Published in L'Officiel Hommes Italia No. 7

     Just when you think the depths of general sartorial despair cannot be plumbed any deeper, the tuxedo emerges to rescue you. With this classic getup, man is elevated from mere beast and restored to his rightful pedestal of civilization. In crisp linens, blacker than black fabrics, cuff links bristling, a silhouette that parts crowds, our civilized man steps out into the night: confident, dashing, sophisticated and, quite acceptably, drunk. 

    There are conflicting stories on the origin of the tuxedo, or dinner jacket, if you prefer. It seems as though all want to claim this paragon of menswear. Beginning as a less formal alternative to the full tailcoat, the tuxedo has withstood the test of time and is now unquestionably the go-to gear when formal events call. As to whether it derived from New York socialites of the Tuxedo Park Club or from London cutters of Saville Row tailors’ Henry Poole & Co., its preeminence on the pyramid of men’s style is long established, its position unimpeachable. Again our friend the Prince of Wales (Edward VIII) was simultaneously an early adherent and auteur. By ordering his tuxedo in midnight blue, he at once made the invention more luxurious and more suited to nocturnal infidelities.  

      Within the strict regimen of the tuxedo, the personality of the individual shines through—nay, must shine through. Its uniformity focuses all attention to the wearer himself: the persona, countenance, grooming, sense of humor and deportment. The clothes, in a way, have not attracted your companion, for you captured this beauty through the force of your personality and charm of your nature. The tuxedo’s stark black and white serves as the perfect counterpoint to the woman’s extravagant colors. The lady on your arm becomes all the more radiant, and you all the more refined. One dreams the other alive. 

      Regrettably, the classic tuxedo has been subjected to countless interpretation, all of which attempt a twist on the original with a nod to fashion. And many men take a crack at adding their own personal flair. We say balderdash. For only the exceptional few can trump the austere perfection of the garment. The ridged prescriptions may cause many men to squirm, claiming they yearn for more individuality. It is strange that they choose this particular occasion to protest when normally they traipse about in the ubiquity of jeans and t-shirts. Suddenly they are gripped with “creative” desire that manifests itself in unfortunate floral print cummerbunds, lapels of suspect width and material, trousers that cling to the legs and droop from the buttocks, boutonnieres pinned to the lapel, mismatched waistcoats and bow ties, or perhaps eschewing the bow tie altogether for a “fancy” long tie—all twaddle. It’s akin to Starbucks’ innovation of the Frappacino. Yes, it’s more fancy and expensive than a perfect cappuccino, with more bells and whistles, but it tastes like saccharine compost. 

     With all the disparate experimental forays the tuxedo has seen, it is advised to hold fast to the classic mold. To the informed, the tuxedo does in fact present numerous options and combinations to choose from, even while respecting its parameters. Contrasting material on the lapels and trouser stripe is a must, with grosgrain and silk the most chic. Peaked or shawl lapels; a waistcoat or cummerbund; single or double breasted; wool, mohair, silk, with perhaps a subtle sheen in the fabric of black or midnight blue; a wing or turndown collar; a butterfly, bat-wing or the rare single-ended bow tie; the tie fabric itself in Moiré silk, Marcella, raw silk, cotton pique; perhaps a fine key chain emerging from the front trouser pocket; a silk tuxedo scarf; a man can exercise his personal touch among all these and other variants.  

    When you wear a tuxedo, you stand lapel to lapel with a vast lineage of elegant ne’er-do-wells. Who, through charisma and attention to detail, have empowered the tuxedo and transformed it into an archetype, the embodiment of flawless style. You enter the firmament of grandeur, walking the endless mirrored halls of last year’s Marienbad. When tuxedoed, your every action is heightened and augmented: people lean in to hear your stories, your quips are wittier, your eyes sparkle, your smile charms, your wink entices; you are yourself—amplified. 

     And the amplified you embarks on the S.S.Cad-Valier with a top notch crew. Marauding over the open seas, our gang will escape any pickle, bed any lady, quaff any drink, resplendent at all times. Captain F. Sinatra readies himself in a state room, an ice cold martini perched on his bureau. He selects an immaculate shawl lapelled number, with turndown collar and butterfly bow tie. Pausing to polish his shoes on a couch cushion, he steps out onto the deck with the lights of Las Vegas orbiting his tuxedoed gravitas. Boatswain Dean Martin opts for a peak lapel jacket, its sheen matching his lustrous pomaded hair. Showing plenty of shirt cuff, Dino provisions the hold with an abundance of booze and cigarettes, which our crew consumes in plenty. Edward the Prince of Wales, in his aforementioned midnight blue ensemble, is every bit the world wearied statesman, with his dashing good looks and full dance card of married women to call upon. His knowledgeable eyes gazing toward the horizon. Naturally, Tex Avery’s Wolf is up in the crow’s nest, keeping a sharp lookout for any broads that might need boarding. His rakish pencil-thin moustache and affected French accent perfectly complement his starched wing collar and bat-wing bow tie. His top hat and cane regally accompany him. His red carnation (worn in the lapel hole and never pinned to it) and pristine white gloves add another layer of pomposity. A lady would never suspect the excitable beast that coils within. He is, as expected, a wolf in wolf’s clothing. And where is Sean Connery’s James Bond? Oh, he’s in the wardroom, porking your girlfriend. Naturally, he hung his cream tuxedo with shawl collar on a valet stand before the exploits began. The cream color is a perfect choice for the gaming tables of Monte Carlo, a summer gathering or, as is the case here, aboard a ship. And Mr. Bond certainly has the aplomb to carry the garment—just ask your girl. 

     Where would you prefer to be? Rollicking with our debonair rakes or moping in the corner with the pedestrian black suit wearers? To keep company with the charmers and gadflies, or with the wall flowers, their tailors not even knowing their first names?  The choice is easy. Go ahead, welcome the New Year in your finest, be the best dressed one at the wedding, part the crowd—and claim the laurels of civilized man.