
The white shirt was never elegant because it was white. It was elegant because staying white was almost impossible - and a man who managed to keep it that way, day after day, was proving something worth far more than good taste: that someone else washed, starched, and pressed his linen for him, and that he himself never had to do work dirty enough to soil his collar.

The camera moves in. Cary Grant steps out of the car, buttons his jacket in a single motion, and walks into frame as though the suit were a second skin rather than something he'd put on that morning. The audience doesn't register it as style. They simply register it as him. That, in the end, is the difference between a man who wears fashion and a man who becomes it, without ever seeming to try.