055A column about clothes and movies by Christina Newland
#14: Polyvinyl chloride
Threads
Illustration by Laurène Boglio
here’s a very specific vernacular that goes along with wearing
PVC. Whether its a Kardashian-style rubber dress or a pair of
throwback go-go boots, the oil-slick, reflective quality is striking
and futuristic. This is a material that moulds to the wearer’s body like
a latex glove, and the neon glow of the nightlife bounces off it perfectly.
It screams of modernity, of audacity, and of the tension between
discomfort and pleasure that so many of its cinematic representations
have touched on. Whether it’s in outré science fiction like The Fifth
Element or verboten erotic thrillers like Bitter Moon, PVC clothing is
never middle of the road.
To begin with, PVC was never thought of as a fashion item. It was
invented mostly by accident when chemists were experimenting with
vinyl chloride gas and reslised it could solidify. For the first half-century
of its existence, PVC was used for waterproofing, insulation of pipes,
plumbing, and other utilitarian purposes; it wasn’t until the 1960s
when fashion designers like Paco Rabanne began to integrate PVC into
their clothing, particularly trousers, coats, and miniskirts. The decade’s
obsession with the assorted visual signifiers of space-age living made this
material au courant in a way it had never been before. Rabanne designed
Audrey Hepburn’s wardrobe in 1967 film Two for the Road, including a
pair of slim black vinyl trousers that only someone with Hepburn’s tiny
frame could fit into. In various cutting edge movies from this time, PVC
was representative of the boldly progressive, overtly sexual, and the
borderline avant-garde. Antonioni’s Blow Up and William Klein’s Who
Are You, Polly Maggoo? ( both 1966), two films that centre the fashion
world, both feature the fabric.
By the ‘70s, PVC clothing entered into the realm of the subcultures
of goth, punk, and BDSM – perhaps most potently conjured by its
popularity at Vivienne Westwood’s original punk outfitter, SEX, in
London. Onscreen, it was fully adopted by the prostitute and the
dominatrix, who would – for decades to come – remain the most
frequent wearers of PVC.
In Barbet Schroeder’s 1976 movie Maitresse, Gerard Depardieu
becomes entangled in a complicated affair with Ariane (Bulle Ogier),
a professional dominatrix who whips and beats submissive men while
wearing a full PVC catsuit. Her sleek, skin-tight outfit connotes auniform look, borrowed from the world of the technical. PVC is also
physically restrictive – often to the point of being nearly impossible to
move in – which undoubtedly plays into its popularity in BDSM imagery
and fantasy.
The sexual element of PVC would meet the futuristic in sci-fi films,
where the sex worker ‘replicants’ of Blade Runner (1982) donned
transparent PVC coats over lingerie and black vinyl boots. An exception
to prove the rule might be Carrie Anne Moss in cult classic The Matrix
(1999), who is an active and powerful presence rather than a sterile
plaything. Still, you’ve got to wonder how she does so many action
sequences in such a profoundly uncomfortable outfit.
Aside from the sexiness of its curve-clinging attributes, the sheen of
PVC denotes perennial wetness. In Luis Buñuel’s Belle du Jour (1967),
Catherine Deneuve’s bored housewife moonlights as a high-class call girl
and wears a wardrobe designed by Yves Saint Laurent. During one of her
visits to the brothel she works at, she appears in a black PVC raincoat,
signifying a shift from the soft neutrals she usually wears; she’s taking
back a sense of identity. In Pretty Woman (1990), the connection works in
reverse. Streetwalker Julia Roberts dashes around in knee-high stiletto
PVC boots – but must trade them in for classier garments in order to get
the man of her dreams. While Catherine Deneuve’s prostitute breaks
traditional romantic structures to get power and pleasure from dressing
in PVC, Julia Roberts is returned to the safety of status quo gender roles
by being divested of her sexy clothing. Often, the more mainstream the
movie, the less radical the wearing of PVC tends to be. Angelina Jolie
goes all-out in a rubberised black corset and a whip for Mr and Mrs.
Smith (2005), but it’s just a spy’s disguise – a make-believe game, with
no real sexual or emotional stakes.
In Batman Returns (1992), Michelle Pfeiffer became the pin-up
fantasy of her generation as Catwoman, sewn into a black PVC bodysuit
so insanely tight that she admitted she couldn’t use the bathroom while
she was wearing it. Maybe more than anything else, PVC is sexy because
of its very discomfort. It suggests pleasure with severe limitations; the
slight crush of pressure on the ribcage or tug of vinyl at the throat. When
women wear PVC onscreen, they’re telling us that sexiness sometimes
hurts a littleT
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