Of all the menacing gestures associated with the newly assertive Russia, from
annexing the Arctic to restarting nuclear bomber runs, none seems to have
discomfited the rest of the world quite as much as President Putin being
photographed bare-chested, with his perfect pecs on proud display. It was
quite the most audacious demonstration of political self-confidence from any
Russian leader since the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. Whatever else Vlad may
have learnt in the KGB, he certainly absorbed everything one needs to know
about psychological warfare. How many of the politicians charged with our
safekeeping do you estimate would emerge enhanced if their torsos were laid
out for all to see on a summer fishing trip? Does Des Browne have a perfect
six-pack? Would we all feel a little better about our place in the world if
Dick Cheney’s treasure chest was on proud display?
What Vlad’s tactical strip has revealed, apart from the lifetime benefits of
Spetsnaz training, is the continuing role that nudity plays in male power
relations. We’re used to discussion of how little, or much, women should
safely display in a variety of circumstances. Any number of fashion experts,
for example, will advise that when tempted to dress revealingly it’s
necessary to choose between showing off either legs or décolletage.
Attempting to do both at the same time is like smoking while eating foie gras
– either might be thought sophisticated – do them together and you look like
a Ukrainian actress holidaying for the first time in St-Tropez.
But while there are all sorts of rules, and seasonally updated tips, on how
much women dare to bare, with the rival merits of halternecks and exposed
midriffs regularly rehearsed, the question of how men should manage the
exposure of their own flesh, and what can be read into these displays, is
rarely given the close study it deserves.
As Putin’s careful release of the pictures of his own taut form demonstrate,
the deployment of male nudity is, above all, a power play. On one level Vlad
is showing us all that he’s a remarkably fit man for his age (54) and that,
unlike in the decadent West, Russia’s leaders remain the physical embodiment
of their nation’s vigour – classical champions in the manner of those Roman
emperors who would renew their mandate to rule on the battlefield or even in
the gladiatorial ring. His bare-chested peacockery is, in that respect, in
line with the broader cult of Putin as his nation’s silverback – the leader
of the band.
And while it’s becoming rarer, the assertion of prime physical vigour through
summertime displays of shirtless masculinity has been a trick in several
leaders’ repertoires. From Mussolini, to Jack and Bobby Kennedy, baring your
torso for a publicity shot was just another way of demonstrating a break
from the failed and flabby Old Gang and the arrival of New Hope.
But tactical exposure of holiday flesh is a way of asserting power which is
certainly not restricted to the political sphere. For a particular class of
man – think of pictures of Gianni Agnelli, say, or Aristotle Onassis, or
even Michael Winner, letting it all hang out above deck has often been
accompanied by the wearing of briefs so small that they look like sparrows
that have crashed into the Matterhorn. These men present themselves to the
world with an apparently unembarrassed delight in how much there is to see.
And in so doing they appear to subvert one of the rules about what it is
that the wealthy really cherish – discretion, privacy and protection.
What, of course, they are really doing is reminding the rest of us how little
they need to care for our approval, how liberated they are from bourgeois
notions of propriety, how unrelated to their physical appearance is their
considerable power of attraction. For them, daring to bare so much is just
another assertion of how much, in every sense, they’ve got. And the
knowledge that male nudity is linked to power, the more you’ve got, the more
you are liberated to show, is now, I think, inherent in how we conduct
ourselves.
And it’s not just related to wealth. The insouciance of a particular type of
millionaire has its analogue in the breezy, what’s-it-to-you, shirtlessness
of any man who is, in effect, making a declaration of machismo when he
should, ostensibly, be relaxing. Baring your torso on holiday, whether in
Ayia Napa or on the deck of your yacht, means setting aside the expected
norms of modesty and thus, in its way, involves you staking a claim to
attention, and occupying more space than if you were clothed. It is an act
of assertion, a waving of the coxcomb. And, whatever the socio-economic
background of the bare-chested male, his shedding of a protective layer,
whether it’s Fred Perry or John Smedley, involves an implied challenge to
other men – haven’t you got what I’ve got; what are you hiding behind?
Regular readers of this column will know that I am hiding something. I’m
hiding 20-odd years of Ginsters abuse behind my comfortably baggy polo
shirt. So perhaps my approach to holiday fashion is framed by my accumulated
experience of holiday indulgence. But looking again at those chilling photos
of Putin, his ice-cold eyes masked by shades but his torso on open display,
I couldn’t help but feel my prejudices being reinforced. The region from a
man’s waist to his neck should be like the nuclear deterrent – everyone
knows it’s there, it’s often glimpsed slipping into the water, but its exact
condition must always remain a mystery.
Friends’ feud sheds light on fertile Fife
In the arid, news-starved days of August the mere mention of lesbianism
appears to have been enough to turn a throwaway literary observation into a
blood feud of Borgiaesque proportions.
Ian Rankin, the author of the Inspector Rebus novels, having offered the
opinion that the most violent crime fiction now being published seemed to be
produced by female, indeed lesbian, writers has found himself on the
receiving end of a torrent of execration. His principal accuser has beenVal
McDermid, the lesbian crime-writer, whose friendship with Rankin hasn’t
prevented her from letting rip with some pungent criticism.
But one factor, beyond mutual acquaintance and a talent for murder, binds the
two together. Both are natives of Fife. What is it about this county,
sandwiched between Dundee and Edinburgh, which has allowed it to nurture not
just two of our finest crime writers but two leaders of political parties?
What is it about this stretch of the east coast which has made it the
perfect nursery for practitioners of the darkest contemporary arts? And why,
given its abundance of talent, can it still not get a decent football team
together?
Mitford mail
I have been reading an interview with the editor of a new edition of the
letters of the Mitford sisters. This is time that I’ll never get back, so
I’m grateful to her for summing up the fatuity of the whole lot with a
single anecdote. One sister (Nancy, I think), declined to write by airmail
to another (Jessica) who lived in America because sending things by air was
tantamount to rushing, and hurrying was nonU. When your family is built
around a code of snobbery so intricate that it eschews prompt communication
because it’s considered common then you really have forfeited the right to
ever be taken seriously.
Michael Gove is Conservative MP for Surrey Heath
