A Scye Is Just a Scye

By Jay Cocks

It may be that most of the clothes men wear around the Western regions of the planet are derived from sport or warfare. If that is so--and G. Bruce Boyer, a "private and corporate image consultant," believes it is--then there are rules to be obeyed. Mainstream men's fashion is the business of defining those rules, marketing them and playing subtle little games with them. In the boardroom or the law office, such rules are not flouted, never mind broken. They are nudged gently. The fold of a handkerchief in the breast pocket of a suit jacket, the width of a stripe on a shirt, a print on a pair of bright suspenders: these are the permissible talismans of individuality. Pitiful.

How about a show of hands? Is there any man, freed from the constraints of social and business dress, who would willingly put on a tie? And what about suit jackets, or even blazers? Is there anyone, given the choice and enough pocket space elsewhere, who would not surrender the weight of a worsted for the ease of a cardigan sweater? Where are those hands?

Well, to be honest, there are a few, and some of them have been busy writing books on the subject of male plumage. Boyer has the best one, called, simply, Elegance (Norton; 279 pages; $18.95). But there are also Alan Flusser's Clothes and the Man (Villard Books; 210 pages; $29.95), a volume so smoothly designed it should come with its own hanger; Personal Style by James Wagenvoord (Holt, Rinehart & Winston; 222 pages; $16.95), which means to clue in all interested fellas not only about fashion but about many allied matters, from polishing glasses for a formal meal to packing a suitcase for a quick trip; and Man at His Best by the editors of Esquire magazine (Addison-Wesley; 262 pages; $24.95), which features fashion layouts and hot styling tips inspired by Esquire's own glossy pages. This fastidious little boomlet in male-fashion authority has been encouraged by Esquire and GQ, which cuts made-to-order features for the yupscale market. The inspiration could in part be a White House incumbent, whose folksy nattiness is a considerable part of his charm, but men's clothing is a thriving business. Anyone who is skeptical about this should consult the Ralph Lauren or Giorgio Armani corporate balance sheets or visit the men's floor of any large department store on a Saturday afternoon.

"Inasmuch as clothing is still the most obvious sign of one's identity," writes Boyer, "a man should dress in accordance with his profession and standing in the community." Translation: don't fool around, and dress for what is expected of you. This combination of business strategy and social stratification has been the guiding principle of men's fashion throughout this century and has resulted in the sort of conformist panache that is essentially militarist. Women wear clothes, but men have uniforms. Suits for business, tuxes for dress, sport coats and English hunting jackets for weekends.

Any fiddling with the form is greeted with skepticism. Boyer speaks of "the sartorially regrettable 1960s," and Flusser's prose, wobbly at best ("unlike in England, where striped suits are commonplace ..."), goes into nervous collapse at the very mention of the decade. Flusser wants men to stick to a half-century-old notion of tailored splendor, personified by the likes of Cary Grant, Fred Astaire and the Duke of Windsor--all pictured in Clothes and the Man--and exemplified by a range of softly draped clothing, much of it designed by Flusser and also pictured here, frequently.

If Flusser's book is essentially a catalog of self-promotion cloaked as a sartorial guide, it could also serve as a reference text for the minutiae of men's tailoring. "I, for one, loathe conformity," he announces, before setting down the boundaries of permissible audacity. A tie may be anywhere from 52 to 58 inches long. Ties are ideally 3 1/4 inches wide, but those from 2 3/4 to 3 1/2 inches are also "acceptable." There are seven collar styles that pass dress-shirt muster; 6 inches of shirt should hang below the waist; and the monogram--if there is one at all--should be rendered with 1/4 inch letters placed 5 or 6 inches above the waist. Jacket lapels should be 3 1/2 inches wide, and there should be half an inch of shirt collar showing, along with the same amount of cuff at the sleeve. Do not buy clothes made of anything but natural fabrics. Italian shoes are "totally inappropriate to the American style of dress."

Boyer is a lot more easygoing. He knows his scyes (armholes) and his besom (stitched folds) pockets, but he cares little for dogma. He does not fuss about which collar style may be appropriate to a man's face (most, he suggests, are good for all). He provides some lustrous little essays on royal dandies, polyester, loafers and the making of Harris Tweed, which is still turned out by hand, in the Outer Hebrides. The weavers have resisted most new technology, he reports, although they have given up their time-honored method of preparing the yarn for dyeing. Chemicals have replaced urine as the preparation of choice.

By the measure of all these books, there is not a lot of choice involved in what a man may wear. That may be because the authors and compilers are all looking in the wrong place. Some of today's snazziest male dressers are architects, singers, artists, actors. While Flusser is flashing his stills of Adolphe Menjou, David Byrne is looking great--and different--in an Issey Miyake jacket. This kind of action gets by books like these, partly because most of them are written for readers with a shaky grip on individuality, by authorities who are probably spending too little time on the street and too much in front of the mirror. --By Jay Cocks