CIN

Costume in Noir.

“All my dresses are beautiful. They gotta be in this racket. There’s nothin’ like clothes - that’s the sugar makes the flies come round.”
Isabel Jewell in “Marked Woman”

Virtually any single element of Film Noir can be seen as iconic. A highly stylised genre, Noir relies on signals – verbal and non-verbal alike. Hard-boiled language to go with hard-boiled plot-lines. But some of the strongest elements of Noir are visual. Classic images of urban clutter in shadow-swamped, rain-sodden mean streets. And just as iconic, the people who live on those streets. The populace of film noir are not fulfilled, three dimensional people. They are ciphers, stereotypes interacting uneasily through confusing tales of morality and counter-morality.

The first – and strongest signals of noir characters have to be of the way they are dressed. An audience can tell immediately what to think of a character from tacit codes that Hollywood has dictated. Of course, the viewer has to be careful. That well-dressed sophisticat or trashily-clad hooker could be just dressing that way to send either the audience or their fellow characters down the wrong stereotypical alley.

Hollywood costume in the 40s differed in one major way from its “equivalent” in the real world. It was lavish. Despite wartime government guidelines which were supposed to restrict studio fashion to being as non-theatrical as possible, ready-made and “favourable,” designers such as Jean Louis, Edith Head and Adrian were not going to be put off. Characters from the highest echelons reigned resplendent in a different gown every scene, even the dullest housewife wore Dior versions of “bourgeois” and the lowest street bum glowed in his designer-ripped shirt. Film Noir may have been essentially B-stuff, but costume was one area in which even Budget Hollywood couldn’t stint.

Men’s costume would, at first glance, appear to have drawn the short straw. The best male characters could hope for, surely, was just a version of the male uniform, the business suit. Wide-lapelled, solid suits too. It would seem that the only way that a man’s social status could be told was in the cut of that suit or whether the shirt was grimy. Which is why it is all the more interesting to see that so much CAN be made of men’s attire. Robert Ryan’s hawaiian shirts in “Beware My Lovely” come as quite a shock, as does the dapper sight of Ralph Meeker in “Kiss Me Deadly.” Not to mention the classy campery of Clifton Webb’s delicious villain in “Laura.”

The use of jazzy ties to brighten up the drab uniform of suburban man was also codified. It designated a dandy – and usually one of the criminal persuasion. The flashier the suit, the silkier the shirt, the more likely the body within was corrupt. In a world which did not permit men to play the peacock, these garments were worn by gangsters or those “getting above themselves in station” and due for a – literal – fall. “Body and Soul” shows the rise – and fall of boxer John Garfield. As his social status grows, so do the size of his jacket shoulders. It is only fitting that by the denouement he has been reduced once more to a pair of satin shorts.

I am fascinated by the use of coats in Noir. John Garfield’s overcoat in “Body And Soul” is of the massive camel-hair variety. Humphrey Bogart’s sundry detectives are rarely seen sans trenchcoat. In an America so shortly out of the austerities of Depression and war, ownership of a coat was the ultimate luxury. No one had forgotten how recently they had been cold. Orson Welles makes a great deal of overcoats throughout his film career – from the not-quite-noir Harry Lime in “Third Man” to the disgusting Hank Quinlan in “Touch of Evil,” I do not intend to sound flippant when I say that a good part of Welles characterisation relies on his choice of overcoat in a movie…

“The Sweet Smell of Success” makes constant use of coats as symbols. Tony Curtis’ slimy PR man won’t wear a coat to the club because he can’t afford the tip for the hatcheck girl; something noted by Burt Lancaster’s equally obnoxious newspaper columnist. He, in turn, drapes his diminutive sister in a giant mink as a symbol of ownership, a garment she ultimately sheds for a beatnik duffle when she leaves him for her sensibly wool-overcoated jazz guitarist. Too much can be made of this, but I find all over-garments as revealing as lingerie. No one NEEDS to have a smoking jacket, but no self-respecting noir villain would be seen dead without one (and was frequently seen dead in one….) Take George Macready in “Gilda,” Alexander Scourby in “The Big Heat” and Clifton Webb in “Laura,” for starters…

Film Noir being essentially about urban life, the uniform of the ordinary citizen is used and corrupted as required. Delivery boys real or false –were often used as instruments of death. “Murder by Contract,” “Destination Murder” and “While the City Sleeps” all have murders by delivery men in uniform, though other times they have a more benign presence – the elderly removal man in “Kiss Me Deadly,” for example. Taxi drivers, bar men, mechanics, all are seen in their place of work. Uniform was respected. Which was why when it became defiled it was doubly shocking. William Bendix’s ex-marine in “The Blue Dahlia” put the uniform and, by implication, the flag, to shame out of service, but Robert Ryan’s racist GI in “Crossfire” was doubly upsetting as he wore his uniform throughout.

Policemen in noir were generally a comforting sight - in uniform. Plodding, yet essentially on the side of good, the uniformed cop held nothing to fear except for bona fide villains. Not so his plain-clothed counterpart. Occasionally helpful (take Phantom Lady, for example, where a straight cop is so difficult a concept for us to handle today that I suspected him throughout, first time round) but more likely to be brutal, civvies only allowed for non-detection of a bad apple in the NYPD barrel. Which brings me back to overcoats. Just check out Robert Ryan’s black manteau in the early parts of “On Dangerous Ground….”

One last note as far as men’s attire is concerned. Evening dress. Nothing short of the full white tie and tux for both hero and villain. Very Hollywood – and most appealing. Maybe some day we can go back to an era that celebrates men dressing up.

Womens’ clothes in Noir are far more complex. Note I do not refer to “fashion.” Fashion and Hollywood were virtually synonymous – in a world that relied on the movies for entertainment and glamour, Hollywood set the benchmark for the rest of the world to follow.

Women were beginning to achieve a different role in society. Much of this was down to their emancipation during the war – when they were expected to do their men’s work whilst they were on the frontline. There was some male resentment when, on their return, the women didn’t seem too keen to revert to a housebound existence. Hollywood film-makers had to find a path to tread which did not offend either half of their audience.

What resulted was a kind of codified system of “types” of women from which an audience could see at a glance where a character was coming from. These types fell into several stalls – “Good Girl,” “Bad Girl,” “Tomboy,” “Independent Woman,” etc. Within the set categories, there were all manner of hybrids – the most popular of which was the “Good-Bad girl” – every man’s fantasy. Rita Hayworth’s Gilda is the best example of this – a femme-fatale who ultimately turns out to be putting on a very convincing act for the hero, who, at the last minute, realises that he is after all “permitted” to fall in love with her.

The 1940s saw the rise of the “tough” women – who reached their apogee in Joan Crawford’s “Mildred Pierce.” Big shoulders, small waists, masculine suits, hard lines and even trousers were the tell tale signals of a tough woman, though, as if to remind men of the duplicitous nature of Woman, the Noir spiderwoman could often appear in feminine form. Take Barbara Stanwyck, whose most evil of femme fatales, Phylis Dietrichson in “Double Indemnity, wears virginal white throughout – including an n to murder for the love of stolen money which has accidentally fallen into her hands.

The vision of the idealised “nice girl” is essential – but again almost peripheral to Noir. We get glimpses of the little woman at home in a perfect situation of household bliss – Glenn Ford’s wife in “The Big Heat,” for example, who wears gingham aprons, pony tails and bakes cookies for their cherubic little girl. We also see how her murder is enough to turn Ford into an avenging angel. This was Hollywood’s utopian vision of hometown America and was frequently used – and corrupted - as necessary. A favourite corruption is a femme fatale masquerading as the perfect wife of an older man oblivious to her evil ways. We are usually given some helpful signals though. The camera in true voyeuristic fashion, follows the ankle of suburban housewife Barbara Stanwyck downstairs, and travels up the leg of Lana Turner’s be-shorted coquettelittered like a mermaid’s scales. Gone were the flowing gowns of the thirties diva. These dresses clung to every contour and accentuated the gyrations that effortlessly emanated from the bodies of among others, Lizabeth Scott, Rita Hayworth, Veronica Lake, June Vincent, Ava Gardner… the list is far too long to be exhaustive, but those dresses never disappointed.

Of course, not every woman in film noir could be a chanteuse or a society hostess – though viewing nothing but Hollywood movies could lead to the belief that every other woman in America was employed in night clubs. No, film noir was supposed to look almost “semi-documentary” at times. “Real” people needed to be portrayed. But even American “reality” could not get away without a certain amount of Hollywood gloss. No real American woman in a time of post-wartime austerity could begin to afford to wear those clothes, but everyone could dream. And Hollywood was good at dreams. It was merely a delicate balance between getting “down to earth” characters in well, almost believable costume and giving American women something to aspire to. Sometimes the aspiration is held within the movie itself – such as “Too Late For Tears,” where a grasping “ordinary” housewife is driven to murder for the love of stolen money which has accidentally fallen into her hands.

The vision of the idealised “nice girl” is essential – but again almost peripheral to Noir. We get glimpses of the little woman at home in a perfect situation of household bliss – Glenn Ford’s wife in “The Big Heat,” for example, who wears gingham aprons, pony tails and bakes cookies for their cherubic little girl. We also see how her murder is enough to turn Ford into an avenging angel. This was Hollywood’s utopian vision of hometown America and was frequently used – and corrupted - as necessary. A favourite corruption is a femme fatale masquerading as the perfect wife of an older man oblivious to her evil ways. We are usually given some helpful signals though. The camera in true voyeuristic fashion, follows the ankle of suburban housewife Barbara Stanwyck downstairs, and travels up the leg of Lana Turner’s be-shorted coquette in “The Postman Always Rings Twice,” leaving the viewer in no uncertainty as to her “true” nature.

Leisurewear is often used to reveal a woman’s character – that she allows herself to be seen in a negligee or underwear – or even just a towel, says volumes about the “type” of woman we are watching. It says “sexy” – and often “seedy,” too. No “nice” girl would be seen in her underwear by a man. On the rare occasion that she is – as in “Touch of Evil,” it is disturbing and distressing. Underwear is usually highly sexually charged, though of course can have the opposite effect – take the lingerie worn by Esther Howard in “Murder My Sweet.” Most unappealing…

Of course, costume can be used to mislead – either other characters in the movie or the audience itself. Phantom lady uses costume ciphers from the start. Its theme of “good girl masquerading as bad girl” has heroine Kansas disguising herself as a hooker (which she seems to enjoy much more than her usual suits worn in the rest of the film.) Others include Destination Murder where a faithful wife masquerades as a cigarette girl, Veronica Lake in “This Gun For Hire” disguising herself as a night club magician (no, really…) and the ultimate – “Gilda” where even the audience is supposed to be fooled by Rita Hayworth’s bad-girl “act.” The dressing-up works the other way too – “The Big Heat” has the “faithful wife” of a murdered policeman sitting in front of a mirror in her candlewick dressing gown practising crocodile tears over the death of her husband. “The Naked Kiss” has a former prostitute dressing well - against “type,” desperately trying to get away from her image as a low-life.

Just as coats play a big part in male attire in Noir, the big status symbol of the forties woman was the fur coat – and especially the mink. Furs are constantly referred to – “a dame in Washington Heights once got a fox fur out of me,” growls a stony-faced Dana Andrews in “Laura,” “We’re sisters under the mink,” purrs Gloria Graham in “The Big Heat.” Joan Crawford’s mink in “Mildred Pierce” is emblematic of her rise in stature – both physically (it’s huge) and metaphorically.

The 1940s and 50s were the last bastion of the hat, and in its final death throes, it was at its most expansive. Jane Greer’s gigantic cartwheel creation in “Out of the Past,” for example, Veronica Lake’s head dresses – in virtually any film you care to name and, of course THAT hat in “Phantom Lady” – the one on which a man’s life depends – saw the apex of headwear. Even into the fifties hats were still important, especially the ubiquitous beret worn by everyone from Lana Turner to Peggy Cummins. This most democratic of headwear pioneered by Marlene Dietrich in the thirties, continued to reign supreme amongst gals from the wrong side of the tracks, even earning a reprise from the diva herself in the final scene of “Touch of Evil.”

Jewellery and accessories were often used as symbols and ciphers – from the iconic ankle bracelet worn by Barbara Stanwyck to the missing brooch in “Black Angel” and the lost necklace in “Murder My Sweet.” Masks, both literal and metaphorical reveal and conceal feelings and personalities. The masked ball in “Gilda,” for example, is one of the most sexually charged scenes in the entire film, whereas the faces created by plastic surgery in films such as “Hollow Triumph” and “Dark Passage” have a much more sinister tone.

A quick word about the new world of teenage sexuality – something hitherto unrecognised by movies – or by society as a whole. “Gun Crazy,” “They Live By Night,” “The Red House,” and the deeply seedy “Ashphalt Jungle” all show teenagers as a new and potentially dangerous entity. Old, wholesome images of teenagers promoted by the studios in the thirties – Deanna Durbin, Mickey Rooney, Judy Garland (well, on-screen, at least) were out. The new teenagers were seen as deadly – and dressed as such. Tight sweaters, tight skirts, tight blouses – tight everything, in fact, were juxtaposed by childish ankle socks and hair ribbons in a deliberate bid to shock.

There is a lot more to costume in Noir than I have lain out in this essay. Much has been written on the subject of both everyday clothing and Hollywood costume in the forties and I would refer the reader to specialist fashion historians such as Colin McDowell for further reading.

Site based on a design by Rick Clark,

reinterpreted and maintained by RoninG Systems