When Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelensky visited the UK earlier this month, critics greeted him with a familiar joke: does the man not own a suit? With his trademark olive-green sweaters and t-shirts, designed by macho brand M-TAC, Zelensky has become the ultimate example of how fashion can craft a narrative. The military outfit is crucial to the image of heroic leadership he has so successfully cultivated over the past year. It also keeps the audience focused on the bloody situation in Ukraine, a useful visual cue as Zelensky tours the West in search of support. 

The Ukrainians clearly understand the publicity value of these garments. Recently, a visiting delegation of European Union officials were asked not to wear khaki or bright colours, presumably to avoid anyone upstaging Zelensky and his green-clad entourage.

This fashion coup has a wider significance too. Until now, heads of state who make a habit of wearing military attire were not regarded as natural friends of the free world. From Castro to Gaddafi, epaulettes and berets were the sign of a pariah — or at best an embarrassing ally. Zelensky’s combat chic shows the liberal international order moving from “the end of history” back to the great man theory of history, albeit a media-friendly version of it.

Above all though, the Ukrainian president’s sartorial breakthrough has exposed a major challenge faced by his counterparts in the west, especially the men. They look so boring. The hyper-visual culture and revolutionary mood of our times demands leaders who can master the symbolic potential of fashion. Instead, social expectations have trapped them in the cookie-cutter navy blue suit. 

Elite men’s fashion in the 18th century was a feast of bold colours

Women will no doubt find it galling to hear men portrayed as victims in the fashion stakes. After all, female public figures have their clothes routinely scrutinised in a way their male colleagues do not. We still talk about the “donkey jacket” Michael Foot wore at the Cenotaph in 1981, or the outrage over Barack Obama’s tan suit in 2014, whereas the propriety of women’s appearance is never out of the press for long. This unfairness brings its own advantage, however. Women have more scope for creativity in these matters, and many have used it to shape the conversation, from Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez’s TAX THE RICH dress to the symbolic brooch pins worn by Russia’s central bank governor Elvira Nabiullina. Unsurprisingly, the literature on the political power of fashion is almost entirely a feminist one. 

Yes, men have certain opportunities to make an impact with their clothes, and boy, do they use them. Visiting a military base or the site of a natural disaster is always an excuse to don manly outdoor garments, along with some sort of boot. The magazine feature revealing a politician in his downtime has become a kind of PR ritual. Leaders who try to innovate beyond these set-piece occasions quickly appear ridiculous. This was obvious in the first months of the war in Ukraine, when numerous western politicians latched onto Zelensky’s coattails (or lack thereof) by wearing more informal or functional garb. Who can forget that photo shoot of a black-hoodied Emmanuel Macron, looking like a teenager who had wandered off from a tour of the Elysee Palace?

You do of course find more edgy fashion among insurgents on the radical left: Yannis Varoufakis with his leather jacket, Pablo Iglesias (former leader of Spain’s Podemos) with his rolled-up sleeves and ponytail. Yet this motley bunch has only heightened the expectation that sensible, technocratic leaders have an appearance which says “government borrowing at low interest rates”. 

It was not ever thus. There have been eras when the male plumage was every bit as attractive as the female. Elite men’s fashion in the 18th century was a feast of bold colours and patterns, of silk, embroidery, and frills, of cravats, hats, shoe buckles and wigs. It was only during the Industrial Revolution that modern expectations of male dress were embedded: a simple, sober appearance, fitting for the world of business and practical affairs. Arty men held on to their expressive clothes, but across most of elite society male appearance became ever more dull. Compare Rishi Sunak or Keir Starmer with a predecessor like John Stuart, PM in the 1760s, and you will see that an aesthetic disaster has taken place. 

In politics, this trend was driven by insurgents rejecting the opulence of the nobility as a way of appealing to the masses. During the French Revolution, the replacement of silk breeches by trousers was a symbol of égalité. The same dynamic can be seen in the plain black garments worn by Mussolini and the simple military tunics favoured by Stalin, Mao and their Communist cadres. In the 1960s, John F Kennedy’s preppy hatless style drew a contrast with a fusty old elite.

More recently, we’ve seen the same tactic used by tech oligarchs like Mark Zuckerberg, whose “normcore” style of bland t-shirts was a clever way to disguise the spirit of corporate business. Now Zelensky is continuing the trend with his distinctly casual take on military apparel. 

Elites shouldn’t pretend they are just like the rest of us

In this way, male elites have ultimately backed themselves into a corner. The more they have stripped down their wardrobe in a vain attempt to look like plausible representatives of ordinary people, the fewer tools they have left to express anything. The problem was partly concealed during the hey-day of neoliberal attire, when the sharp but generic suit became a global image of slick professionalism. This uniform now signifies a ruling class almost as remote and privileged as the aristocratic ancien régime. Male politicians are stuck: they cannot ditch the suit like their Silicon Valley brethren, since this is their last remaining symbol of authority, but nor are there any trappings left to shed as a populist gesture. 

This pathetic situation was nicely captured by the G7 summit in Germany last June, where an all-male cast of prime ministers and presidents took the bold step of … removing their ties. Far from making them seem relatable, this desperate piece of theatre just emphasised how interchangeable our politicians are. Dropping the tie — increasingly common in business as well as politics — removes the last detail with which formally dressed men can show some personality. (Granted, there probably isn’t all that much personality to show.)

How can the men who aspire to govern us escape this predicament? It is surely time to move away from the suit; that outfit now carries more baggage than credibility. As for Zelensky’s fashion statement, it only works because it is a plausible reflection of the role he occupies. There is a lesson in that: elites shouldn’t pretend they are just like the rest of us. It shows disrespect for the responsibilities they demand from us, and besides, it fools no one. 

The opposite route would be better. Men in power — and women for that matter — should dare to stand out again. There is much more charisma, not to mention honesty, in ambition that shows itself openly. What this would look like, I’m not sure, but therein lies the wider benefit. The suit has become the ultimate façade concealing mediocrity and groupthink; breaking its monopoly would allow new ideas to surface. Let our leaders look the part they want to act, and then we might be better placed to judge if they really deserve their special status.