Blame it on Armani

When the '90s began, bad taste had a flashy stranglehold on Hollywood. Today, stars allow themselves to be dressed by stylists in designer labels they're happy to acknowledge. Who created this mutually beneficial system and managed to raise the level of taste in Hollywood at the same time? Giorgio Armani.

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In the minutes before the start of 1999's Academy Awards ceremony, as flacks and paparazzi drove the season's herd of movie stars along the red carpet toward the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, the change in the air was palpable. Sure, this was the same pageant we'd seen before--celebrities decked out in designer threads so costly they could cover down payments on suburban homes, Joan Rivers and her daughter Melissa giving their crackbrained sartorial play-by-play for millions of "E!" viewers at home. But something was different.

Even two years ago, the more credible of the many stars running the press gauntlet on Hollywood's own prom night were hesitant to discuss what they were wearing. At the very least, the true purpose of their presence--the award they were up for or were there to present--had to be given lip service first. Not so in March 1999. Just about every star caught in the pre-Oscar gridlock knew the protocol: you might not mention the director of the movie that got you nominated, but you would most certainly name the designer who had clothed you. A surprising number of celebrities needed no prompting from Joan. The Oscar fashion parade had become for the first time the equivalent of an alternative awards show, and the stars were giving it their professional best.

The sea change had, in fact, been a long time coming. And who did Hollywood have to blame for it? Giorgio Armani.

Giorgio Armani was the first fashion designer to fully understand the value of having a star wear his fashions, and he was a pioneer in forging enduring relationships with handpicked actors who wore his clothes to the best effect. Richard Gere, Michelle Pfeiffer, Jodie Foster, Emma Thompson, Matt Damon, Ben Affleck, Annette Bening, Winona Ryder, Ashley Judd, Gwyneth Paltrow, Angelina Jolie, Keri Russell, Mira Sorvino--all have been willing poster people for Armani, and with their help he's built an empire and turned himself into an upscale-household name. The operation Armani began to give shape to over two decades ago came to represent a model for success that his competitors eagerly mimicked, but few of Armani's competitors have done it as well as he has, and none has done it so consistently. That is partly because Armani's marketing organization has been astute, sensitive and hardworking like no other, and partly because the product itself offered Hollywood a rare commodity: good taste.

A notorious bastion of stylistic excess, Tinseltown has never known how to dress itself. The grab for the limelight never put a premium on taste, and not all that many people come by it naturally. Despite the evidence, only a handful of stars set out to look shamelessly flamboyant or downright awful. Most simply have no idea how to be striking and elegant at the same time. With Armani, stars came to understand that they'd never be the punch lines of tabloid jokes again. His look was classy without being snoozy. He'd give you a plunging neckline and then match it with tuxedo pants. He'd do a short skirt and put it with a long-sleeved, high-collared shirt. It's always been about subtle drama and balance. The degree to which Hollywood values Armani's sleight-of-hand mix of sexy and sophisticated is well illustrated by the single item Ali MacGraw publicly bemoaned losing after her Malibu home burned to the ground--her black Armani jacket.

In contrast to most of the horde of designers who descended on Hollywood to create the current fashion feeding frenzy, Mr. Armani--as one is advised by his organization to refer to him--did not blow into town surrounded by a phalanx of publicists. Like his clothing and the celebrity relationships he would go on to cultivate, his arrival was a gracefully orchestrated affair. In 1980, the Milan-based designer had a growing reputation among a small sector of Americas fashion elite. To the general public he was completely unknown. His suits were available only in the hippest high-end shops, places like Maxfield in L.A. and Barneys New York in Manhattan. Among the insider group of entertainment people who were his original fan base was Bob Le Mond, a talent manager who happened to represent John Travolta.

The post-Saturday Night Fever sensation was slated at the time to star in writer/director Paul Schrader's saga of a high-end Hollywood hustler, American Gigolo, and Le Mond suggested to Schrader that the star should wear Armani for the role. Unfamiliar with the designer, Schrader swung down to Barneys, looked over the extraordinary tailoring of the suits, felt the smooth fabric they were made of and agreed that Armani would be perfect. Travolta was whisked off to Milan and fitted for a closetful of suits, shirts and ties. Ten days before shooting was to begin, Travolta bailed out of Gigolo (to make Urban Cowboy) and the part was given to Richard Gere. Luckily, the new star's build was similar enough to Travolta's that the wardrobe needed only minor alterations (within the organization the style continued to be referred to as the Travolta Cut). When American Gigolo hit screens, Gere's wardrobe turned out to be a virtual costar.

Lionized players like Martin Scorsese and Robert De Niro had been Armani fans for some time by this point, and now a corps of style-conscious Hollywood people on- and offscreen became disciples. The rest of the world paid attention: Time magazine put Armani on its April 5, 1982 cover (the story was written by Jay Cocks, an unabashed Armani fan). But the true power of Armani rolled out slowly; the tailored style was far too understated to instantaneously take over a market that still viewed Cher as a fashion role model. In the mid-1980s, when Don Simpson and Jerry Bruckheimer were turning up at events in Armani suits, most Hollywood men thought matching jeans with Rolexes was a fashion triumph. Still, the name gathered momentum. Simpson was so into Armani that before the name was widely available in LA, he'd order two dozen black suits at a time from Barneys New York. The new Hollywood power women began to latch on to Armani, too. Producer Dawn Steel realized that the women's line, not yet as prominent as the men's, imbued her with the kind of clout she required for boardroom duels.

Over the next few years, Armani maintained a bubbling-under profile in the Industry, while slowly making inroads into the mass market. His clothing became more widely available in more places, and he began to train America's eye on his aesthetics by offering wardrobes for a succession of movies. He created the costumes for Streets of Fire and Dario Argento's horror flick Creepers, both released in 1984, and he dressed the one-named beauty Ariane in Michael Cimino's 1985 film Year of the Dragon. None of these movies was well received. But when Brian De Palma approached Armani to re-create an idealized version of '30s-era gangster flash for 1987's The Untouchables, the designer knew he had the best opportunity he'd gotten since American Gigolo and he pulled out all the stops. The luxurious, richly textured three-piece suits he put on star Kevin Costner made men want to start dressing up again. With that coup, Armani withdrew from costuming films (though he would always donate items from his existing collections to movies) and concentrated on costuming Hollywood itself.

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