical that had not even the slightest sliver of a connection with reality.

No, when I picture Depression-era menswear, I imagine hard-wearing boots, baggy pinstriped trousers with braces, collarless shirts, and caps. Or maybe waistcoats and shirts with the sleeves rolled up, because your cuffinks have been pawned. And there's a dustbowl version centering on denim dungarees and chambray shirts. All in all, it's Oh Brother, Where Art Thou? meets The Waltons (above).

Another recession occurred in 1970s Britain, so that might get you thinking about punk. Again, it's time to get the boots out - this time accessorised with tartan trousers, red biker jackets and plenty of safety pins.

That's not an option when you're over 35, so I prefer to remember my favourite late 70s private eye, Shoestring. Actually, Eddie Shoestring (below) called himself a 'private ear'. A former computer programmer, he'd had a nervous breakdown and washed up at a small radio station in Bristol, where he hosted a late night call-in show for other lost souls.

With mid-length hair and a wispy moustache, Eddie wore crumpled tweed jackets, skinny ties clinging to an open collar, corduroy trousers and deck shoes, here ill-advisedly teamed with white socks. He drove a clapped-out Cortina. But he retained a certain melancholy charm.

That's the spirit. My key words for recession dressing will be "melancholy charm".

Clouseau and the art of clumsiness

One of my Christmas gifts was The Pink Panther. Not the lamentable Steve Martin remake, but the original 1963 movie. The sparkling crime caper is notable for its Henri Mancini soundtrack and starry cast: David Niven, Claudia Cardinale, Robert Wagner, the model Capucine and, above all, the inimitable Peter Sellers.

Sellers brings a touch of genius to the role of Inspector Clouseau, the hapless detective. More than just performing a slapstick routine, he captures the psychology of clumsiness. I was a clumsy teenager, too busy daydreaming to concentrate on what I was doing, with the result that I was forever spilling or breaking things. The awkward phase passed, but I still have my moments.

That's what makes Clouseau such a lovable character. Although we'd all like to resemble the suave jewel thief played by Niven, in our hearts we know that we are more like Clouseau: vain, egocentric and totally lacking in self-awareness. And klutzy.

There's a little gesture Clouseau makes that gets right to the heart of what it is to be an oaf. When he accidentally pulls off a door knob or steps on an antique violin, he gives an irritable little huff and a twitch of exasperation. Clouseau is trying to do the right thing. But deep down he knows that the universe is ranged against him. Inanimate objects have got it in for him, and there's nothing he can do to change his appalling fate.

For me, that's what separates Sellers from, say, Jerry Lewis. He is not a clown. It's also why, in the films of the silent era, I appreciate Harold Lloyd. Things befall Lloyd. And yet he manages to remain upbeat, collected, even elegant. With his black leather gloves, trench coat and tweed hat, Clouseau too retains a certain Parisian chic. He makes clumsiness seem almost heroic.

Life on the B-side

This is not a post about the return of vinyl, although I am considering raiding my parents' garage to recover my old albums. In fact it was inspired by a passage in a book called The Nature of Marketing, by Chuck Brymer. He's the CEO of the ad agency DDB in New York. While I won't dwell on the details, the book is about digital communities. Apparently their behavior resembles swarms of bees, or flocks of birds, or shoals of fishes. If you feel like one of the flamingos in the flying sequence of Out of Africa, Brymer is talking about you.

Along the way, he mentions a campaign that the agency ran for Brazilian brand Brastemp, which makes stolid domestic appliances like refrigerators and washing machines. The agency wanted to create "an emotional connection" with the brand. Its research uncovered the nifty Brazilian concept of the "B-side", which of course refers to the B-side of a record. In Brazil, the B-side is a metaphor for all that's spontaneous, alternative, refreshing and authentic.

"This attitude then became a design philosophy for Brastemp, with products emphasizing the B-side of life (such as) refrigerators that dispensed cans and frosted glasses for party lovers..."

I sat up when I read this. I love the concept. The A-side of life covers all the things that are obligatory and predictable: work, exercise, food shopping, cleaning the house...Not all of these things are entirely devoid of pleasure, but they are somehow forced on one. The B-side is the unexpected, the hedonistic, the purely pleasurable: a posh restaurant mid-week, a day on the beach, drinks with friends, an afternoon movie, a random art gallery, a day off, a last-minute weekend break...or, indeed, a new music track.

I don't normally make New Year's resolutions, but here's one that should be reasonably easy to stick to. More of 2009 will be spent playing the other side of the record.

I wish you a Happy New Year. And a lot more B-sides. 

Largo Winch and the school of Action Française

One of the big hits of the holiday season here in Paris is a movie called Largo Winch, based on a popular comic strip (or bande dessinée). For those of you who aren't familiar with Largo, he's a young adventurer who inherits a colossal fortune when his business tycoon father dies. Trouble is, Largo's adopted (his name is Croatian), so he has to battle assorted crooks and scoundrels to take his rightful place at the head of the Winch Corporation.

So much for the plot. The film, directed by Jérôme Salle, is an old-fashioned delight: a mixture of Dumas intrigue (there are several references to The Count of Monte Cristo), 1970s telly (think The Persuaders) and a 1980s Luc Besson romp. The locations in Hong Kong, Croatia and Sicily are suitably sumptuous and there are are plenty of beautiful women, notably a Bardo-esque Melanie Thierry. All in all, it's far better than the brutal and leaden Quantum of Solace.

The French don't make action movies very often; but when they do, the result can be a cut above standard Hollywood potboilers. A couple of years ago, Jérôme Salle made the equally enjoyable Anthony Zimmer, which combined the Côte d'Azur and a divinely dangerous Sophie Marceau to deliver a stylish homage to Hitch. It had a light, self-deprecating touch that I can only describe as chic.

But Luc Besson was my way in to French action. Back in the 1980s and early 1990s, Besson had me hooked with a string of films that fueled my attraction to France. First there was Subway (1985), with a shock-haired Christophe Lambert (below) discovering a hidden world as he plunges into the entrails of the metro system to escape mysterious pursuers. Why they are pursuing him is never fully explained, but they have something to do with Isabelle Adjani, whose safe he cracked earlier in the story.

Later came Nikita (1990), about a junkie who kills a cop and is forced to choose between life imprisonment or a training program that will turn her into a top government assassin. Guess what she decides? The plot is clearly ridiculous, but solid acting from Anne Parillaud and the wonderful Tchéky Karyo (as Nikita's boss, Uncle Bob) give the movie a psychological depth that make the characters almost believable.

Completing this little trilogy is Léon (1994), with Jean Reno reprising his role as a renegade hit man ("The Cleaner") from the earlier movie, while trying not to stare at Natalie Portman in mini Lolita mode. Only the French could get away with a scenario as iffy as this. The film is the least subtle of the three and paves the way for the hubris of The Fifth Element.

 

Rewinding a bit, another gem of French cinema is Diva (1981), directed by Jean-Jacques Beineix. This one involves a statuesque opera singer, the young motorcycle courier who is obsessed with her, and lots of chasing around after a pirate recording of one of her performances. The courier is aided by a bizarre freelance operator named Serge (Richard Bohringer), who mutters sagely about the zen of cooking and lives in a loft with a nubile Asian teen. Plus there's an exciting chase on moped and foot through the metro. You may have noticed a pattern emerging here.

For me, Largo Winch clearly has a place - if only a minor one - in the school of Action Française. And Jérôme Salle is a worthy successor to Luc Besson as that school's principal.

Christmas spirits

One of the treats I picked up for myself while buying Christmas books for friends and family this weekend was Everyday Drinking, a little compendium of articles about booze by the late Kingsley Amis.

Talented novelist, enthusiastic womanizer and jovial tippler (as well as father of the somewhat less jovial Martin), Amis had all the qualities I require of an icon. He even had a Bond fixation, and wrote a novel about everyone's favourite spy under the pen name Robert Markham. (It's called Colonel Sun and is not half bad.)

Everyday Drinking is a useful antidote to our increasingly health-conscious world, because it is wholly unrepentant about the pleasures of consuming alcohol. Amis clearly sees drinking as a natural, sociable and entirely acceptable pursuit, although the book does include a chapter on hangovers. This suggests that hangovers combine two elements: the physical (headache, nausea, dehydration) and the metaphysical (guilt, shame, paranoia).

Perhaps what makes the rest of the book so shameless is the fact that it is slightly out of date. It has a late 70s "mine's a Cinzano and she'll have a Babycham" feel about it that adds to its charm while keeping the reader at a distance. This may also explain Amis's somewhat baffling approach to cocktails. For example, in lieu of an olive or a twist in his dry martini, he insists on two of those pallid and disgusting cocktail onions, which have surely been banned since. And in an even more off-putting moment, he suggests adding "cucumber juice" to the mix; perhaps - God help us - floating a slice of cucumber on top of the resulting concoction.

Still, most of the rest of the book is a laugh-out-loud series of observations about drink and drinking folk. By the way, Amis has found the ideal way of drawing attention to the fact that the host at a party is being a bit mean with the wine. You simply drop your glass on the floor and say: "Oh dear. Lucky it was empty."

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.

Bring back the bowler

The other night I dreamed that I was searching for a missing bowler hat. I have never possessed such an item, so I don't know what the dream signified. All I know was that the hat was rather stylish - in charcoal grey - and that I looked good in it. I'm pretty sure that wouldn't be the case in reality.

The humble bowler is currently so unfashionable that - like the polka dot bow tie - wearing one would be a radical statement. Which means that it's likely to come back into favour at any moment. The cast of the new film The Brothers Bloom might give the bowler rebirth a nudge. Although they don't all wear bowlers, they have the correct bowler-wearing attitude: dapper and slightly eccentric.

There's something humorous about a bowler, which is perhaps why it's quintessentially British. It was, of course, designed by Brits: London hatmakers Thomas & William Bowler, to be precise. It was designed to protect gamekeepers' heads against low-hanging branches. Before that they wore top hats, which kept getting knocked off. Onlookers would then burst out laughing, which offended the gruff gamekeepers' sensibilities.

Bowlers soon become the acceptable headgear of the middle classes: not as snooty as a top hat and not as casual as a flat cap. Smart yet indestructible, they were adopted by butlers and City gents. In America they were known as "derbies", after Edward Smith-Stanley, 12th Earl of Derby and founder of the Epsom Derby horse race. (That may be the connection, because I was born in Epsom. How Freudian.)

The Surrealists - especially Magritte - were quick to alight on the paradoxical nature of the bowler, which is both anonymous and subversive. It has occupied a significant place in popular culture ever since. In the sixties, the actor Patrick MacNee wore bowlers to rakish effect as the super spy John Steed in the cult series The Avengers (left), which also had surreal undertones. 

More recently, Pierce Brosnan looked dashing in a bowler in the climactic sequence of The Thomas Crown Affair, one of the few remakes that doesn't insult the original. The Parisian fashion designer Sonia Rykiel often includes a bowler in her catwalk shows. And last season she (or rather her daughter, Nathalie, who is now the brand's designer) sent out a whole parade of bowlers.

In fact, now I think about it, bowlers look even better on girls.