THE ETHICS OF DECEPTIVE DRESSING
She: You’re meeting my parents tomorrow night, so wear a suit.
He: A suit? I lead a rock band. I don’t have a suit.
She: Borrow one. My parents are old school. They want me to marry a banker or insurance executive. So wear a suit.
He: I’ll just tell them I’m a banker. OK?
She: No way. Lying is unethical.
* * * *
That’s pretty close to the scenario in Johnny Depp v. Amber Heard, a trial heard in Virginia.
Apparently it’s a pop culture phenomenon, though I’m usually out of that loop. But I’m a faithful follower of the New York Times. I usually skim over the Thursday “Style” section—fashion not being my strong suit.
However, a piece in that section had caught my eye. It was about the trial on the cross-defamation claims (he wants $50 million, she doubled him back at $100 million) between actor Johnny Depp and his ex-wife, actress Amber Heard. Unlike thousands of social media followers, I knew little about the case, which involves ultra-sordid accusations flying back and forth about physical abuse, verbal abuse, cocaine—and even fecal matter on the marital bed. And worse: Heard had apparently called matinee idol Depp “an old fat man”! Ugh. (While clerking, I worked on death penalty appeals that were easier to stomach.)
But the Times Style section piece focused on one aspect of the trial that interested me: how the two protagonists were dressed at trial. Both arrived in dark suits—he in a three-piece, with buttoned-to-the-top vest, and she in a well-tailored woman’s outfit.
From their first entrance, Mr. Depp and Ms. Heard looked their parts: not as showy people-page magnets, but as respectful members of society sensitive to the seriousness of the moment, the traditions of the court and the weight of the truth. You’ve heard of dress to impress? This is dress to suggest.
Both appeared notably. . . sober, at least judging by the clothes. In a trial that turns in part on drug and alcohol abuse and related extreme behavior, including physical violence, that is no coincidental thing.
Thus in one corner: Mr. Depp, a man who tends to be rock star-meets-gypsy king, in three-piece suits in navy, gray, and black, vests always fully buttoned up, tie tucked in, a silk pocket square displayed in his left breast pocket. The silver skull jewelry that has been his signature is toned down; the scarves and desert boots left behind.
It’s not exactly Wall Street functionary—the dark shirts and abstract print ties speak to a different cinematographic stereotype—but it’s pretty close to prosperous burgher. Even his hair is pulled back neatly in a ponytail, as if to underscore the fact he has nothing to hide: not his eyes or his face or his truth.
A rager, as the defense suggests, with some uncontrolled “monster” (as the text messages submitted as evidence termed it) within? As if.
In the other corner: Ms. Heard, similarly suited in classic, muted tones of gray and navy. She wears trouser suits or skirts to the mid-calf; blouses buttoned up all the way up, often with ties or pussy bows; belts and pumps. Tasteful, but not telegraphing expense. Her makeup is subtle; her jewelry, small. Her hair is done in a series of complicated 1930s updos, braids and buns, the occasional tendril just escaping its bonds.
Her vibe is not victim or naïve innocent or madonna, often a tactic for female defendants. (See Ms. Sorokin, who sometimes wore white baby-doll dresses at her trial appearances, or Elizabeth Holmes of Theranos, who carried a diaper bag.) Rather, Ms. Heard suggested demure and competent girl Friday, from an era when women had to struggle to be heard—and when they nevertheless came to the aid of the home front and proved their valor.
Unstable, in the words of the prosecution? A fantasist? Clearly not.
* * * *
The right to wear what you want in court is part of the right to a fair trial. And as clothing can affect perception in a negative way, it can also work to an individual’s advantage. It allows you to continue to represent your position, even when you aren’t on the stand; when you are just sitting silently in place. As a result, an entire subspecialty of the styling profession has developed focusing on courtroom attire.
* * * *
. . . that to counteract preconceptions of the star players as squabbling hysterical celebrities with skewed value systems and distorted morals, they had to don the camouflage of trust. The clothes we subliminally associated with adulthood, responsibility, and reliability.
In a word: suits.
* * * *
In the end, this is partly a trial of image, and of how things appear on the outside versus what happens behind closed doors. Of natural prejudices—about celebrity and what it represents, of privilege, of gender roles—and the way such preconceptions can be altered via appearance and affect.
Was Ms. Heard playing a role, as Mr. Depp’s lawyers suggested? Of course. So was Mr. Depp. (So were their lawyers.) Not just because they are professional actors, but because that is what testimony demands: a convincing portrayal of honesty, of believability, using all the tools available to create character.
As the Times put it, “The outfits worn in court by Johnny Depp and Amber Heard give their own testimony.”