The Ice–Cream–Man Cometh
TitE show was for Italian men's fashions: and it was held in the heart of Knightsbridge: as brave an act as holding a whist drive in the Kremlin for the Friends of Capitalism. Fashion girls, in large numbers, took down notes for un- 'acceptable Christmas presents; men, sparse but particular, looked over the ideas of Brioni and considered how to pass them on to Savile Row. Not having much feeling •for men's clothes (beyond the vague impression that, in no' income bracket, only Americans dress decently) I took along Rory McEwen to draw some pictures and an exquisitely tailored young man to cor- rect my ignorance. His name was Charles: his trouser width sixteen inches, his tailor beyond reproach. Before the show opened he had already gone on record as saying that there were no decent trousers to be had off-the-peg in Britain; I had reminded him that one-fifth of British men dress at Montague Burton's. So we knew where we stood.
The show began cautiously: quiet black-and- white dog's-tooth jackets, discreetly short rain- coats that made Charles mutter with approval. The four models—two old, two young, which is more than you'd get in a women's fashion show— stumped on, overcoming their embarrassment by ungainliness (it is odd how badly men model when you consider how vain they can be). In impeccable suit and coat ensembles, unexceptionable greys and restrained browns, they seemed, in London, to have abandoned the idea of doing as the Romans do. But after the warming-up, hot colours blazed out: emerald silk smoking jackets, plum- coloured cashmere coats, and an absolutely astonishing suede trench coat, all hung about with tabs and windbreaks and buttoning etceteras; worn with skin-tight trousers, there seemed never- theless to be some lack of pockets and the model was actually carrying a handbag.
The compere, mindful of his audience, tried hard. 'Now here's one that is conventional enough for the office,' he pleaded. 'This is quite restrained really . • . now this is very discreet.' The women tried to make intelligent remarks: 'But would it keep you warm, darling?' Men,' said Charles firmly, 'do not like to be dictated to like this. They tell their tailors what they want.' The suits had surprisingly aggressive shoulders, liellow-countryman of Lorenzo the Magnificent. oddly long pockets, and trousers a good deal wider than Charles's emaciated pantaloons : of the Italian style as we know it there was little. To us, it is a barrel on stilts—or ninepins, if you have that sort of figure. These were Y-shaped; they incorporated the puzzler-type jacket worn in the best hunting circles, but with colours more often connected with bare-back riding in a circus.
Charles delivered his verdict over the cocktails afterwards : 'If I could choose,' he said, 'I'd buy my ties and shoes in Rome, my shirts in Paris and my suits in London : except, of course, for warm- weather clothes. English tailors have no idea how to handle lightweight fabrics.'
'Actually, I don't know where you'd wear these
clothes,' said Rory McEwen (who drew these pictures), 'they seem built for a sort of ideal life Ci going in and out of hotel doors in holiday resorts. 'Oh, you could wear them in the South of France,' said Dominic Elwes gaily, 'or in Jamaica, or wherever you—er—happened to be.'
But we were in London in November; and I fear that any woman who thinks her man will abandon his baggy Sports jacket and gabardine raincoat for the peacock plumes of Brioni is living in a fool's paradise. No: he will go on rejoicing ( in his national resemblance to Anthony Eden and the Duke of Windsor—with about as much realis as a crumbling old concierge feeling all Parisienne when she thinks of Dior.
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