In BBC Four’s Beau Brummell: This Charming Man, James Purefoy stars as George “Beau” Brummell, the Regency dandy whose enduring gift to the world was the elongated pantaloon, or the trouser. Lord Byron once said that just three men of his age would be remembered: Bonaparte, Brummell and Byron himself. Max Beerbohm called him “the father of modern costume, free from folly or affectation”. By all accounts, Brummell was one of the most handsome and respected men of his day, a fashion leader with a sculpted figure and a gift for gaming.
This is the first adaptation of his life since Stewart Granger played him as a man of red-blooded passion and romance in 1954. Purefoy’s indolent performance is as markedly tangential to the fashion leader’s legend as Granger’s, and a sight ruder.
The son of a civil servant, Brummell saw himself and his life as a work of art. He refused to have his portrait painted and left virtually no writings — after his death he wished to remain an enigma. In this, as well as his ornament-is-crime dress sense, he remains a very modern man. The Prince Regent was so enamoured of Brummell that he blindly copied his dress sense: blue coat, light-blue waistcoat, buff trousers, kid gloves. And while the ladies loved Brummell, he remained untouchable, would shoot them a casual approving glance but rarely had the glint of affection in his eye.
We first see Brummell about to meet the Prince Regent, twirling his cane, wearing the same crease-eyed look of self-satisfaction that Gordon Brown would wear after announcing a free pint for everyone on Budget day. The film’s principal figures, aside from Brummell and the Prince Regent, are Byron (Matthew Rhys) and Brummell’s servant, Robinson (Phil Davis). Steadfast, loyal and true, Robinson still takes the opportunity to knee his boss in the groin when he feels that he is getting too fresh with his benefactor, the Prince.
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In fact, there is an awful lot of violence in This Charming Man. Early on Brummell is involved in a fight with some gaily painted fops. Brummell always wangled his way out of duels, describing himself as “not naturally of an heroic turn”. The director Philippa Lowthorpe, though, sees parallels between the fops and dandies of 1804 and the mods and rockers of 1964, with Mayfair the Margate du jour. After her equally edgy take on sisters Anne and Mary in The Other Boleyn Girl, Lowthorpe is clearly set on making a name for herself in the world of costume drama rewrites.
After being snubbed by the Prince at a party, Brummell famously sligh-ted him by asking his companion: “Who is your fat friend?” History does not record the room going silent, or the witty Brummell then adding: “What? Come on, this is ridiculous!”, as Purefoy does, sweating like David Brent after one of his “I’m not a racialist” gags falls flat. Lowthorpe’s Brummell is constantly harassed by debtors, Dickensian tailors and Grant Mitchells in stovepipe hats. The Brummell of legend tended to borrow from those to whom he gave sartorial guidance; when one chap did have the cheek to ask if he could have his loan repaid, Brummell claimed he already had, by calling “Hallo Jimmy!” to him from his window seat at White’s. A courtesan, watching him delicately eat a plate of cold poultry, asked Brummell if he ever ate vegetables. “Madam, I believe I once ate a pea,” he replied. This Charming Man skips the quips, preferring smirks and sneers.
Brummell made himself a figure more respected and admired than the Prince of Wales. The biographer Ian Kelly — who crops up in this adaptation of his book as Lord Robert Manners — claims that Brummell inven-ted celebrity culture. There is truth in this, but Brummell was a visionary and a wit. He wasn’t a Regency Jade Goody. Brummell preferred to cultivate his myth and legend; servants would bring piles of lightly crumpled linen past the assembled throng on his doorstep, allegedly Brummell’s failed attempts before attaining the perfect cravat every morning. And with what did he black his shoes? Champagne, of course. He missed a trick by not specifying a year.
Purefoy’s Brummell, by comparison, is thoroughly unlikeable. His motives are obscure, beyond scabbing money off wealthy mates and hobnobbing with royalty. His eventual downfall is oddly unexplained. Brummell contracted syphilis, though he hid it well from the gossip hounds who were never able to pin anything on him. By 1816, the symptoms were causing him to act recklessly (his “fat friend” jibe) and gamble more heavily. Wisely, he fled to France before his legend was completely destroyed.
Lowthorpe is keen to imply that Brummell hid an iron fist inside his kid glove and that he had the hots for Lord Byron, but strangely she shies away from his STDs, another very modern aspect to the man. No matter. It has already been made quite clear that her Brummell is as much a fictional dandy as Bulwer’s Pelham or Disraeli’s Vivian Grey once he begins to talk with his mouth full at the dinner table.
Beau Brummell: This Charming Man, Monday, BBC Four, 9pm