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An Open Letter to George Clooney:  From The Offices of The Cad No doubt about it, George, you’re at the top of your game. Respected actor, director, and humanitarian - twice voted People’s Sexiest Man Alive - and wherever there’s a Hollywood’s best-dressed list to be found, there you are in the winner’s circle. We suppose even The Cad would honor you with that distinction, should we ever resort to such tired reporting. However, not to be cruel, George, but you must admit that when it comes to style, we are talking about Hollywood here, a town that hasn’t had an ounce of it since Sy Devore left for that big haberdashery in the sky. So while being the best-dressed man in Hollywood is an achievement, it’s really akin to something like… well, something like being the tallest man in Mexico. In the end, all he’s really impressing is other Mexicans. Now, we wouldn’t be taking the time to write you unless we felt there was a brother in need of advice, and George, we do think of you as a brother. When you announced plans for a casino with a dress code, we not only rooted for you but were already packing our tuxes even before the contractual ink was dry. Here’s our champion, we thought, a guy who’s not only in a position to usher in a return of class and style, but is actually doing something about it. Unfortunately, you listened to your friends, George, the nay-sayers, and they convinced you that no one really wanted to get dressed to go out, and that’s turned out to be the heart of your problem: stylistically, Hollywood, and your friends, are dragging you down.  Not true, you say? Well, let’s just take a look at this Rat Pack you’ve assembled. Brad Pitt? Matt Damon? Did you ever truly, way down deep inside, believe they were Sammy and Dean to your Frank? Sure, Brad looks good in a suit - it would be impossible for him not to - but why is it that he always appears to be so uncomfortable in them? Like he’d rather be loafing around in a t-shirt and jeans than on the town in a tux. Oh, he’s got a good stylist - we can’t say he doesn’t - and maybe that’s why we always seem to be noticing the suit first and the man second, thus leaving us with the feeling that it’s the suit that owns the man rather the other way around. This is something that could never be said of the original Rat Pack. As for Matt Damon, George, we can only imagine your frustration. We know you must have given it your best shot – we’ve all tried to teach our friends at some point - but you, better than anyone else, should know how the song goes. ‘You’ve either got or you haven’t got style,’ sang Frank, Dean, and Der Bingle, and, man oh man, George, that Matt Damon just ain’t got it. Don’t know why he can’t get it, but because you’ve given this sartorial slacker eight years to get it and he still ain’t got it, it might behoove you to extricate him from this Rat Pack of yours, remanding him to the set of friends reserved for cookouts and keggers. Cruel? Hardly, George. Sinatra might have been pals with Sam Giancana, but he knew better than to invite him to the sing at The Sands. And then there’s the rest of your cadre, George, and we can’t help but to think you sort of had this list of possible recruits - driving around Beverly Hills and knocking on doors, asking each man, ‘Hey do you want to be in my gang? It’s going to be really cool.’ Oh, we suppose Bernie Mac is an affable fellow, and at least he has a serviceable wardrobe (though pal Cedric would have been a better choice, we think), but we don’t know if he’s supposed to be a rich man’s Joey Bishop or a poor man’s Peter Lawford. And what were you thinking with Sahobo Qin and Casey Affleck? That if you combine two parts one and eight parts the other you might have a halfway decent Henry Silva? Indeed, the only name that was on the list that was right on the money was Andy Garcia. Suave and well-dressed, he was a brilliant choice, George, but it just turns out that Andy’s this dedicated family man, see, and therein lies another problem with your Rat Pack. We don’t see the camaraderie. We don’t see the carousing. We don’t see anything see but a whole lot work on your part to hold the whole thing together, and that’s why we’re going to make you an offer.  The Cad has a network of men, stylistic and larger than life, stationed all around the planet. New York, London, Paris, Sydney: we’re out on the town every night with our own crews – our own Rat Packs, if you will – knocking back cocktails, frequenting raucous sub-basement discothèques, and taking in the last vestiges of lounge culture. The world is our Copa Room, George - we get dressed and go out - and now we’re inviting you along for the ride. We do this so you don’t lose the faith, which we fear you are, for up there in the isolation of Beverly Hills, you must think no one cares about your ancient world of dinner jacketed men and mink-stoled women. You must even think it’s all gone, every last bit of it, else you woudn’t be lapsing into such questionable behavior, youself. A necktie with a tuxedo? As the head of the new Rat Pack you ought to know better than that. And what about having your picture taken with a three-day growth of beard? Even from his death bed, Sinatra would have slugged the photographer from here to Canarsie. As our brother, George, you’ll learn that true style means turning a deaf ear and blind eye to the dismal offerings of today, and you’ll also realize that the swank world is not to be necessarily found in four-star Hollywood restaurants or in the company of four-star Hollywood friends, but in every dive bar or oak-lined lounge that The Cad frequents. So there it is, George. We’ll fix you up, and given a couple of weeks, you might even get it into your head to reconsider those casino plans. If so, you know we’ll be there out there in our best tuxes. Just don’t let us catch you wearing anything round your neck but a proper bow tie. Sincerely, The Cad |
