Who is the Rake: Robert Vaughn
Robert Vaughn was more than an actor. He was a thinker and a man of conscience, and those qualities gave him a singular presence. Not that the Man from U.N.C.L.E. let it go to his head. “I’ve stretched my 15 minutes of fame into more than half a century of good fortune,” he said.
In Hollywood’s golden age, when style was substance and charisma currency, few men embodied intellect, elegance and defiance quite like Robert Vaughn. He could wear a suit like armour, deliver a line like a dagger, and challenge the establishment with the conviction of a statesman. Vaughn was not merely a star, he was a standard.
I first met him at the Peninsula Hotel in Beverly Hills. I was taking tea with the veteran actress Gloria Stuart, remembered for her James Whale classics The Old Dark House (1932) and The Invisible Man (1933), and soon to enjoy a career renaissance as Old Rose in James Cameron’s Titanic, with Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet.
After spotting Vaughn, Stuart went over, introduced herself, and waved me across. Within minutes we were swapping stories: firstly, Gloria’s hilarious audition for Titanic director James Cameron, in which he pulled out a white wig from a Walmart carrier bag, and then fashion on film and the demise of great movie stars. Vaughn admired my pocket-square, depicting Edward VIII in coronation regalia that never was. “It finishes the look,” he said, pointing to his own immaculate scarlet and grey handkerchief. “I’m wearing Kilgour. Old but beautifully made. I can still get into this coat — just.” He grinned. “Savile Row for my suits, the Dorchester for my slumber — hands down, it’s the best hotel in London.”
Savile Row for my suits, the Dorchester for my slumber — hands down, it’s the best hotel in London.
Stuart tried to persuade Vaughn to try her go-to, the Basil in Knightsbridge, and then bemoaned the lack of style in general on- and off-screen, but complimented us both on how well we and the maître d’ dressed. Vaughn laughed. “You remember Hardy Amies?” he said. “Well, he would be telling me off if he heard me refer to this as a jacket.” He paused before adding: “Now let me get this right. It’s a coat. I’m wearing a coat. A jacket sits round hot potatoes, not on gentlemen.” He laughed again, and Stuart and I left Vaughn with his guests, who’d just arrived.
My own journey through the world of tailoring began on Savile Row, funnily enough at the house of Hardy Amies, where my aunt Brenda Consolé had once been a house model. It was there, surrounded by bolts of worsted wool and whispered stories of elegance, that I would come to truly appreciate Vaughn’s sartorial finesse. His image — and those of Douglas Fairbanks Jr., Cary Grant, aristocrats and royals — was scattered through the brand’s beautifully bound press books.
It was in one of these books that I found a quote from Vaughn: "I've been obsessed with clothes since I was a little boy." It resonated with me. He understood the language of tailoring: a lapel that signals confidence; a cuff, restraint. Vaughn didn't just wear clothes, he inhabited them.
Born in New York City in 1932 to showbiz parents, Vaughn’s early life was shaped by solitude after his father’s death. Raised in Minneapolis by his grandparents, he found refuge in literature and performance before reuniting with his mother in Los Angeles.
Academically formidable, he earned a PhD in communications at the University of Southern California with a dissertation on McCarthyism’s chilling effects on theatre. He was more than an actor; he was a thinker and a man of conscience. Reflecting once with Stuart and me, he mused: “What I’ve earned is a living. What I’ve given is a life.” I nodded. “Hey, Austin, I stole that line from Lillian Gish. Now there’s a screen pioneer for you: Gish, Valentino and Chaplin — trailblazers.”
Vaughn’s earliest roles included Medic and Frontier on television, followed by a minor part as a spearman in Cecil B. DeMille’s epic The Ten Commandments (1956) and as the killer cowboy Eddie Campbell in the well-paced western Good Day for a Hanging (1959). His breakout came with Vincent Sherman’s The Young Philadelphians (1959), where his performance as Paul Newman’s unshaven and raving alcoholic friend earned him an Oscar nomination and revealed the depth that would define his career.
But it was The Man from U.N.C.L.E. (1964-1968) that made him a household name.
As Napoleon Solo, Vaughn epitomised mid-century cool: tailored suits, slicked hair, urbane wit. “I was frankly surprised by the show’s success and the publicity for David McCallum and myself,” he admitted in 2015. When scripts later tipped into absurdity, Vaughn weathered the decline with humour, suggesting he’d simply added “camp” to his repertoire.
For Vaughn, costume was never incidental; it was character. In The Magnificent Seven (1960), black gloves signalled his gunslinger’s inner conflict. In Bullitt (1968), his tailored suits sharpened the menace of a corrupt politician. His wardrobe was a masterclass in visual storytelling.
