Best Dressed Yet?

Its still a compelling concept but in sore need of a revamp, writes Janice Breen Burns.

OUR "BEST DRESSED" LIST was retired - possibly temporarily; it is not decided yet - in a rubble of gripes and bitchy gossip after the summer of 2004. That was the clincher list, voted by a panel of 10 social gallivants, prominent citizens and former "Best Dressed" list-ees, that finally cracked the concept of organised judgement by frock. Or trouser. In Melbourne, anyway. For many innocent years before it, we had exploited the idea that - just for a laugh (ha ha, yeah, right) - it was possible to pit suit against suit, frock against frock, taste against taste and, after some light-hearted banter and a show of hands, virtually deify the "Best Dressed" man and woman who bubbled to the top of a short list of 20.

Well, it did seem to work well enough until roughly 2001, barring the odd egotist and nepotistic panel judge who would nominate themselves ("I honestly dont know anyone who dresses better than me") or next of kin ("Mrs X is a gift to elegance and us all, and Im not just saying that because shes my mother"). True dinks.

I mustered panels myself, tallied their votes and called in the short-listed Chosen Ones to pass on the good news and fix times for group shots and portraits in our photographic studio. Most were awfully nice, not aloof or snobby at all (did I expect that?): advertising types, PR people, fashionistocrats, artists, gallery owners, the odd chic chef. We became kiss-kissy-darling pals, some of us, on account of the same names cropped up so often on list, after list, after list, after . . .

Most list-ees were chuffed, in that vague "Really? How nice . . .?" half-chuffed way of the uber-cool. And many wore black, in that follicles-to-boot-tips way of the tacitly, Japanese-French-and-Belgian-designer-savvy uber-fashionable.

So, chuffed, tres chic, groomed-to-the-teeth, Melbournes "Best Dressed" would pose for us in those early years, like a flock of glossy ravens; the mixed half-profile, pensive/reflective/bemused blurred-back group shot, followed by the single, full-front-gaze pensive/reflective/bemused portrait shots.

You know the ones.

After two, three, five lists published though, it was obvious Mary and Joe Public were cottoning on to the blind-Freddy fact that the names and photographs looked kinda, sorta similar from list to list, year to year. Was there an invisible, socio-economic ghetto somewhere, of arty dynamos, PR consultants and sundry creative professionals from which the short-listers were habitually picked? Wasnt anybody else out there well dressed?

Apparently, no. Best Dressed criteria seemed to include fondness for foreign fringe designers and an ability to compose artfully casual, minimalist jumbles of gobsmackingly expensive clothes laced with the odd, quirky vintage "find" picked up on Ones last trip to Antwerp. Or Osaka. As the lists evolved parallel to fashions "casualisation" and "deconstructivism", the list-ees increasingly challenged the fundamental concept of good grooming in drop-dead-hip designer shredded, slashed, stained and crumpled clothes.

Mary and Joe Public, not unfamiliar with the principles of style, and with enough disposable income to invest in their own bulging designer wardrobes of which they were mightily proud, started to get annoyed. By 2001, when the Best Dressed list was topped by two of Melbournes coolest blokes - denim doyen Roy Christou and stylist Michael Angel (pictured, with businesswoman Rilka Warbanoff, a fan of fine couture and fastidious tailoring) in slashed and fraying designer jeans, black tanks tops and tattoos - the full brunt of public scorn hit my desk like a load of bricks. "There are things at the bottom of my laundry basket I can lend you!" was the flavour of initial commentary. "Hey, people are dying, yknow!" was popular too, as were kaleidoscopic versions of: "Where are all the plumbers and butchers, you wankers!?", "Whats the point?" and "Who do I pay for a slot on the list?"

All excellent observations. Because, it was true indeed - and many of the "Best Dressed" list-ees would be the first and most willing to admit it - fashion was disintegrating, literally, and any fizzy thrill one may or may not get from being on "The List" was a stupid, stupid, square-peg in your classic war and famine contextual round-hole. And also, yes; "well-dressed plumber/butcher" may have the scent of an oxymoron about it but, where was the proof that blokes in dungarees and bloody aprons could not also be fond of slick black Miyaki tailored suits, for instance, and subtly detailed Commes des Garcons lace-ups? Or - and here was a novel concept - could an entirely new fashion aesthetic be evolving over the other side of town that was being overlooked by the "Best Dressed" list?

But, getting technical for a moment: without a plumber, butcher, baker, kindergarten teacher, nurse or lollipop lady on our panel of social gallivants, prominent citizens and former "Best Dressed" list-ees, judges were limited to a particular sartorial aesthetic, as practised within their own narrow, socio-professional realm. Doubters should consult the Best Dresseds that arent dead yet, including the current Harpers Bazaar 2007 list. Tote up the models, boutique owners, fashion editors, PR consultants and professionally styled celebrities in global designer frocks. Where are all the shopgirls, mechanics, plumbers, butchers and, for that matter, off-beat local fashion fanciers?

Perhaps that is a question for a future list.

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