It's easy to romanticise House of Gucci as a tale of nouveau European aristocracy. They chain smoke lots of cigarettes, and feed one another panzerotti on cobbled streets, and pull one another into baths, fully clothed, the wild cats (all of which can be seen in the film's most recent trailer). But look beyond this veneer, and you'll realise that House of Gucci is about so much more than that. It's about feuding one percent families who want in on papa's will. It's about abstract financial concepts, like 'majority stakeholders'. It's about steely, permed wives that plan assassinations in snowsuits. It's essentially Wall Street, but real, and just with lots more "pleeeease my son, I begga you"s. Don't believe us? Take one look at Adam Driver in the newly released film posters.
As part of a series that depicts the leading cast starring in softcore porn director sunglasses, or prosthetics, or both, Burberry's new centaur pin-up wears the stuff of glamorous corporate maleficence – Eighties, powerful corporate maleficence before we fully realised just how damaging and unglamorous all that stuff really was. Which means navy on navy on navy, and stripes on stripes on prints.
Just like Michael Douglas's Gordon Gekko, and Leonardo DiCaprio's Jordan Belfort, Driver's Maurizio Gucci is a stitch different to the regular salaryman. He's powerful – dangerously so –and the suit matches. Because pinstripes don't just look powerful, they feel powerful; the only suit to unite both hedge fund managers and mafiosos. There's faint menace here too. There's presence. Add yet more stripes to that in a shirt, and the resulting dandied flourish nods to a grimly exciting time in which money was worn and excess was applauded, before billionaires in V-necks made a living on algorithms, and before dressing up proper gave way to an idea of smart-casual that increasingly leaned on the latter half of the term.
And the last ingredient? A fancy tie. Ideally from the set of The Irishman. And ideally with a wide, chunky knot. And there, right there, is a handsome, molto grande corporate type that enjoys silent dinners in Capri with an increasingly distant wife.
For some time, it's been the assumed uniform of the Wall/Liverpool Street city boy that bends the rules to pay for the mortgage on a five bed in Brentwood, or those that just like their suits Eighties and boxy and bolshy (which is a very strong look, by the way). But rest assured that it works across the Channel too, in warmer climes with crumbling villas and marriages. House of Gucci will be proof of that.
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