short-sleeved shirts under a jacket,’ he said.”
Astonished, the narrator looks more closely at Almirante. The suntanned MSI leader seems perfectly dressed, “but his naked arms peeped out from beneath the sleeves of his impeccable blue jacket, and once you noticed it, that detail made him look vaguely obscene.”
A lot of people—Americans in particular—like their politicians to look good. But Italians not only want their politicians to dress immaculately; they and their media are endlessly scrutinizing what they call—using the English word—their look, the way in which they dress, in a search for clues to their true personalities. I remember a comparison that covered an entire page of one of the national dailies between il look favored bySilvio Berlusconi and that projected by his then rival for the prime ministership, Romano Prodi. It began with their ties (Berlusconi stuck rigidly to a white bird’s-eye pattern on dark blue, while Prodi favored regimental-style diagonal stripes in various colors), and progressed by stages to their choice of underpants. Prodi apparently wore roomy boxer shorts, while Berlusconi favored clingy briefs. The source of this information about their underwear was not disclosed.
Whenever a new president is elected, he too will be given the head-to-toe treatment. Giorgio Napolitano, Italy’s first ex-Communist head of state, presented quite a problem, because his fashion sense was, well, rather what you would expect of a man who was then in his early eighties. But that did not stop the style analysts from dissecting his “southern-cultured middle class” look, starting with his Borsalino and ending at his lace-up shoes. Readers were solemnly informed that the incoming president “favors those in black or brown, and always made of leather.”
This same narrowed sartorial gaze is trained on foreign politicians too. When the Italian American Nancy Pelosi was chosen as Speaker of the House of Representatives, newspapers back in her “old country” inevitably reported the event with pride. But the focus was not perhaps what she might have expected. “Nancy D’Alesandro Pelosi, age 66,” ran a caption beneath a large photograph of the lady who had just become the highest-ranking woman politician in U.S. history. “Born in Baltimore. Moved to California. Likes to dress in Armani.”
Some years later, when the British went to the polls, I was sitting at my desk in Corriere della Sera ’s Rome office when the telephone rang. At the other end of the line was a colleague on the political staff of the Guardian .
“John, I’ve just had the most extraordinary call from someone who claimed to be working for Corriere, ” she began.
“No, she’s entirely genuine,” I said. “I gave her your number.”
“Oh, well, that’s a relief,” said my colleague. “You see, all she wanted to know about the candidates was how their wives were dressing. It was quite bizarre.”
I have the resulting article on the desk in front of me as I type. “Styles Compared” is the headline. In a graphic spanning the width of a page, each of the main party leaders is shown next to his wife. There is a general description of their tastes in fashion. But in addition there are little inset circles with magnified photographs of the telling details: Sarah Brown, the wife of the Labour leader, “red wedges with opaque blue tights (€63)”; Miriam González Durántez, the Spanish spouse of Nick Clegg, the Liberal Democrat contender, “bag made by hand in Brazil from the ring-pulls of 1,000 tin cans (€52)”; Samantha Cameron, wife of the Conservative candidate, “Jigsaw belt (€33).”
The paper’s readers were told that Cameron chose inexpensive accessories “to seem chic, but not privileged,” and that although Brown had been criticized for her ill-matching clothes, “some people think she does it on purpose as a contrast to the too-perfect Samantha.”
It is inconceivable that any
Astonished, the narrator looks more closely at Almirante. The suntanned MSI leader seems perfectly dressed, “but his naked arms peeped out from beneath the sleeves of his impeccable blue jacket, and once you noticed it, that detail made him look vaguely obscene.”
A lot of people—Americans in particular—like their politicians to look good. But Italians not only want their politicians to dress immaculately; they and their media are endlessly scrutinizing what they call—using the English word—their look, the way in which they dress, in a search for clues to their true personalities. I remember a comparison that covered an entire page of one of the national dailies between il look favored bySilvio Berlusconi and that projected by his then rival for the prime ministership, Romano Prodi. It began with their ties (Berlusconi stuck rigidly to a white bird’s-eye pattern on dark blue, while Prodi favored regimental-style diagonal stripes in various colors), and progressed by stages to their choice of underpants. Prodi apparently wore roomy boxer shorts, while Berlusconi favored clingy briefs. The source of this information about their underwear was not disclosed.
Whenever a new president is elected, he too will be given the head-to-toe treatment. Giorgio Napolitano, Italy’s first ex-Communist head of state, presented quite a problem, because his fashion sense was, well, rather what you would expect of a man who was then in his early eighties. But that did not stop the style analysts from dissecting his “southern-cultured middle class” look, starting with his Borsalino and ending at his lace-up shoes. Readers were solemnly informed that the incoming president “favors those in black or brown, and always made of leather.”
This same narrowed sartorial gaze is trained on foreign politicians too. When the Italian American Nancy Pelosi was chosen as Speaker of the House of Representatives, newspapers back in her “old country” inevitably reported the event with pride. But the focus was not perhaps what she might have expected. “Nancy D’Alesandro Pelosi, age 66,” ran a caption beneath a large photograph of the lady who had just become the highest-ranking woman politician in U.S. history. “Born in Baltimore. Moved to California. Likes to dress in Armani.”
Some years later, when the British went to the polls, I was sitting at my desk in Corriere della Sera ’s Rome office when the telephone rang. At the other end of the line was a colleague on the political staff of the Guardian .
“John, I’ve just had the most extraordinary call from someone who claimed to be working for Corriere, ” she began.
“No, she’s entirely genuine,” I said. “I gave her your number.”
“Oh, well, that’s a relief,” said my colleague. “You see, all she wanted to know about the candidates was how their wives were dressing. It was quite bizarre.”
I have the resulting article on the desk in front of me as I type. “Styles Compared” is the headline. In a graphic spanning the width of a page, each of the main party leaders is shown next to his wife. There is a general description of their tastes in fashion. But in addition there are little inset circles with magnified photographs of the telling details: Sarah Brown, the wife of the Labour leader, “red wedges with opaque blue tights (€63)”; Miriam González Durántez, the Spanish spouse of Nick Clegg, the Liberal Democrat contender, “bag made by hand in Brazil from the ring-pulls of 1,000 tin cans (€52)”; Samantha Cameron, wife of the Conservative candidate, “Jigsaw belt (€33).”
The paper’s readers were told that Cameron chose inexpensive accessories “to seem chic, but not privileged,” and that although Brown had been criticized for her ill-matching clothes, “some people think she does it on purpose as a contrast to the too-perfect Samantha.”
It is inconceivable that any
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