McBessed

   Danielle Meder invited me on Thursday to attend an art exhibition launch within the East Bowel of London with her; specifically the Robert Crumb-esque cheek and Golden Age of Animation-stylings of French illustrator McBess, which is presented under the title The Folding Knife and housed at hip young person's - and, as it turned out, hip young family - venue, The Book Club

This August, highly regarded French illustrator, McBess (aka Matthieu Bessudo) will be exhibiting previously unseen canvas work, prints and 3D objects at The Book Club. His fascinatingly intricate work provides snapshots of his own experiences and is a contemplative diary of illustrative creations. The Folding Knife contemplates both current and childhood memories from which the title of the exhibition was born. A folding knife was a childhood keepsake of Matthieu’s and also reflects the detailed nature of his work. Don’t Panic commented on McBess ‘he’s so wonderfully French that he can make what would otherwise be freaky cartoon porn seem lovely and whimsical’.

A collection of his art from the last three years will be published this July by Nobrow and The Book Club will be lucky enough to have the original cover design adorning the walls. Having shown previously at galleries across the globe such as Issue in Paris and Nucleus in LA as well as having his art on the cover of Design Week this month, this French gentleman certainly has an exciting buzz around him.

   Whilst the venue cleverly stiffed Danielle on her previously advertised complimentary drink by way of a vital and missing horseshoe stamp - not too Draconian to require approval for a freebie on opening night, I'm sure - I found time to be photographed in my current heatwave mode and stood in front of a McBess piece for The Book Club's Flickr page:

   Being introduced to the work of McBess for the first time, I found some of his tics redolent of other latter-day illustrators of a cartoonish, surrealist bent such as Kaws and Pete Fowler; always crafting worlds of humour, fantasy and neuroses in a way that suggests persistent trouble from waking dreams (which would not be so unusual to me - these clearly explain much of the work and unique humour of self-confessed sufferer Joe Kelly, co-creator of Ben 10 and Marvel/DC stalwart). Fun and gifted, he certainly is, but one suspects McBess, with his penchant for isometric layouts (which he shares in common with the talented and engaging pixel fiends, eBoy), music sideline and memorable creativity, is one hipster touchstone away from licensing collectible vinyl figurines made in his image(s). I am therefore unsurprised that Kidrobot already made an overture towards him; six years ago, I would likely have been first in line:

Dunny and Mega Munny figures by McBess, seen in the second photograph

'Gurato' 

'The Perfect Saturday Afternoon' 

'The Desk (My Desk)'

  We had a decent perusal (at least when we were able to avoid the throng), an amusing moment involving those curvy hairpins that, according to a young fellow on a date that we encountered, are never far from a woman's head (including Danielle's) and it did indeed pique my interest to revisit it at a more opportune time. But in truth, this was all a prelude to our flight to Dalston an hour later to squeeze ourselves through two over packed dancefloors and indulge ourselves in the company of topless, dancing lesbians

   The Folding Knife will conclude on the 18th September, 2011

'Sybyl'

White Suit Addendum

Here's one I missed from my favourites: fashion designer Christopher McDonnell, as featured in The Telegraph Magazine in 1973, via Flickr. It strikes me that the magazine seemed to attract more cream-of-the-crop fashion coverage and photography than did its closest competitors, judging by the references I've seen in recent tomes like the indispensable Day of the Peacock, published this year by the V&A

McDonnell's ensemble is extremely well considered, dynamically cut and well-fitting. His judiciousness is particularly borne out by the thinking man's approach to boldly printed neckties - leave much of it to the imagination - and he crowns this by balancing this bombast with the ready-made ostentation of the suit, achieving this through the complementary hue of the shirt

I'd replicate this outfit in a heartbeat. I'd certainly appreciate the model

Not Only For Southern Boys

   I want a white suit

  Yes, that's correct. I want to look like a plantation owner. Actually, I want to own a plantation. That's exactly why I want a white suit. My superiority complex must be indulged in the face of racial sensitivity, the stares of children and dry cleaning bills

   Speaking of children, for a great many of us growing up in Britain of the 1980s and early 1990s, this venerable institution below was our initiation into the intractable allure that a white suit holds. I write of course, of The Man From Del Monte, a tastemaker so prepotent that he could even subjugate Doctor Who 's definitive leading man into performing his narration:



   Of course, I'm quite willing to settle for off white or that light shade of beige that old people favour for upholstery

   Now, I've thought about styling one in a variety of forms. I've even considered ensembles in a Tony Montana or Miami Vice-like vein; utterly germane when matching the large quantities of Bolivian Marching Powder that line one's drawing room. And therein lies a decent line of approach - pastel shirting is an easy gateway to the fun of sporting white suiting - The King of Pop, for one, wrung an enduring image out of royal blue silk and barely-noticeable pinstripes. I do, however, recommend practically any colour other than darker purple - it's a touch too hard on the eyes, really:

Frankly, Mr. Jagger, this is not one of my favourites. But then, Mr. Watts has been consistently putting you to shame since the 1970s hit their middle period

   Nevertheless, Jagger has hit on another interesting aspect - bold shirts and white suits do not necessarily require neckwear; the tropical mode the look connotes makes for a particularly dégagé air; nothing speaks of summer's bright delights like a shirt that brings to mind the concentrated colouring of a particularly punchy cocktail. It's the dressing incarnation of optimism

   If one is particularly insensible or talented, a print shirt, worn in the Tynan fashion, is a step in a similar direction, and these are widely available, from H&M and Topman to Holliday & Brown, Gucci and Prada. The neckwear possibilities for these are a little looser than their pastel cousins - where the latter works best with plain or subtly patterned neckties and bow ties in both contrasting and similar shades, the former allows one to fool around with clashing prints or adventurous textures like raised ribbing and dupioni (both types may also support a neckscarf, where bravery permits). Worn at a function, it's an aesthetic that suggests one has brought all of the fun pills to the party. In the best potential interpretation of that hypothesis, of course

   So, how about a fellow who dons them habitually? Someone who did not earn the word "iconic" by making himself unavoidable via Jersey Shore, perhaps. A fellow who has been renowned for almost 40 years, who has designed garments of exquisite grace and idiosyncrasy, who challenges the Beastie Boys' Mike D for the sobriquet, "Man of Leather"

   Behold, The Last Emperor himself, Valentino Garavani:

   In contrast to rock'n'roll theatricality and dandyish offhandedness, Signor Garavani hews to the side of propriety and age-appropriate formality through simple, sedate accessorising to go with his uniquely Continental manner of quiet authority. Soporific to write about this may be, but for some, the mere act of donning a white suit is a statement in itself. Indeed, this approach makes the suit particularly safe for the city, whereas the playful version has a wider, wilder adaptability. Do not ever let it be said that I cannot cater for more conservative approaches

   Seemingly every neo-haberdashery, designer shop and department store proffer white suits each spring and summer, be it Banana Republic, Hackett, Zara or Ralph Lauren. The choice is very much the preserve of the buyer; my tastes are fairly easygoing and also dependent on fabrics,with one or two caveats - some enticing takes by Tom Ford in his Gucci days aside, I would preferably wear a double breasted version if it were silk. And in the discussion of linen vs. cotton, I'm with cotton - with less of a propensity to wrinkle heavily, it tends to suit three buttons and three pieces more neatly

   Did I mention that they go very well with Panama hats? In this case, I do recommend any hatband colour for one's straw, as long as it is not black

   Here are my three favourite white/light suit examples:

Barry Sainsbury, former director of the iconic Mr. Fish design boutique, in a summer ensemble complete with Fish's signature same fabric shirt and tie

James Salter, novelist and writer, posing for Jill Krementz. Imagine, if you will, that his shirt is either a leafy green, a rich tan or a pale orange and it still would tastefully complement his paradoxically stern yet relaxed demeanour

Speaking of the 1990s, being a Britisher, my first introduction to the American basketball legend Walt 'Clyde' Frazier came from a line in 1992's Beastie Boys song, 'Pass The Mic.' Here, he models a combination that, due to the red shirt and the high contrast, is potentially overpowering on much lighter complexions. The off white colouring is certainly a wiser choice over the purer shade; it prevents Mr. Frazier from resembling a European flag, for one thing


Those who would not chance a pair of correspondent shoes can still rely on stalwart footwear accoutrements in brown, black, tan and blue (thought those two may be best in suede) and oxblood. We cannot all be Clydes

   If a summer stand-out is required, backless chaps and string vests aside, I can think of few better aesthetic responses to the brilliance that this season brings. As long as one doesn't rub up against any surfaces

"You thought that was Jerry Lewis?"

   What a treat it was to watch the Steve Buscemi written, directed and lead Trees Lounge (1996) once more on BBC Two last night; a throwback to the teenage times when that channel and Channel 4 were my leading outlets for independent and global cinema. It's no mean feat making an inveterate screw-up into a compelling screen character, but by God does Mr. Buscemi bring a particular wit and élan to this superficially sleepy small-town universe and its cornucopia of characters who move through it by ignoring or reacting against as many of their burdens as possible. And whilst this is an illicit admission in the context of the story, Chloë Sevigny has rarely been more fetching

   Indeed, what is more topical in these recession days of 2011 than the daily grind of a drink sodden, unemployed life? Idle hands, people, idle hands

Leather Lust Object No.10 - Chomping at the Bit

A closer look at the Alan McAfee for Neiman Marcus vintage snaffle bit slip-ons I wore in my recent homage ensemble

The first time I ever wore these, I went out dancing until 3am. I think one can see why:

Similarly, it may come as no surprise that in its heyday, Alan McAfee took bespoke commissions for Fred Astaire, amongst a great many other of the well heeled. An example is retained in the currently dormant fashion collection at The Victoria and Albert Museum. The company,which began in the 19th century,  had an extensive history, as the forvms explain:

In an earlier era, Alan McAfee based its bespoke operation in Dover Street, London, with the ready-to-wear models sold in the US made by Church's and other manufacturers. At one time Church sold relabeled Church shoes as McAfee in cities with competitive retail accounts. The first account would have Church, the second would stock McAfee. Thus, in San Francisco Cable Car Clothiers stocked one brand and Bullock & Jones might stock the same shoe with the other brand. I forget which had which. The dovetail toplift (heel bottom) insert is generically known as a "McAfee Heel" regardless of shoe brand. McAfee later, in the US anyway, used a label that had "London, Paris, New York" without the polo player logo.

McAfee floundered in the late 1980s and tried to raise its profile with Oliver Sweeney as a design director in the early 1990s or so. It didn't save the firm from failing and being bought out by Church's. Church's then used the name on a line of shoes apparently made by Cheaney.

My pair, being made for the American market, is most certainly not made in London. That doesn't take away from how enjoyable they are to own, give or take the adjustment to my protuberances this pair requires

Now, my other pair of McAfees, going by the mod styling and interior logo, are from the London operation. But that is an entry for another day

Chappist

   I suppose it is time for me to explain why there is a reference to Tootal-and-tweed enthusiast Gustav Temple's recently released tome, Am I A Chap?, in my tiny ego-stroking sidebar of print media appearances. This won't take long, I assure you; I'm only offering a slight distraction from what you and your right hand are really visiting the interweb for

Am I A Chap? by Gustav Temple is published by Beautiful Books. This comprehensive tome seeks to classify every species and sub-species of the English gentleman that one may observe throughout the seasons, from the flamboyant young fop to the crusty old duffer. Looking at the origins of the "Chap" genus, in figures such as Edward VII and Ian Carmichael, and their caddish counterparts such as Terry-Thomas and Bunny Roger, the book takes us up to the present day with comtemporary types such as the Bohemian Chap and the Hip Chap.

The book looks at established chaps such as Beau Brummell, Max Beerbohm, Edward VIII, and Cary Grant; deceased dandies such as the Comte de Montesquiou and Fred Astaire; contemporary chaps, such as the Gentleman Explorer, the Libertine, the Old Codger, the Country Squire, the Bohemian Chap, the City Gent. It takes a look at the finer details of clothing, from the Cravat to the Brogue, via the Hacking jacket, the Umbrella, the Walking cane, the Fair Isle sweater, Pyjamas, the Blazer, Spats and, of course, the Panama. There are tips on where to find them, where they tend to gather, and the emporia worldwide whither Chaps progress in order to equip themselves. Laced with delicate humour and a wry wit, this is an indispensable handbook for the coat pocket of every enthusiastic chap-spotter all over the world.

   Sensing the beginnings of a possible kinship, Guy Hills of Dashing Tweeds arranged for Gustav Temple and I to meet in Soho during the autumn of 2009, which, as some semi-regular readers may be aware, lead to a two page spread in The Chap magazine's anniversary issue that, in authentic Mode Parade fashion, passed utterly by the issue's purchasers with the sort of soft impression that is the normal preserve of a dull night for two in the bedroom. Somehow, this still more or less left me spent

   Funnily enough, Gustav was not yet finished with me

   Which is as good a moment as any to disclose that some days, I do wonder why. Perhaps it is because I have something in common with him that is beyond even some of his most faithful myrmidons - I'm not afraid to use a smartphone

   Despite the fact that our personal modes are literally decades apart in affections and affectations, I think Gustav particularly liked my teenage sartorial step-up manifesto - as published two years ago in Men's Flair - and all round ostentation - the late Sebastian Horsley being a frequent contributor - so he kept me in mind for the book, which is an engaging expansion of The Chap's ethos and the occasionally impeccable, oft emetic efforts that appear in the magazine's 'Am I Chap?' section, the title of which, incidentally, precedes that diverting French Connection advertising campaign. I quite enjoyed it, particularly for the continued excoriations of the pseudonymous luvvies and satirists that send in their photographs, as well as the coverage of heroes such as David Niven, whose second memoir, Bring on the Empty Horses, is a current read of mine, and Tommy Nutter. And I have purchased my own copy, so these compliments have nothing in the way of endorsements. It's an especially adorable buy, being of a similar size to my myriad Ladybird-published children's story books; the little ones always tie a personal library together. The magazine also has one particularly sterling asset to offer at present: the writing of Robert Chilcott, whose adroit stylistics and depth of knowledge make the film reviews section an interesting and edifying experience

   As I was "globetrotting" accidentally last year, Gustav chose to place my feature in the book's 'Foreign Dandies' section. I hope the PC Police do not take offence on my behalf, as I assure you, I have never lived for as much fun as I do for the moments in my day where I get to proudly defeat members of the BNP using only my UK passport as a melee weapon

   Though next time, I can always use my copy of the book instead

Trigère’s Grace

 Via Vegas Laveau Vintage on Flickr

''Fashion is what people tell you to wear. Style is what comes from your own inner thing.''

  Thus spake Pauline Trigère (1908 - 2002), grande dame de la mode:



   Possessor of intrinsic fashion talent:



   And bouillabaisse connoisseur cum stove saleswoman:

(Of note for the the first video: Ms. Trigère was also known for having said, “When you’re feeling blue, wear red”)

   Of course, her meteoric rise from French birth to American success began with all the right ingredients: progeny of a tailor and a seamstress, a close escape from the Nazi regime (continued survival is the best sort of insurance for future success, I feel) thanks to her husband that she described with signature brevity (“Hitler — need I say more?”), leading to her New York incarnation as divorced single mother turned arbiter of feminine glamour. Also of note; she was, in 1961, first of the famous designers to utilise an African-American model to walk for her and also had a proclivity to take to the runway and discuss each of her designs as it was sent down. Rare is the catwalk that actually finds a micro-managing aesthete delivering real-time analyses. Perhaps such a technique could be employed to liven up Bloomberg

The preceding from Trigère's Autumn/Winter 1972 presentation, via WWD

Trigère's thrice deployed rhinestone bra, as first introduced in 1967

   Semi-regular readers may be aware that I've a fondness for the outspoken. And it's satiating to know that if there's one thing Pauline Trigère was not fond of, it was being reserved. Here are some highlights from the obituary:

On occasion a prima donna, a description she never challenged (she once told an assistant ''There is room for only one prima donna around here, and that's me''), she was often impatient. But her displays of temper were brief. She admitted that she was outspoken to a fault, but seemed to revel in that image. A woman meeting her at a social event once gushed, ''Oh, Miss Trigère, I have a dress of yours that I've worn for 25 years.'' The designer fixed her with an icy glance and said, ''Just what am I to do with that piece of information?''

Once, when she was approached by two retailers while dining in a restaurant after one of her shows, she asked them, ''Did you come to copy or to buy?''

   Of course, when one is an innovator (she lays claim to introducing the jumpsuit to the wardrobes of many a woman), I suppose that there is a degree of latitude with which to be offhand, forceful and yet measured with it. Take Trigère's personal mode. Its basal approach was rooted in professional, expensive-looking dresses and suits, whose severity or simplicity could be offset or upended by a forceful colour choice or a print shirt; habitually, she accessorised carefully and tastefully with jewellery, adding the intelligent touch of signature eyeframes. For the big finish, she utilised a factor that only a handful possess anyway: great poise

   I am no costume historian, but even I find much to appreciate about her work. Collectors from the four billion corners of the internet rhapsodise about her garments and the applications of her taste, and it must be said that the archive photography bears that out. Of particular interest is the lineage of tailoring that remained discernible in the pleats, drape and forms of her creations, bearing out her long-nurtured passion and her training:

   For all the success that Trigère's product enjoyed, I actually think it for the best if the house never revives. Some things need to be unearthed and admired for how intrinsically driven they were by a singular personality, particular one such as Pauline's, with her fondness for elegance, yoga and turtles - the sort of idiosyncrasies that make legends out of fashionable people. Besides, as one who got to do it her way for so long, I would hazard that where the clothes bearing her name are concerned, as it was in the beginning, it should always remain Pauline's path to tread

Psych Couture Deux

Nigel Waymouth, a leader of fashion, poses in front of his infamous shop   

   Granny Takes a Trip, founded by Nigel Waymouth, Sheila Cohen and John Pearse, remains one of the most indelibly memorable of the boutique clothing operations that characterised the mod and psychedelic eras, hewing more to the latter aesthetic, as if one cannot tell by its naughty name 

   The link above directs to The Look's more involving article on this trailblazing concern and its myriad shopfronts. The video is an excerpt from the BBC's excellent 2008 documentary series on this country's protean 20th- 21st century fashions, British Style Genius:

   The ever so taciturn Mr. John Pearse (not to be confused with the late folk guitarist), who trained at Hawes & Curtis when it was still a bastion of impeccable quality, still operates today in Soho's Meard Street, roughly opposite the former home of deceased (and occasionally diseased) London-based sybarite Sebastian Horsley, one of his numerous clients. In addition to conservative-but-clever outfitting, his past is oft evoked in the bright suiting, print-or-patchwork shirting and the odd hand-painted kipper tie in raw silk, whilst even his most sober stuff bears a characteristically colourful melton underneath the coat collar. GQ US's Style Guy, Glenn O'Brien, is just one of his faithful patrons

Glenn O'Brien sports his John Pearse blackwatch tartan raincoat over an old Anderson & Sheppard suit, a Charvet shirt and a Dries Van Noten necktie

Vintage Granny, via Child of the Moon 

John Pearse bespoke tapestry jacket inspired by a William Morris print ordered from Granny Takes a Trip and worn by Ossie Clark. Orange cashmere bespoke peacoat tailored by Richard Anderson. All via James Sherwood

The Alex Wilson Portrait Shoot, Part One

  
   It's a touch distracting  - but also pleasing - to recall that I first met Alex Wilson 20 years ago, but our recent reunion brought some lost time between us into focus. And if this entry's title was not enlightening enough, that tasteless unintentional pun should reference clearly that Alex is now a professional photographer, in whose current project I was more than pleased to participate. The call for subjects has been free and open; my friend Danielle Meder of Final Fashion has also answered it, resulting in more of Alex's signature striking imagery, illuminating as he does, the nuances of his subjects in every portrait that he crafts

These two were taken using Alex's Canon 1Ds Mk II:

And this shot is good old fashioned 10x8 film:

As taken with this wondrous contraption:

Fun fact for the details fiends - I am wearing a Sulka silk bow tie with a moiré pattern, which is most evident in photograph no.2. As I wrote before, the nuances always benefit from a little illumination

All photographs are the copyright of Alex Wilson: http://awilsonphotographic.com/

Smalto

   In honour of a vintage silk suit that I did not get around to buying earlier this year, here is a post about the French fashion house Francesco Smalto

via Made By Hand, taken from a particularly worthwhile article from a focused, intelligent tailoring dissection column

   Francesco Smalto is one of those operations that jumped at the seemingly ineluctable call of wide scale commerce in the late 20th century. This is not to say that it wholly lent its brand to the same sorts of aesthetic and quality degradations that engendered a great many unkind memories of legacies that should be ironclad, such as those of Pierre Cardin and Ted Lapidus, and subsequently required the sort of Lazarus-like re-emergences of Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche and Dior Homme (both made interesting again by Hedi Slimane - there's a thesis in that, I suspect), to say nothing of Lanvin, but the business certainly progressed rather far from its origins as a purveyor of rather excellent bespoke under the auspices of the Calabria-born Smalto himself. Nowadays, Monsieur Francesco, who wove his own way after having blossomed as a cutter at Camps, one of the great French houses, is retired, although it is said that he occasionally furnishes the odd wealthy client with new suits; from what I've read, the prices could be rather Bijan-like, although the house presently presents high-end made-to-measure as full bespoke. Purists, check your blood pressure

   Many exposed to Smalto's advertising campaigns over the years probably cannot remove the following phrase from their minds: "Francesco Smalto, you make me weak!" This tagline is more amusing when one considers that he sent suits to the late Gabonese president Omar Bongo by way of an escort service, terming the women "corporate gifts," for which a Paris court in 1995 convicted him for pandering and fined him 600,000 francs, although the slogan actually accompanied one of his colognes. Incidentally, the court estimated that Bongo's regular orders of Smalto suits roughly equated to 3 million francs yearly. I understand that his Middle Eastern clients were kept similarly satisfied; whilst many dressers may like a little sex with their tailoring, I am not certain whether to commend Smalto for his enterprise and consideration or condemn him for being a touch overfamiliar. One probably doesn't get this at Cad & the Dandy - and they are the ex-City boys

   Other achievements include designing the garments of astronauts, creating the world's lightest-weight dinner suit in black China crepe and amassing a global client base sated by an attention to detail, luxurious fabrics and an impeccable fit; all good reasons to minimise the case of the whores when it comes to crafting his epitaph. There's ready-to-wear too (my father once owned a couple of shirts in fine lightweight fabrics), but of course, the bespoke is where Smalto shone

The idiosyncratic Smalto lapel; like the Cran Necker/Parisienne, it is the sort of halfway house between a notch and a peak that is not so easily categorised. I'm certain that I saw them on Mubarak. Another detail that I spied on the 1980s suit I considered was a same fabric belt for the trousers that, unlike those of Chester Barrie or Spencer Hart, was thoughtfully backed in leather

   Smalto is an ideal tailor, really - strong talent and the willingness to lead a colourful, indelicate life make him what he is: one of the most gifted and industrious of his kind. And lest we forget, it is still considered rude in some places to refuse corporate gifts. And escorts

Quannum feat. Lyrics Born & The Poets of Rhythm - 'I Changed My Mind' (DJ Spinna Mix, 1999)

   The funniest thing about my connection to this song is my preference for not one, but two of its remixes over the original. However, the Andy Votel version, which is a mildly psychedelic embellishment of the original with a hint of Kraut, is unavailable on YouTube. That doesn't matter for this purpose; this version is a punchier re-envisioning that just so happens to be the best iteration to dance to

   I know nothing about relationships. I do know that the funky fresh fellow who calls himself Lyrics Born has been one of my favourite MCs; a gravelly sing-song voice and prolix, complex lyrical capabilities make for the strangest bedfellows, yet an idiosyncratic warmth and charisma sit at the heart of his displays. He has no need of being a technically accomplished singer - one could not initially imagine his raspy tones lending themselves easily to many sonic palettes, the blues aside - and this is still as brilliant an oddball funk-pop song as 1999 was capable of producing in an era where such things possessed prepotent clout on radio and in memories (this being the year of 'Steal My Sunshine' and Midnite Vultures. Hell of a year, make no mistake)

   This is also one of the best confections to bear DJ Spinna's name; no small feat for a fluid producer with a protean feeling for hip hop, soul, disco, house and all the moods therein. Hardly a stranger to retro-inflected sounds, he creates a mini-history of around 30 years of black music in over 5 minutes, threading in old soul, a tougher funk aesthetic than that of the source material, euphorically energetic scratching and, for a technical flourish, he even structures the kind of anticipation-building breakdown more commonly associated with club sounds as if it was the most obvious and necessary of things

   In essence, he knows where his roots come from. And more deliciously, he always seemed to know exactly how to deploy them. There's no explanation for the deft use of that bell in 'I Changed My Mind' other than this rather plain one: some people are simply born with verve

Kings of Convenience - 'Winning a Battle, Losing the War' (Andy Votel Remix, 2001)

   Ever been led towards a beauty by a newsletter? I have. Ten years ago, the newsletter from my then-local record shop told me that I should buy this and so I did. It seems silly to admit that, but then a cursory look at my dress sense would suggest a tolerance for public embarrassment, wouldn't it? And all in all, I do think it a colourless life to be one who lacks the capacity for any sort of romance

   The years I spent in a Northern town involved too much whimsical melancholia to count my days as interesting ones, and I sometimes conjured up beatific interludes to pass the time between pretentious conversations with stoners and eventful carousings to meet girls and favourite musicians. I liked running into the bearded psychedelic and freak beat aficionado Andy Votel; he ran a highly interesting record label that was named after a creepy little film called Twisted Nerve (I always think of its theme music as the sound of someone entering another's room and touching all their stuff), made subtly sinister alt-r'n'b covers of Black Sabbath and his idiosyncratic nous for art direction was a masterclass in stitched together aesthetics, inventive 1960s/1970s'-updated typefaces and photography and graphics that were ramshackle, bold, austere and plaintive in measures - how very Northern of him

   Now, I never thought the majority of Votel's solo output took flight - usually, it sounded too controlled, careful and studied, unlike many of the rather tohu bohu and spirited records he enjoys and dices up into collector friendly collections of abstruse European rock that was recorded in cold sheds 100 miles from Warsaw in 1968. I rather think remixing is one of his other fortes; true, he is not the sort to remake songs from the ground up and could remain reverent to the structures of the originals, but on occasion, his approach could deliver some of the most accomplished things in the world just by adding his Votelian twists to that which was already familiar

   And so it is with 'Winning a Battle, Losing the War', in which Votel realised that the poignancy of the Kings of Convenience's original could not be evinced through a minimal musical approach and a story of the desire to heal from heartbreak told through downcast singing alone. Thus, it is not so much a remix or an alternative reading as it is an embellishment of the song's character, melody and soothing, lullaby-esque mood. It's prettier, it's still somewhat touching and the subtle, 1960s flourishes that the ever reverent Votel and his friends brought to the instrumentation make it akin to Simon and Garfunkel writing for the soundtrack to The Thomas Crown Affair and then saving it for something more languorous, introspective and British instead. A Confessions film, perhaps

   I'll always be glad that I purchased this. My beatific interludes needed a soundtrack

A Moment of Charm from Peter O'Toole

   

   Portraying alcohol-and-self-loathing suffused rake and actor Alan Swann in Richard Benjamin's My Favorite Year is one of the comic highlights of Peter O'Toole's storied career. One can feel the dissolute manner in which he makes charm and manipulation his emotional armour against the world with every offhand riposte and flash of naughtiness; this arresting appearance, in which he seemed to make his co-stars genuinely hang on to his every utterance, locked him in for one of his many Oscar runner-up moments

   Whilst the comedy sequences do much to highlight O'Toole's gifts of physicality, timing and an exceedingly delicious gift for dry delivery, this destructive, difficult dandy would be ultimately forgettable were it not for an emotional core that is clichéd enough for me to avoid discussing in detail (a wounded heart, a desire to escape genuine responsibility, irritation with drinks served at room temperature, etc.), but is necessary to make certain the audience cares for his ending as well as his slipshod journeying throughout the conversations, appearances, negotiations and set pieces (two standouts: the impromptu abseil off the side of a tall apartment block using a retractable fire hose, and the glorious bit of impromptu swash and buckle at the end when Swann stops searching for the hero inside and puts his madness to good use) that make up his character arc. There is also wonderful support from the requisite foil, Mark Linn-Baker, and the surprisingly endearing romance between his Benjy and Jessica Harper's K.C. Downing - even this cynic has to smile when he finally wins her affections, over a projector reel and a box of popcorn

   No small entry into this luminary's canon, My Favourite Year, although more indebted to Errol Flynn for inspiration than O'Toole's personal indelicacies, nevertheless draws upon his idiosyncratic behaviours and vulnerabilities for its pathos, channelling them into the myopic mischief of its lead character the rest of the time. If Russell Brand were actually singularly gifted, he might be counted on for a remake, even if that is the worst kind of filmic idea: the remake as vehicle for a bubbling under performer of debatable talent. Besides, not everyone is blessed with that which, for all his faults, helped make a star out of a flawed yet brilliant man like Peter O'Toole:

   Charm

L'Amour Fou (2011)

“I’ve gone through much anguish, many hells. I’ve known fear and a tremendous solitude. The deceitful friends that tranquilizers and narcotics turn out to be. The prison that depression can be and that of mental-health clinics. One day I came out of it all, dazzled but sober. Marcel Proust taught me that ‘the magnificent and pitiable family of neurotic people is the salt of the earth.’”

   I think few things explicate the psyche of a sophisticate like examining his desire for the splendid, so I am greatly looking forward to this ostensibly intimate film by Pierre Thoretton. For what the world certainly needs is a documentary about the lives and tastes of Yves Saint Laurent and Pierre Bergé

   It's pretty gratifying to see that the muses - Betty Catroux, Loulou De La Falaise and Catherine Deneuve - are present and correct, as well as knowing that L'Amour Fou (“The Crazy/Mad Love”) does not shy away from acknowledging the distraught and depersonalised depths the industrious, sensitive, aesthetically-obsessed Saint Laurent could slide into, almost unbidden, whilst Bergé navigated much of his life for him

   Interspersed between the reminiscences from a 50 year love affair are moments from a confessional on the catwalk, the copious collections of objets d'art that filled the rooms of houses the world over and the delivery of said objets into the funereal hands of auctioneers (because nothing marks the passing of a life lived in connoisseurship quite like the wholesale of one's acquisitions) and then to those of that sagacious breed whose avarice and passion match those of Saint Laurent himself: collectors

   For all the attention lavished on works by Mondrian, Degas and Picasso, it's more interesting to me that there was a democratic element to the couple's assorted pretty things; Saint Laurent was apparently apt to see value in the bric a brac of a Marrakech market as he was in Chinoiserie pieces, Constantin Brancusi forms and Egyptian sculpture. And personally, an openness to the potential beauty in the affordable and the aureate is what makes such accumulative types all the more endearing

   Frankly, a production like this would always feel akin to the closing of a chapter