Blue Stocking

There’s a much derided continuity error in Alfred Hitchock’s 1955 To Catch a Thief, in a scene set in Nice’s flower market. Cary Grant (as John Robie, the not-necessarily-retired jewel thief) and the ineffable John Williams (as insurance-man HH Hughson) walk and talk as they weave between market shoppers and Technicolor displays of carnations and gladioli. The tanned back of a woman in a pink dress walks past them, and then almost immediately walks past again.

This woman – and more importantly her low-backed, sleeveless, tight-waisted, candyfloss-pink frock – is foremost among the reasons I watch this film every July as I wait for the holidays to arrive. To Catch a Thief says everything I want to hear about summer: the glittering Mediterranean, striped parasols, beach clubs, picnics in open-topped roadsters, costume parties, diamonds – and, in this scene and a few others, the sundress of dreams.

We will of course all have our own version of the perfect sundress. The term was first coined in the ’40s, to indicate a cool, simple little number, sleeveless for the heat but smart enough to go to the soda fountain in. Not flashy – the ’40s were a utilitarian decade – but practical and flattering. Come the ’50s, the standard was set, probably for all time, by Roman Holiday-era Audrey Hepburn, with her slender brown arms, standard-issue post-rationing 22-inch waist, and a pretty clavicle.

Many photographs of Hepburn at this time, whether on a film set dressed by Givenchy or on the golf course in white piqué, show the actress in one version or another: wide-set straps either broad or spaghetti-slim, square or bateau-necked, cinched by a belt and big-skirted, falling somewhere below the knee and occasionally all the way to the ankle. For many this will be the classically perfect, exquisitely proportioned image that springs to mind when the s-word is deployed, and my own two old faithful summer frocks, to be brought out again this year after more than two decades’ service between them, fall into this category. One is by German designer Dorothee Schumacher, black, boat-necked, low-backed, sleeveless, calf-length. The other is original ’50s cotton batik, with a design of peacocks in teal and coral, wide-necked, eye-wateringly tight at the waist and calling to mind Kenyan beach-bungalow life circa 1950.

But – and I have to admit to reserving the batik number for days when I am feeling both strong and undernourished – body shapes have, like it or not, changed since the 1950s, and the sundress has moved with the times. When freedom from corsets – and the rest – arrived in the ’60s, it morphed, under the influence of the queen of Palm Beach psychedelic florals Lilly Pulitzer, into a thigh-skimming trapeze shift. Hard to resist this incarnation, immortalised in the poolside photographs of Slim Aarons, California-cocktail-ready with jewelled necklines, glimpsed on Jackie Kennedy, Sharon Tate and Sophia Loren alike. But by the mid-70s we’d moved on again. Floating maxi-gowns were the flavour of the moment, with Elizabeth Taylor and even Grace Kelly straying on to muumuu territory; the trend had jumped the shark.
In the 21st century, post-pandemic with year-round sunshine beckoning and cruise clothing once again a phenomenon, we’re spoiled for choice. We can go body-con straight and narrow or Molly-Goddard-voluminous: mini, midi, maxi or barely there – but always sleeveless. The strappy shorts playsuit has made a late bid for predominance, but it’s only pretending to be a dress (and think about the inconvenience, when in seaside conveniences).

My own current favourite is French designer Thierry Colson, who since 2005 has been quietly making exquisitely airy, gorgeous dresses for summer, using crisp Italian poplins or feather-light block-printed Indian cotton with a distinctly French Empire flavour: dramatic, romantic, flattering, and exquisitely comfortable. I was wearing his blue and white striped Valeria – off the shoulder straps, huge skirt, pockets – in Paris last August when an elegant Parisienne d’un certain age (and believe me, this breed is not known for passing personal remarks of any stripe) whispered as she passed, beautiful dress. Reader, I held my head a fraction higher, my frivolous heart beat faster, and I walked on air. I may even have felt like an extra on To Catch a Thief.

Christobel Kent is a Gold Dagger-nominated author. She has lived in Essex, Modena, Florence and Cambridge and has written seventeen novels, ten of which are set in Italy. Her latest novel “In Deep Water” is out now