1999 was the era of the unironic short skirt/long jacket. CJ’s wardrobe reflects it perfectly: tailored pantsuits, crisp white open-collar blouses layered over camisoles, and heels (always heels) even though she’s already tall enough to command a room without them. She peers over her reading glasses at the press corps with equal parts patience and authority, and every so often, she steps into something extraordinary.
One of my favorites is the Armani gown from Season 2’s “Galileo,” when she attends an event at the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. Off-the-shoulder, with a blue-and-white toile bodice and a shimmering blue skirt, finished with a matching wrap, it’s stunning. But the truth is, CJ would have been just as compelling in anything. The clothes helped, but they weren’t the point.
She had presence. She had command. She had style in the way that transcends fashion.
As I watch her, Sam, Josh, Toby, Charlie, and Abbey Bartlet (the impeccable Stockard Channing) move through rapid-fire “walk and talks” that made Aaron Sorkin’s writing so distinctive, I feel a kind of nostalgia that goes beyond hemlines and tailoring.
Because it wasn’t just the clothes.
Every professional man in the cast wore button-down shirts and ties, with polished shoes that caught the light as they moved down the hallway. When I was growing up, before I left for college, I used to iron my father’s dress shirts, carefully finishing the collars with starch. I remember watching him polish his shoes to a glossy shine, rotating through his ties with intention, matching them to each shirt like it mattered—because to him, it did.
There was pride in it. Care.
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