A little over a month after its global release on September 25, the new historical drama House of Guinness continues to dominate Netflix’s charts, proving itself to be just as addictive as the stout. From the creator of the acclaimed Peaky Blinders, Steven Knight, the eight-part series has been likened to a 19th-century, Irish take on Succession, in which the corporate boardroom is swapped for the iconic Guinness brewery. Loosely based on true events, the series opens in 1868 with the death of the family patriarch, Benjamin Guinness (grandson of the brewery’s founder, Arthur Guinness), and dramatizes the chaos that unfolds as his four children, Arthur (Anthony Boyle), Edward (Louis Partridge), Anne (Emily Fairn), and Benjamin (Fionn O’Shea) struggle to preserve their family’s dynasty amidst salacious scandals and an increasingly unstable political landscape.
Reviews from critics have been divided, and indeed it is not hard to see why – while certain elements of the show do deserve praise, there is arguably more to critique, especially within the costume department. Division is a prominent theme within the series itself, as is reflected in the costume design; between the sophisticated, tailored silhouettes of the Anglo-Irish Ascendancy (the Guinnesses) and the seemingly leprechaun-inspired wardrobes of the Irish Republican Brotherhood (the Fenians), it is hard to imagine a collection that could rival its highs and lows.
To begin with the positives, House of Guinness is not a complete fashion failure – in fact, with regards to the costumes of the Guinnesses in particular, it is far from it. An accomplished costume designer (his work ranges from the gritty TV show Skins to the BBC’s War and Peace), Edward K. Gibbon is no stranger to the world of the period drama, and alongside associate costume designer Nadine Clifford, succeeded in creating some truly stunning historical pieces for House of Guinness. Taking the black and white of Guinness as his primary colour palette, the costumes of each Guinness sibling pay beautiful homage to 1860s fashion, while simultaneously reflecting their uniqueness in character. While both Arthur and Edward Guinness don the morning coats, waistcoats, and three-piece suits that characterised the menswear of the period, Edward’s collars are notably stiffer, his silhouettes slightly more restricted, in a nod to his role as the strait-laced, reserved brother. On the other hand, Arthur’s flamboyancy is subtly expressed through dress– sporting bright prints, playful pussy-bows and silk ties, and harnessing accessories like a top hat and walking stick, he evokes the well-known figure of the 19th-century dandy, although Gibbon and Clifford are careful not to veer into the territory of the overtly camp. Benjamin, the family’s black sheep, is fashionably dishevelled, with his oversized coats and loose, unbuttoned shirts standing in stark contrast to his two brothers’ elegant, tailored designs.
Yet while the fashion of the Guinness men is certainly praiseworthy for both its personality and historical accuracy, it is through the costumes of the Guinness women that Gibbon’s and Clifford’s talent shines. Although the wardrobes of each Guinness member contain both black and white pieces, it is notably the two most prominent Guinness women, Anne and her Aunt Agnes (Dervla Kirwan), whose costumes almost exclusively weave the two colours together in meticulously constructed designs, depicting them as the unofficial representatives of the House of Guinness. While they play no role in the operations of the family brewery, they (alongside Edward’s wife Adelaide Guinness, played by Ann Skelly) oversee the family’s extensive charitable works, such as housing projects for the Dublin poor, and have, in the words of Anne, “appointed themselves as official guardians of the family’s reputation”. By combining the lace, ruffles, crinoline skirts and fitted bodices of these Victorian women with the official colours of their House, Gibbon and Clifford elevate them and their philanthropy to the same level of importance as the male-dominated brewery.
Whereas the unionist Guinness family serve to display some truly exceptional dressmaking, it is with the members of the Irish Republican Brotherhood (referred to as the Fenians) that the generosity, and to be frank, effort of the costume designers seems to wither and die. The striking aesthetics and visually appealing colour scheme of Anglo-Irish fashion are immediately disrupted as soon as the Fenians in all their angsty leprechaun glory grace our screens. In what can only be described as a juvenile and embarrassing bid to emphasise their Irishness, the Fenian wardrobe essentially consists of a very singular colour scheme: green. Indeed, despite multiple outfit changes and significant screen time, Ellen Cochrane (Niamh McCormack), who is largely portrayed as the brains behind the Fenians’ affairs, is fashioned in various accents of green in all but one occasion at the end of the series, as her loyalties begin to blur. As if their tattered green clothing is not enough to hammer home the leprechaun cliché, both Ellen and her brother, Patrick Cochrane (Seamus O’Hara) are fiery redheads. An insult to the memory of the actual Irish men and women who fought and died for our independence, the Fenians’ costumes (and in the case of Paddy, neanderthal stupidity) function to reduce them to mere caricatures.
In an interview with RTÉ, Gibbon stated that although he lacked knowledge of Irish colonial history due to his British schooling, he was eager not to present the Fenians as “a poor, angry, rabble…That was really important to us, and hopefully, that comes through on screen”. Although I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Gibbon could not have missed the mark more. A poorer and angrier looking mob would be hard to find; in fact, I dread to think of how “angry” Fenians would have been styled if their current costumes are supposed to retain some semblance of sophistication. The fashion crimes of the IRB (committed alongside other illegal activities) extend to their international branch in New York, the Fenian Brotherhood; although these men oversee the complicated machinations of a secret, revolutionary organisation, none appear to be capable of operating a hairbrush or razor. It appears not only are the Fenians opposed to British colonial rule, but also to personal grooming (as opposed to Arthur Guinness with his immaculately waxed moustache). Even after acquiring wealth, Byron Hedges (who works to establish a connection between the Fenians in New York and the Guinness family, played by Jack Gleeson) more closely resembles a flashy Mad Hatter than a cosmopolitan agent. Unlike the Guinnesses and their quiet luxury, it would appear (for the Fenians at least) that money can’t buy style.
Discerning the implications of such costume choices is paramount. In comparison to the refined taste of the Protestant elite, the facetious dress of the Fenians and their overall scruffiness serve to undermine the importance of their anti-colonial cause. It is quite clear where loyalties lie. House of Guinness, therefore, illuminates the role of costume design in unveiling both the conscious and/or unconscious biases of its producers. While the series ends on an open note, fashion fans will leave with their own questions:
Will the Fenians ever discover the array of colours that exist beyond green? Will they receive harsher custodial sentences for their crimes against fashion as well as the British Empire?
Here’s hoping Season 2 will tell.
