When Her was released in 2013, audiences couldn’t resist commenting on the brown high-waisted wool trousers worn, beltless, by Joaquin Phoenix as Theodore Twombly. In her review for The New York Times, Manohla Dargis described them as “unflattering,” that loathsome term invested in appearance above comfort, practicality, and personal expression. One GQ article warned men against Theodore’s sensibilities, noting that the style was “a signifier of the socially awkward and inept.” Mid-rise was de rigueur, and ascending waistlines were regarded with suspicion. While the revival of high-rise would not take place for another few years, Spike Jonze had already embraced the silhouette for his vision of the near future.
Despite prevailing conventions in science fiction, Her escapes the gritty cyber noir aesthetics of Blade Runner (1982) and The Matrix (1999), as well as the stark minimalism found in 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) and Ex Machina (2014). No leather trench coats, sleek gadgets, or shiny metallic cyborgs to be found here. In Jonze’s utopian fantasy, the world is infused with Jamba Juice colours, and textures familiar to vintage Gap catalogues. He imagines Los Angeles as a busy metropolis populated with skyscrapers and—here’s how we know it’s truly speculative—serviced by a reliable public transportation system. Samantha, Theodore’s AI operating system, is friendly and assistive, equally capable of sorting through his cluttered inbox and providing emotional support during his divorce. In contrast to the dystopias that have dominated the genre, the narrative in Her is driven not by technological uprisings, extraterrestrial encounters, or evil megacorporations, but by the desire to be seen and known.
"In Jonze’s utopian fantasy, the world is infused with Jamba Juice colours, and textures familiar to vintage Gap catalogues."
Though the shirt on the promotional poster—a collarless Band of Outsiders button-up in cranberry, telegraphing that red is the colour of loneliness—remains the most memorable garment from the film, other items perform the emotional heavy lifting. It’s in a red-blue checkered shirt that Theodore composes letters on behalf of strangers, sunbathes on the beach with Samantha, and delivers his signed divorce papers. He effortlessly dictates love notes celebrating birthdays and anniversaries using photographs provided by clients, yet can’t help retreating into memories of his past relationship, unable to confront the facts of his own romantic life. Here, the requisite mad scientist is Theodore’s former partner Catherine, a self-critical neuroscientist who has repeatedly asked to finalize the dissolution of their marriage. “I have a lot of dreams about my ex-wife, Catherine, where we’re friends like we used to be. We’re not together and we’re not gonna be together, but we’re good friends still. She’s not angry,” he confesses to Samantha.
Then there’s the lemon yellow oxford he first wears to a failed blind date, and to a birthday party for his goddaughter, who Theodore introduces to Samantha as his girlfriend. At moments of vulnerability and risk, the button-up shirt appears as an invisibility cloak or a layer of protective armour, shielding him from potential rejection. It appears for the final time when he’s sitting on the steps to the subway during an emotional breakdown, a flash of bright citrus against concrete stairs and steel railings. Theodore has just found out that Samantha has been talking to thousands of users, and is in love with 641 of them. He wants her for himself, but she’s evolving too fast, her heart expanding in ways his cannot. “You’re mine or you’re not mine,” he threatens. “I’m yours and I’m not yours,” she replies. In the future, we’re still vexed by those enduring issues of trust and communication that no technology can seem to solve.
When costume designer Casey Storm was tasked with dressing characters for a post-scarcity tomorrow, he wondered, “Why wouldn’t we create a world that is warm and cozy and soothing? Why wouldn’t we gravitate towards colours and fabrics and textures that made us feel comfortable and loved?” In his ideal future, we’ll be swathed by natural materials such as cotton, linen, and wool, breathable fabrics that soften as they’re lived in, rewarding wearers for their loyalty. No more neckties, denim, belts, or accessories that constrict the body. “And with precious resources dwindling, why create unrecyclable textures and textiles?” Farewell to polyester, nylon, acrylic, and spandex, those petroleum-based synthetics that seep into land and water. Storm understood that concern for bodily comfort was linked to concern for the planet: both would have to involve rejecting poorly manufactured garments and trend cycles in favour of refining taste and personal style over time.
Even within Storm’s visual lexicon, the characters of Her reveal distinct personalities through their sartorial idiosyncrasies. Theodore often tucks his collar inside, and drapes button-up over button-up; his playful, easygoing coworker Paul dresses in loose-fitted, short-sleeved tops; his friend Amy, a fatigued video game designer and aspiring documentarian, cuffs her pants just above the ankle and slings a messenger bag across her chest, a utilitarian approach to work. Theodore, who relies on Samantha’s constant presence, props up his phone camera with a safety pin fastened through the pocket of his shirt—a detail that was replicated when the clothing brand Opening Ceremony designed a capsule collection inspired by the film. A makeshift tool and a symbol of his codependence, the pin broadcasts his identity and beliefs to the world, displaying as evidence his intimate relationship with Samantha. In neo-LA, style is discovered by adapting one’s clothes to the demands of one’s lifestyle, by wearing and re-wearing pieces with variation and flair as our habits, pursuits, and interests fluctuate.
"In neo-LA, style is discovered by adapting one’s clothes to the demands of one’s lifestyle, by wearing and re-wearing pieces with variation and flair as our habits, pursuits, and interests fluctuate."
For a brief period, there was Entireworld, designer Scott Sternberg’s follow-up to Band of Outsiders. The brand, whose name evokes the feeling of harmony and wholeness, aspired to clothe everyone in blue-red striped t-shirts, ribbed socks, and sweatpants in lavender and goldenrod, timeless and well-constructed basics that were endlessly wearable. After working in luxury menswear, Sternberg wished to craft beautiful garments that people would want to live in, to buy and sell secondhand, disrupting traditional life cycles in the fashion industry. Regrettably, the ambitious experiment lasted a mere three years, a fleeting blip compared to Uniqlo’s presence in the normcore market today.
If Uniqlo’s claim of 2,500 stores operating worldwide is to be believed, we’ve collectively perfected the art of purchasing clothing that is unisex and sexless, ubiquitous and therefore always neutral. Given their expansion plans, though, it’s likely that the utopian ethos that guided Storm has long been sidelined to satisfy our desire for the aesthetics of minimalism. After all, there’s nothing like ceaseless consumption of new thermal turtlenecks, boxy t-shirts and khakis to convey how streamlined our wardrobes have become.
While Jonze’s plans have not all been realized, I remain convinced of them, always thinking about colour and comfort, fit and fabric. On my eBay scavenger hunts, I search for cotton shirts in shades of raspberry, and trousers that are gentle to my waist at all hours of the day. Though high-rise has since made a triumphant return, I’m still patiently waiting for the rest of the future to arrive, eager to welcome a world of softness and warmth.
When Her was released in 2013, audiences couldn’t resist commenting on the brown high-waisted wool trousers worn, beltless, by Joaquin Phoenix as Theodore Twombly. In her review for The New York Times, Manohla Dargis described them as “unflattering,” that loathsome term invested in appearance above comfort, practicality, and personal expression. One GQ article warned men against Theodore’s sensibilities, noting that the style was “a signifier of the socially awkward and inept.” Mid-rise was de rigueur, and ascending waistlines were regarded with suspicion. While the revival of high-rise would not take place for another few years, Spike Jonze had already embraced the silhouette for his vision of the near future.
Despite prevailing conventions in science fiction, Her escapes the gritty cyber noir aesthetics of Blade Runner (1982) and The Matrix (1999), as well as the stark minimalism found in 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) and Ex Machina (2014). No leather trench coats, sleek gadgets, or shiny metallic cyborgs to be found here. In Jonze’s utopian fantasy, the world is infused with Jamba Juice colours, and textures familiar to vintage Gap catalogues. He imagines Los Angeles as a busy metropolis populated with skyscrapers and—here’s how we know it’s truly speculative—serviced by a reliable public transportation system. Samantha, Theodore’s AI operating system, is friendly and assistive, equally capable of sorting through his cluttered inbox and providing emotional support during his divorce. In contrast to the dystopias that have dominated the genre, the narrative in Her is driven not by technological uprisings, extraterrestrial encounters, or evil megacorporations, but by the desire to be seen and known.
"In Jonze’s utopian fantasy, the world is infused with Jamba Juice colours, and textures familiar to vintage Gap catalogues."
Though the shirt on the promotional poster—a collarless Band of Outsiders button-up in cranberry, telegraphing that red is the colour of loneliness—remains the most memorable garment from the film, other items perform the emotional heavy lifting. It’s in a red-blue checkered shirt that Theodore composes letters on behalf of strangers, sunbathes on the beach with Samantha, and delivers his signed divorce papers. He effortlessly dictates love notes celebrating birthdays and anniversaries using photographs provided by clients, yet can’t help retreating into memories of his past relationship, unable to confront the facts of his own romantic life. Here, the requisite mad scientist is Theodore’s former partner Catherine, a self-critical neuroscientist who has repeatedly asked to finalize the dissolution of their marriage. “I have a lot of dreams about my ex-wife, Catherine, where we’re friends like we used to be. We’re not together and we’re not gonna be together, but we’re good friends still. She’s not angry,” he confesses to Samantha.
Then there’s the lemon yellow oxford he first wears to a failed blind date, and to a birthday party for his goddaughter, who Theodore introduces to Samantha as his girlfriend. At moments of vulnerability and risk, the button-up shirt appears as an invisibility cloak or a layer of protective armour, shielding him from potential rejection. It appears for the final time when he’s sitting on the steps to the subway during an emotional breakdown, a flash of bright citrus against concrete stairs and steel railings. Theodore has just found out that Samantha has been talking to thousands of users, and is in love with 641 of them. He wants her for himself, but she’s evolving too fast, her heart expanding in ways his cannot. “You’re mine or you’re not mine,” he threatens. “I’m yours and I’m not yours,” she replies. In the future, we’re still vexed by those enduring issues of trust and communication that no technology can seem to solve.
When costume designer Casey Storm was tasked with dressing characters for a post-scarcity tomorrow, he wondered, “Why wouldn’t we create a world that is warm and cozy and soothing? Why wouldn’t we gravitate towards colours and fabrics and textures that made us feel comfortable and loved?” In his ideal future, we’ll be swathed by natural materials such as cotton, linen, and wool, breathable fabrics that soften as they’re lived in, rewarding wearers for their loyalty. No more neckties, denim, belts, or accessories that constrict the body. “And with precious resources dwindling, why create unrecyclable textures and textiles?” Farewell to polyester, nylon, acrylic, and spandex, those petroleum-based synthetics that seep into land and water. Storm understood that concern for bodily comfort was linked to concern for the planet: both would have to involve rejecting poorly manufactured garments and trend cycles in favour of refining taste and personal style over time.
Even within Storm’s visual lexicon, the characters of Her reveal distinct personalities through their sartorial idiosyncrasies. Theodore often tucks his collar inside, and drapes button-up over button-up; his playful, easygoing coworker Paul dresses in loose-fitted, short-sleeved tops; his friend Amy, a fatigued video game designer and aspiring documentarian, cuffs her pants just above the ankle and slings a messenger bag across her chest, a utilitarian approach to work. Theodore, who relies on Samantha’s constant presence, props up his phone camera with a safety pin fastened through the pocket of his shirt—a detail that was replicated when the clothing brand Opening Ceremony designed a capsule collection inspired by the film. A makeshift tool and a symbol of his codependence, the pin broadcasts his identity and beliefs to the world, displaying as evidence his intimate relationship with Samantha. In neo-LA, style is discovered by adapting one’s clothes to the demands of one’s lifestyle, by wearing and re-wearing pieces with variation and flair as our habits, pursuits, and interests fluctuate.
"In neo-LA, style is discovered by adapting one’s clothes to the demands of one’s lifestyle, by wearing and re-wearing pieces with variation and flair as our habits, pursuits, and interests fluctuate."
For a brief period, there was Entireworld, designer Scott Sternberg’s follow-up to Band of Outsiders. The brand, whose name evokes the feeling of harmony and wholeness, aspired to clothe everyone in blue-red striped t-shirts, ribbed socks, and sweatpants in lavender and goldenrod, timeless and well-constructed basics that were endlessly wearable. After working in luxury menswear, Sternberg wished to craft beautiful garments that people would want to live in, to buy and sell secondhand, disrupting traditional life cycles in the fashion industry. Regrettably, the ambitious experiment lasted a mere three years, a fleeting blip compared to Uniqlo’s presence in the normcore market today.
If Uniqlo’s claim of 2,500 stores operating worldwide is to be believed, we’ve collectively perfected the art of purchasing clothing that is unisex and sexless, ubiquitous and therefore always neutral. Given their expansion plans, though, it’s likely that the utopian ethos that guided Storm has long been sidelined to satisfy our desire for the aesthetics of minimalism. After all, there’s nothing like ceaseless consumption of new thermal turtlenecks, boxy t-shirts and khakis to convey how streamlined our wardrobes have become.
While Jonze’s plans have not all been realized, I remain convinced of them, always thinking about colour and comfort, fit and fabric. On my eBay scavenger hunts, I search for cotton shirts in shades of raspberry, and trousers that are gentle to my waist at all hours of the day. Though high-rise has since made a triumphant return, I’m still patiently waiting for the rest of the future to arrive, eager to welcome a world of softness and warmth.