As the internet pointed out, we’re nowhere close to wearing the fashion that ‘Blade Runner’ promised us. Frankly, this is not the first time this has happened. I’ve been taking notes.
There’s an oft-asked question that continues to be asked, where one queries the whereabouts of our hoverboard, the one promised to us by Marty McFly’s visit to 2015 in Back to the Future: Part II. The answer to that question lies in another truth, in that movies lie to us. This week, we suffered another reverse as Ridley Scott’s vision of our time in Blade Runner was spectacularly off the mark. Not only do we not have synthetic owls, Rutger Hauer bots or origami based team-building exercises, but we’re also minus the sweet sweet threads that were promised to us.
All those hopes of that wardrobe, are lost, like blah blah blah. But it got me thinking, we’ve been promised much by sci-fi, and often, they’ve left us wanting. So, if you’ll like to, please follow me down this hole of disappointment.
Akira – Kaneda’s motorcycling outfit.
There’s a lot to be annoyed at here. Akira was set in 2019, a time where Armageddon destroyed old Tokyo, freeing her residents to succumb to their base fashion urges. You could dress like a clown and look tough, and the jumpsuit came roaring back into vogue. It was all fine. It was a time of the celebration of the body, even if that body twisted outside its original borders through telekinesis and became a giant destructive murdery-baby.
All good, right? Well, protagonist Kaneda was our primary antagonist in the fashion stakes, as he committed entirely to reddish hues, matching his motorcycle to fit his clothes. Peep game at his ensemble. The pants, gloves, energy weapon laser thingo, they all match. Also, check out the cut on that jacket. Ruffled sleeves, complex collar, unashamedly 1980s, but in a slimming way.
It’s fair to say that Kaneda is your regular basic bitch. He spends most of the narrative yelling at people, and he finds a partner that looks and dresses exactly like him. Whatever powers your motorcycle, dingus.
Escape from LA – Snake’s leather snakeskin ensemble.
If there’s one thing I know about dystopian futurepresents, it’s that as soon as the bomb drops, or society falls away, as does the restrictive nature of gendered clothing. This is best evidenced by the snake hips of Snake Plissken, uber-soldier and grumbly dude, who snuck around an extremely dangerous 2013 Los Angeles in this number:
There’s a lot to unpack here, as you can’t really see his packet, but the fact that it’s all leather (and it’s all one piece) really flies my glider. The combination of the eyepatch and the pistol scope you need to look through speaks volumes. He might not have peripheral version, but sex appeal he surely does. He doesn’t need to see, because you see him. Is that a walkie-talkie? Be nice, bad man.
The superfluous fingerless gloves are a particular boon also, as they also happen to match one’s motorcycle. Bit of a theme here.
Mad Max III – Rockatansky’s gunslinger outfit, Tina’s chainmail nonsense.
Mad Max’s universe is defined by a shortage of something. Gasoline, law, speeding tickets. However, despite all the nothing they’ve got, they’ve got a surplus of boldness. Protagonist Max, the dude defined by his complete lack of personality, has evolved his fashion through the three instalments:
Obviously, the difference is what’s wrapped around his neck. I’m unsure why a scarf is necessary in the Wasteland, but fashion is all about superfluous boldness. Old Mate has also completed the look with a gunslingers belt, clearly just there for the look, matched nicely with the dull faraway glint in his eye. He’s still here, but he’s not. In this image, Max has emerged from the pupa, no longer mad, now nicely apathetic, wonderfully duckfaced. That. Is. Fashun.
Whereas, I don’t believe that Tina effort is fashion. It’s attempting to be something, but dunno. The fact that she’s blinded her underlings, perhaps so they don’t give her notes, is not the way forward. We get better through criticism, Tina.
We don’t need another zero.
As for our next exercise in disappointment, we’re a mere 15, 717 sleeps away from the future that the Jetson’s assumed. Surely they’ll get that right.