Dressing Down: Costume, Disguise and the Performance of Ordinariness

CC 1 (1) pp. 45–57 Intellect Limited 2014

Barbara Brownie University of Hertfordshire

Dressing down: Costume, disguise and the performance of ordinariness

Abstract Keywords Disguise – the substitution of one identity for another – is a deliberate act of disguise construction and an elimination of self. Through costume, signs of self are concealed ordinariness and erased, and in their place appears an apparently complete alternative identity. performance Although dress is typically aspirational, reflecting a desire to imitate those of higher film socio-economic status, this article observes that there are occasions on which it is Superman desirable to use costume to reduce status, and to escape the perceived pressures Coming to America and responsibilities of social or economic power. In trans-status disguise, it is The Saint necessary to abandon all outward indicators of individuality and status: to perform ordinariness. Performance of ordinariness is a means to an end: a tool to enable behaviour that would otherwise be inappropriate or impossible. Inspired by Jacob Riis’s How the Other Half Lives, nineteenth-century journalists used costume to experience life in the poorest sections of society with the aim of increasing trans-status empathy. In screen-based narratives, a disguise can often be pivotal to a plot, particularly since, in these primarily visual media, costume is a key identifying feature of any character. Taking as examples, Coming to America, Superman and The Saint, this article observes how costume permits a perceived lowering of status, which in turn enables liberation. In particular, it will propose that there are parallels between the social experiments of nineteenth-century journalists and the fictional narratives of twentieth-century television and cinema.

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1. Underpinning fashion Performing ordinariness is the desire to imitate ‘social elites by their So often in real life, clothes are aspirational. They reflect the ambition to be more social inferiors’ (Crane attractive, more wealthy or more sophisticated than we really are. Indeed, the 2000: 6). whole fashion cycle relies on consumers’ desires to achieve or emulate a higher 2. Zeus took the form of socio-economic status than we really have (Crane 2000: 6).1� Films and television Alkmene’s husband in order to go to bed shows that present trans-status disguise typically introduce a character who has with her. Although he a special status to which many aspire. He or she may be royalty, aristocracy, a later confessed his true identity to Semele, he celebrity or a business tycoon. It soon becomes apparent in these narratives that initially approached high socio-economic status comes hand in hand with certain responsibilities. her as a mortal man. Wealth can be oppressive as much as it is liberating. In their haute-couture 3. Throughout the dresses and tailored suits, these characters have privilege, but not freedom. In Bible, angels appear order to taste reality they must discard their designer garb and disguise them- in human form so as not to frighten the selves in a wardrobe of normalcy. Through costume, audiences are shown the recipients of their contrast between the lives of the privileged and the deprived. As a privileged messages. The Devil is character learns the freedoms and restraints of ordinariness, audiences are invited also known to present himself as human to reassess their assumptions about people at both ends of the social scale. so that he may offer Those with power often find that it limits their opportunities to engage in temptation without arousing suspicion everyday activities or socialize and empathize with ordinary people. Power, from his victim. be it social or physical, can be isolating. It is for this reason that so many Japanese folklore Greek gods and goddesses have felt the desire to present themselves as mere tells of foxes who transform themselves mortals. Zeus, in particular, had a habit of presenting himself in mortal form into humans, typically so that he could seduce mortal women.2� His sister, Demeter, goddess of the as attractive young harvest who disguised herself as an elderly woman in order that she could women. walk among men in search of her lost child, was considered to be one of the few Greek deities who was truly able to empathize with human suffer- ing (Radford 2007: 126; Passman 1993: 59). The theme of heavenly creatures presenting themselves in a human form – a form of which their human audience may be unafraid – continue in folklore and religious tales throughout the world.3� They are also reflected in popular culture, in comic books, film and television, particularly in tales of superheroes who pose under a secret identity. These disguises grant intimacy with an audience that would otherwise be wary of their presence, and may treat them with hostility. These characters’ disguises invite trust and provide reassurance that their actions will be just as mundane as their appearance. It is common for something ‘regarded as familiar’ to be ‘beyond question’ and ‘thus taken for granted’ (Mollering 2006: 368). While we may be suspicious of an outsider, or anyone who presents themselves as socially or physically superior, someone who is our equal or inferior is rarely considered a threat, and it is for this reason that closed social groups are unlikely to accept interlopers unless they have the appearance of one of their own (Blumer 1982: 252). The substitution of one identity for another is a deliberate act of construction. In disguising himself, a player constructs one of his two identities, carefully layering and combining signifiers to ensure that his appearance is appropriate for his role. All of us perform this same task of identity construction when we dress:

As social beings, we express ourselves through our clothes […] identity is not a property of the person, but is enacted through dress in the multiple selves people can try on and display in their everyday lives. Identity is not fixed; it is an evolving, constructive process. (Strashnaya 2012: 52)

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We dress for occasion – for work or for play – and take care to choose an outfit that communicates suitable messages for each role. At work, we dress sombrely, signifying our willingness to bow to authority and perform serious tasks; and out on the town we dress either more casually or more vibrantly, signifying that we expect to relax or to have fun. In essence, work clothes demonstrate commitment to a boss or a task, while casual clothes suggest commitment to oneself. While we all partake in identity construction for our various roles, for those in disguise the task involves a more extreme act of differentiation. The two costumes must differentiate between two vastly different personas: one genuine, and one false. The player must invent a role entirely different from any that are natural to his or her own (but that seems natural to observers), and must interpret that invented persona in a combination of mannerisms, gestures, behaviours, accents and, crucially, costume. In disguise, the player experiences liberation through the acceptance of others.

Trans-status disguise and self-objectification Anyone who must inhabit different identities – actors, spies, con-men, superheroes – must have ‘an undeniably complex relationship with self’. The act of dressing in costume ‘gives him a heightened awareness of the methods by which we create and recreate selves [through] the act of clothing and re-clothing’ (Walter 2011). By differentiating his two alter egos through costume, the player acknowledges the power that clothes have in expressing identity, and so embraces the idea that he can be judged according to his wardrobe. As Lucy Collins (2011) observes, the act of dress in identity construction is an acknowledgement of objectification. The player makes the conscious choice to have two different wardrobes because he understands that audiences will assess him according to his appearance. Audiences will readily objectify him and his alter ego, and this is something that he is able to exploit. Indeed, it is in the player’s interest to invite objectification – to be judged according to his appearance – as the secret of his true identity does not lie far from the costumed surface. Dressing down, and inviting objectification, is core to experiments in ‘trans-status disguise’ (Hyland 2002), a practice that flourished in the late nineteenth-century social experiments. In 1890, Jacob Riis published How the Other Half Lives, a taxonomy of class structure which included notes on ‘bodily signifiers’ of class, most notably, costume. In his text, Riis invited readers to covertly ‘be with and among [the] people [of lower socio-economic status] until you understand their ways’ with the aim of encouraging greater trans- status empathy (Schocket 1998: 112–18). There then began a trend for articles in British and American periodicals that featured the observations of ‘middle- class [reporters] who briefly lived “working-class” lives’. The accounts of these writers reveal dress as core in the construction of a trans-status disguise. In 1903, Jack London expressed surprise at how remarkably attitudes towards him changed when he donned a frayed jacket. The jacket, he noted, became a ‘badge and advertisement of [his perceived] class’. By ‘vesting [him]self in class-specific apparel’ he invited observers to make assumptions about his socio-economic status, and in so doing created opportunities to ‘move freely’ among social groups that had formerly viewed him as an outsider (London 1903, cited in Schocket 1998: 119). These practices did not die out at the turn of the century. More recent experiments demonstrate that trans-status disguise continues to serve

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its purpose. Hard Work: Life in Low Pay Britain records Polly Toynbee’s experiences of working undercover on the minimum wage in order to expose the difficulties encountered by those of a lower socio-economic status than herself and her readers. Over the course of a year, Toynbee took a number of low-wage jobs, including one as a nursery assistant that took her to the familiar setting of Whitehall. When she encountered Peter Mandelson, whom Toynbee had ‘known for many years’, ‘he looked straight at [her] […] but did not recognise [her] at all’ (Toynbee 2003: 120–21). Her uniform made her ‘unnoticed in Whitehall, part of the woman’s world that doesn’t count […] an absolutely invisible non-person’ (Toynbee 2003: 120). These journalists and sociologists cloaked themselves in a ‘signified cloth granting liberation and opportunity’ (Fhlainn 2009: 9). The clothes reduced their status, masking anything remarkable about their profession or prestige, and they found themselves empowered. The disguises gave them a peculiar power of normalcy and anonymity, which allowed them to partake in relationships and activities that were previously out of their reach. In fiction, the player experiences this same liberation. In his civilian clothes he is able to walk down the street, sleep in an ordinary bed, shop for groceries and form relationships. The civilian clothing provides relief from the constant pressure to live up to the demands of prestige or privileged ancestry.

Disguise on stage and screen: transparency and illusion Audiences have a peculiar fascination with ordinariness when we know that it is not authentic. Disguise is only interesting when we understand that it is an illusion. The Truman Show (dir. Peter Weir 1998) depicts an entire artificial world disguised as an idealized vision of normality, and here, as in disguise, it is the relationship between the reality and the fiction that is most interesting. As Truman’s dinghy literally collides with the edge of his fictional world, and his reality is abruptly revealed as false, his whole perception of self and his status within society comes crashing down. Similarly, tales of characters in disguise are most interesting when they negotiate the relationship between the real and the fake personas. It is a long-established convention in theatrical performance that a disguise must be transparent to the audience for the narrative to function as intended. Peter Hyland observes that, in the tradition of theatrical disguise, ‘the audience does not need to be fooled by something that it sees on stage in order to believe that the people on the stage have been fooled by it’. Indeed, audiences do ‘not expect to be fooled by stage disguise’. They need to be aware that ‘an actor who has just entered [is] playing a disguised version of the same character he had played before rather than a different character’ (Hyland 2002: 78–79). When readers see Clark Kent partake in everyday tasks, they need to know that he is capable of so much more. With this knowledge, Kent’s everyday errands and duties take on extra significance. On stage and screen, disguise is complexified by the fact that the player is already in a form of disguise. Working actors are permanently disguised. When these actors are celebrities, much of their career requires the performance of ordinariness. A celebrity may be reduced to normalcy through make-up and wardrobe. Though their famous faces draw in the crowds, their costumes must convince audiences that the roles they inhabit are familiar: ordinary housewives, businessmen, school teachers. Audiences must be able to make a distinction between the actor’s costume and the character’s costume. The

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first of these, the actor’s costume, must enable the viewer to look beyond the real-life identity of the actor to that of the character; it must be convincing. The second, the character’s disguise, must simultaneously present both of his acted identities; it must be transparent. The audience needs to appreciate that the actor is playing one role with two identities, not two separate roles. Transparency of the disguise may be enabled through plot. ‘A character intending to take on a disguise usually announces either in soliloquy or to a confidant that he or she is going to do so’ (Hyland 2002: 79). Equivalent exposition occurs when trans-status disguise is depicted on screen. In the TV series Alias, CIA spy Sydney Bristow frequently goes undercover to avoid detection. In the episode, ‘Endgame’ (season 2, episode 19, dir. Perry Lang, 2003), she creates a makeshift disguise from products on sale in a supermarket. Audiences see Sydney purchasing, among other things, a roll of gift wrap, which she then fashions into a garish skirt. In her improvised disguise, she is able to blend into a group of sorority girls as they exit the shop. Despite the crude materials, the disguise is convincing. If audiences had not seen its preparation, they may have been fooled into losing track of the star of the show. By closely observing Sydney in her transformation, audiences are able to admire her ingenuity. As Muecke (1986: 218) observes, ‘if we do not lose sight of the identity of the impersonator […] we observe […] [her] skill in playing [her] new role’. An equivalent duality is necessary for all kinds of dramatic illusion. Indeed, Anthony Dawson equates disguise to a kind of theatrical illusion (Dawson 1978, cited in Hyland 2002: 77). There are two core components to dramatic illusion. The first, the pledge, establishes a false reality. The illusionist’s tools are disguised as everyday objects (Tognazzini 1993: 356). So long as the props on stage are perceived as common objects, the audience will assume that they have properties commonly associated with those objects and are not capable of anything extraordinary. In this disguise, ‘naturalness’ (Fitzkee 1945, cited in Tognazzini 1993: 356) and ‘consistency [are] key to conviction’ (Tognazzini 1993: 355). In this instance, naturalness is akin to ordinariness. In the second stage of the illusion, the climax, there is ‘a moment of surprise […] when the spectator suddenly realises his expectations were wrong’ (Lamont and Wiseman 2005: 50). The tools that were initially established as unremarkable are revealed to be capable of extraordinary things. Trans-status disguise in film shares both of these features of dramatic illusion. A player constructs a convincingly ordinary costume, and casts himself in the role of a nobody. He presents himself as a janitor (The Fugitive, dir. Andrew Davis, 1993), a delivery man (Blazing Saddles, dir. Mel Brooks, 1974), a commuter (The Jackal, dir. Michael Caton-Jones, 1997), a waitress (Alias): someone who we would typically avoid or ignore, and of whom we would have few positive expectations. As the film climaxes and the disguise is cast aside the player reveals himself as the significant or remarkable being that he has been all along. Those who have been deceived by his costume are forced to reassess their assumptions about him and his alter ego, and to address their own willingness to objectify him in his disguise. In theatrical disguise, it is common for the false character to be a stereotype. He adopts ‘stock roles, with stereotyped […] characteristics and accoutrements’ (Muecke 1986: 219). This achieves a portrait of normalcy untainted by character quirks or micro-adjustments to uniform that mark the rest of us as expressive individuals. The player’s disguise must be stereotypical to the extent that it is bland. It must be so unremarkable and uninteresting that

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those who meet him are never intrigued enough to become curious about his identity or origins. The disguise represents conformity, normality. It is an embodiment of the ordinary. Perhaps the most ordinary disguise – the garb that most directly connotes normalcy, and also that most enables stereotyping – is a uniform. The villain in Skyfall (dir. Sam Mendez, 2012), Silva, achieves anonymity on the London Underground in a police uniform, and Bond goes unnoticed in a Chinese airport dressed as a chauffeur. One of the most enduring images from Tarantino’s Kill Bill (dir. Quentin Tarantino, 2003) is that of master assassin Elle Driver, strolling through the halls of a hospital in a nurse’s uniform, whistling the film’s unofficial theme tune. Driver’s uniform is far from genuine; it is a pastiche so clichéd that it would not look out of place in pornography. The disguise is finished with a white eye-patch, emblazoned with a red cross. The patch reveals Driver’s true identity to those that know of her existence, and denies the anonymity that a uniform would otherwise permit. Even in this conspicuous parody of a uniform, there is a pretence of anonymity. Driver is able to walk through the hospital unimpeded. The method of obtaining a uniform is occasionally revealed, as its owners are shown stripped to their undergarments. James Bond is responsible for stealing uniforms on a number of occasions, most often to infiltrate a villain’s lair. In Dr No (dir. Terence Young, 1962), Bond steals a radiation suit so that he can safely enter a nuclear reactor room while also blending in among Dr No’s army of henchmen; In Diamonds are Forever (dir. Guy Hamilton, 1971), Bond enters a hospital wearing a doctor’s coat; In Moonraker (dir. Lewis Gilbert, 1979), Bond and a co-conspirator steal yellow jumpsuits. On all of these occasions, Bond must first incapacitate the original wearer of the uniform and leave him exposed. Parodies depict a similar sequence for comedic value, including Austin Powers (dir. Jay Roach, 1997).

Prince Akeem: the man who has never tied his own shoelaces Trans-status disguise is the central theme in John Landis’s Coming to America (1988). Eddie Murphy’s pampered Prince Akeem, the heir to the throne of an exotic fictional nation, struggles to assert his independence. Akeem finds the traditions of his royal status stifling. The pressures of privilege are illustrated throughout early scenes of the film, as the Prince is forbidden to use the toilet alone or to dress himself, and is denied the choice of a bride. In conversa- tion with his father, Akeem identifies his struggles with identity, as evidenced through his lack of familiarity with the everyday process of dressing:

King Jaffe Joffer: And who are you? Prince Akeem: I am a man who has never tied his own shoes before! King Jaffe Joffer: Wrong. You are a prince who has never tied his shoes. Believe me, I tied my own shoes once. It is an overrated experience. (Coming to America, John Landis, 1988)

To Akeem, the freedom to dress oneself represents the freedom to be oneself. Even the simple act of tying one’s shoelaces takes on significance when it is performed by someone else. Dressing is the method by which common people assert identity, and so without control over the act of dressing, Akeem feels that he has no control over his life, or his destiny. The tipping point for Akeem is the moment he meets his prospective bride, a woman who has

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Figure 1: Eddie Murphy and Arsenio Hall in Coming to America (John Landis, 1988). Prince Akeem and his aide arrive in New York, conspicuous as outsiders and blatantly more privileged than the inhabitants of the borough of Queens. Image courtesy of Moviestore Collection/Rex Features.

been trained from childhood to obediently fulfil his every need. Prince Akeem yearns to find a bride who will think for herself, and concludes that he must travel to America disguised as a poverty-stricken student. To some extent, Akeem’s journey is a retelling of Mark Twain’s The Prince and the Pauper. Twain’s prince, however, was lowered to the status of pauper largely by coincidence. In Akeem’s case, the decision is calculated. As if following Jacob Riis, Akeem has an explicitly stated desire to ‘be with and among [the] people’. He invites preconceptions about the relationship between costume and class, and invites objectification. Akeem is conscious that his appearance may be one of the first things that gives him away as an outsider. On his arrival in Queens, he immediately requests an ‘American haircut’. To permit transparency of the disguise for the cinema audience, he loudly declares to his consort, ‘Let us dress as New Yorkers.’ He constructs a new, humble appearance, knowing that others will judge him accordingly. The Prince is concerned with the authenticity of a new role. He wants to do more than just present himself as an ordinary man; he wants to experience an ordinary lifestyle. Along with his consort, he takes a shabby apartment and a job in a fast food restaurant. The disguise, coupled with the fact that he is so often underestimated in his menial job, exposes the Prince to the best and worst of human nature. In his disguise, he succeeds in finding the ideal bride: a woman who loves him for who he really is.

Unmasking Clark Kent Duality, and the struggle to negotiate the relationship between two different identities, defines the superhero genre. To balance the carnival of the super identity, the superhero shelters in the guise of a civilian. Having a dual identity

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Figure 2: Christopher Reeve in Superman II (Richard Lester, 1980). A transition from Clark Kent to Superman highlights the contrast between the spectacle and ordinariness of the character’s two alter egos. Image courtesy of Moviestore Collection/Rex Features.

necessitates having two alternative costumes: one for the superhero, and another for his or her alter ego. The superhero costume gives him special status. It marks him apart from the crowd, as stronger, faster and better than the rest of us. The wardrobe of his alter ego must do the opposite. It must remove that special status, and reduce the superhero to the level of the ordinary civilian. Much like an actor in costume, the dress of the civilian alter ego allows the hero to ‘hold himself apart from his character’, the superhero (Walter 2011). While in costume, a superhero ‘inhabit[s] a self that is not his own’ (Walter 2011). A superhero acts for the people, and so his superhero identity exists for that audience. The civilian alter ego is an opportunity for the hero to take back ownership of himself. The civilian wardrobe enables ownership of his actions, his relationships and his life. His civilian wardrobe is not, however, genuine civilian dress. When Superman steps out of red, yellow and blue, and into black or grey, or when Spider-Man exchanges spandex for cotton and denim, he is not removing his disguise, he is substituting one costume for another. Like all disguises, the superhero’s everyday wear merely ‘represents dress’ when it in fact ‘acts as costume’ (Muecke 1986: 217). It imitates the wardrobe of an ordinary civilian, but it masks a body that is far from ordinary. It is another disguise, and in that respect is akin to the superhero costume. It is ‘both a veil and a performance’ (Collins 2011), concealing the superhero identity while constructing an artificially ordinary alternative.

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The mythology of Superman relies as much on the daily grind of civilian alter ego, Clark Kent, as it does the exploits of his costumed and superpow- ered counterpart. It is essential to the typical superhero narrative that ‘the extraordinary nature of the superhero [is] contrasted with the ordinariness of his surroundings’ and ‘with the mundane nature of his alter ego’ (Reynolds 1992: 16). Clark Kent must dress and behave as ordinarily as possible, both for the believability of the narrative and for the overall satisfaction of the reader. The civilian disguise must be so commonplace that it offers ‘invisibility’ (Karaminas 2009: 180). Kent must be able to walk down the street without anyone taking a second glance; his clothes must be so run-of-the-mill that they counteract the appearance of the character’s impressive physique. Dressed in his glasses and ‘corporate grey suit’ Clark Kent ‘successfully blends into the urban environment. His status and identity as a superhero is effec- tively obscured’ (Karaminas 2006: 502). In many ways, Clark Kent’s wardrobe must be more effective a disguise than the superhero costume. Cavallaro and Warwick (1998: 130) observe that the mask, and by extension, the costume, ‘is a garment that advertises that it has something to hide’. A more ‘cunning mask is no mask at all’, as it does not invite questions (Reynolds 1992: 26). While the Superman costume invites curiosity, and promotes the urge to seek out the identity of the man behind the mask (or in this case, the man behind the ‘S’), the civilian costume must present such a convincing replica of normality that no one questions its authenticity. Kent’s glasses are the cornerstone of his disguise. They are a kind of ‘costume shorthand’ (Hyland 2002: 81) that, if rushed, compensate for lack of access to his grey suit. Regardless of his garb, the glasses are effective at masking Clark’s alien identity. These glasses signify something that is key in ordinariness: a flaw. Audiences are suspicious of perfection, and so to signify imperfection is to enhance the authenticity of the disguise. The dullness of the civilian alter ego highlights the contrast to his superhero self, making the fact of his duality as much a spectacle as the character’s super powers. That Clark Kent and Superman are ‘one and the same’, and that none of his co-workers at The Daily Planet have come to learn the truth despite the fact that Superman wears no mask, attests to the effectiveness of the contrast between his two costumes. When a character appears so ordinary and human as Clark Kent does in his work suit and glasses, his colleagues will go so far as to overlook the remarkable similarity between his face and that of the Son of Krypton. Implicit in his decision to sustain an alter ego is Superman’s acknowledgement that he is a kind of monster or freak. He adopts a mask of ordinariness because he knows that he is anything but ordinary. In performing as someone else, he concedes that his superhero identity does not align with dominant ideologies. Moreover, he acknowledges that humanity is a closed society, unwilling to treat non-humans as equals. In the construction of Clark Kent, he aims to symbolize common social values, and make silent protest at the possibility of being perceived as an outsider. Though the superhero genre is defined by duality of identity, other superheroes do not have the same relationship with their civilian alter ego as Superman does with Kent. Superheroes who have acquired their powers later in life have a previous self as a model for their civilian persona. Spider-Man did not have to invent his civilian wardrobe the way he did his Spider-Man costume; he only has to maintain it. Likewise, Bruce Wayne had wardrobes

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full of expensive suits before he built his Batman costumes. In dressing down, they must simply preserve the image of their former selves.

Superman is different from the average superhero with respect to this secret identity issue […] In other cases, the superhero identity is [a] secondary, artificially constructed identity, while the original, ordinary civilian identity is the real one, but that for Superman, it’s the other way around. […] The Clark Kent persona is the disguise […] The mild- mannered reporter guise is just that, a sustained ruse. (Morris 2005: 256–47)

Clark Kent’s persona, or his wardrobe, have never been authentic. He has always been an alien – an outsider – and so, unlike Spider-Man or Batman, he does not have the option of recollecting days when his wardrobe was a genuine signifier of himself. For Superman, the clothes of his civilian alter ego are not merely ‘ordinary’, rather a very specific interpretation of ‘ordinary’. This is ‘ordinary’ from the perspective of the superhero; ‘ordinary’ viewed through the eyes of the extraordinary; a pastiche of the human species as interpreted by an alien mind. Clark Kent is ‘Superman’s opinion of the rest of us’ and his everyday grey suit is Superman’s interpretation of how the normal, human population dress. Clark Kent is ‘a pointed caricature’ of what Superman sees as an average human male (Feiffer, cited in De Haven 2010: 38). Kent’s civilian clothing therefore offers an insight into how he views the rest of us – at least in its most typical, American form – as dull, grey and stiff.

Master of disguise: The Saint In his many incarnations, Simon Templar (aka ‘The Saint’) is presented as a skilled thief, a great adventurer and a master of disguise. The Saint’s disguises range from the mundane (a delivery man) to the implausible (a nun). In these costumes, the Saint is able to slip unnoticed through crowds, infiltrate criminal gangs and to explore alternative identities that could have been his own had he not been so lucky in life. In Charteris’s novels, the Saint is portrayed as a vision of perfection, with a ‘unique gift of appearing so immaculate that the least absent-minded commis- sionaire might have been pardoned for mistaking him for a millionaire duke’. His wardrobe consists only of ‘the very best, and worn with a unique air of careless elegance which others might attempt to emulate, but which only the Saint could achieve in all its glory’ (Charteris [1930] 2008: 3). The Saint’s Mayfair address and solid-gold cigarette case, signs of his ‘decidedly luxurious taste’ (Charteris [1930] 2008: 5), might indicate that he is most at home in a debonair wardrobe. This vision of the Saint is, however, no more genuine than any of the numerous disguises he adopts during his adventures. Charteris ([1930] 2008: 3) writes that the Saint cannot afford his desirable tastes: he ‘lives beyond his means’. The ‘radiant spectacle’ that is Templar’s most frequent look, and could reasonably be assumed to be the most genuine of his many identities, is described by Templar himself as his ‘gentleman disguise’ (Charteris [1930] 2008: 3). Here is a man who is never truly himself. Every identity that he presents is an artificial construction, a fact alluded to by Charteris’s insistence on continually describing his hero as ‘the Saint’ rather than by his real name. The Saint slips in and out of disguise with ease. He has an endless collection of costumes and accoutrements at the ready, but even these are sometimes unnecessary to completely transform his identity. It takes merely a

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‘subtle change of carriage’ for the Saint to appear at home in London’s ‘dingy 4. See, for example, ‘The Man Who Was Clever’ back streets’ (Charteris [1930] 2008: 6). When the Saint is in disguise, it is (Charteris [1930] so convincing that even the author appears fooled, dropping his use of ‘the 2008: 6–9), in which Saint’ and instead referring to his disguised hero by the name of the invented the disguised Saint is 4� referred to as ‘Bertie character he has adopted. Marks’. Readers are In television, and more so in film adaptations, disguises are a regular only aware of Marks’s feature. The Saint’s skill at deception and disguise is ideally suited to these identity as a result of a brief exposition. visual media, in which visual spectacle is the key. In television adaptations Otherwise, Charteris (from 1962–69), Roger Moore spends most screen time as Templar himself, follows Marks’s story as if he is an entirely only occasionally adopting a disguise (although disguise was often a theme, separate character. it was sometimes worn by other characters).5� This incarnation of Templar is 5. See, for example, the a suave precursor to Moore’s later portrayal of Bond, and so appealing that it very first episode, ‘The seemed a shame to waste it under a disguise. Talented Husband’ In ‘The King of the Beggars’ (series 2, episode 9, dir. John Gilling, 1963), (series 1, episode 1, dir. Michael Truman, 1962), Templar adopts a disguise that has direct parallels in historical trans-status in which a husband disguises. Templar, who, in this incarnation, is independently wealthy and disguises himself as a enjoys a life of luxury, experiences ‘how the other half lives’ as he goes under- housekeeper so that he can get away with cover as a beggar. His disguise is a dramatic contrast to Templar’s usual, murdering his wife. tailored suit. This suit, acquired by his local guide, is crudely repaired where it has torn and frayed at the cuffs, and stains checker the fabric. In this garb, accompanied by the unkempt hair and faux-dirt on his face, Templar is unrec- ognizable. Indeed, the disguise is so effective that the audience needs to hear his distinct British accent, and witness the last touches of make-up applied to his face, to be reminded of his true identity. As he prepares, an establish- ing shot centres on a make-up case before panning across to reveal him in his near-complete beggar disguise. The disguise is made transparent through these actions so that, when Templar appears again in the following scene, having completed his costume with sunglasses, a cane and a Milanese accent, we are able to appreciate the significance of this strange man’s appearance. A much more recent adaptation, Phillip Noyce’s 1997 film, The Saint, disguise was a central theme. In this adaptation, Templar adopts at least six physical disguises, some with the aim of standing out from the crowd and others with the intention of blending into the background. Once again, Templar is seen as a beggar, on this occasion to avoid being hunted down by the henchmen of a corrupt Russian politician. He wraps his head in a scarf, dons an old coat and completes the disguise with a whisky bottle. When he is in this costume, he goes virtually unnoticed by his pursuers. One even bumps into him on the street. When challenged, the henchmen insist that they have not seen him. ‘There is nobody,’ a guard protests, ‘just some guy in rags.’ By the time they realize their mistake, the Saint has transformed himself into a tourist, with the aid of a hat and a pair of headphones. In Noyce’s version, Templar’s capacity for disguise reflects his own lack of identity. Templar is shown as a young boy in an orphanage in the Far East, a long way from his homeland (his accent suggest American origins). Without parents, he has no personal history. He is raised by Catholic priests as one among many children with equally ambiguous origins, and as a boy he acts out in order to assert himself. The priests at the orphanage do their best to remove his identity, refusing to let him keep his real name, and instead demanding that he adopt the name of a Saint. As a fully-grown man, the Saint must compensate for the incompleteness of his identity by substituting it with others. He constructs identities because he has none of his own; he takes ownership of others, because he has no ownership of himself.

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Conclusion ‘A trace of the ordinary in the extraordinary […] connects even the most worldly celebrity to the mundane’ (Wark 1999, cited in Parkins 2004: 427). Journalistic experiments of the nineteenth century granted access to otherwise forbidden lifestyles, by enabling public figures to experience and understand the lives of those less privileged than themselves. Through trans‑status disguise, a figure ‘who is not ordinary seeks a new kind of authenticity’ (Tolson 2001, cited in Parkins 2004), which is achieved through newfound empathy for others. In the early scenes of films such as Coming to America or Superman, audiences find it hard to sympathize with the spoilt heir or powerful superhero. But while costume allows a fictional character to appreciate the experiences of the everyday, it invites the audience to empathize with the struggles of the elite. The ordinary costume makes an extraordinary character seem real, tangible and more so because it is so close to the viewer’s own vision of him or herself.

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Muecke, F. (1986), ‘Plautus and the Theatre of Disguise’, Classical Antiquity, 5: 2, pp. 216–29. Parkins, W. (2004), ‘Celebrity Knitting and the Temporality of Postmodernity’, Fashion Theory, 8: 4, pp. 425–42. Passman, K. (1993), ‘Re(de)fining Woman: Language and Power in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter’, in M. DeForest (ed.), Woman’s Power, Man’s Game: Essays on Classical Antiquity in Honor of Joy K. King, Wauconda, IL: Bolchazy-Carducci, pp. 54–77. Radford, A. (2007), Lost Girls: Demeter-Persephone and the Literary Imagination, 1850–1930, New York: Rodopi. Reynolds, R. (1992), Superheroes, London: Batsford. Schocket, E. (1998), ‘Explorations of the “Other Half”, or the Writer as Class Transvestite’, Representations, 64 (Fall), pp. 109–33. Strashnaya, R. (2012), ‘Constructing the Visual Self: Dressing for Occasions’, in B. Brownie, L. Petican and J. Reponen (eds), Fashion: Exploring Critical Issues, Oxford: Interdisciplinary Press, pp. 51–60. Tognazzini, B. (1993), ‘Principles, Techniques, and Ethics of Stage Magic and Their Application to Human Interface Design’, Proceedings of InterCHI’93, Amsterdam, pp. 355–62. Tolson, A, (2001), ‘Being Yourself: The Pursuit of Authentic Celebrity’, Discourse Studies, 3: 4, pp. 443–57. Toynbee, P. (2003), Hard Work: Life in Low-pay Britain, London: Bloomsbury. Walter, H. (2011), ‘Putting himself off with his clothes: Dress and body of the actor’, paper presented at Fashion: Exploring Critical Issues, Mansfield College: Oxford, 23–25 September. Wark, M. (1999), Celebrities, Culture and Cyberspace: The Light on the Hill in a Postmodern World, Annandale, NSW: Pluto Press.

Suggested citation Brownie, B. (2014), ‘Dressing down: costume, disguise and the performance of ordinariness’, Clothing Cultures 1: 1, pp. 45–57, doi: 10.1386/cc.1.1.45_1

Contributor details Barbara Brownie coordinates online postgraduate study in Graphic Design and Illustration at the University of Hertfordshire, and contextual studies in Fashion at the Cambridge School of Visual and Performing Arts. Barbara is a regular contributor to The Guardian on topics related to costume and fashion. She has a Ph.D. in ‘The Behaviours of Fluid Characterforms in Temporal Typography’. Contact: School of Creative Arts, University of Hertfordshire, College Lane, Hatfield AL10 9AB, UK. E-mail: [email protected]

Barbara Brownie has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work in the format that was submitted to Intellect Ltd.

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When we open our wardrobe doors each morning, we seldom consider what our sartorial choices say, whether we tend towards jeans and a well-worn concert t-shirt or wingtips and a three-piece suit. Yet, how we dress divulges more than whether we crave comfort or couture; our clothing communicates who we are and how we relate to our culture. Combining fashion theory with approaches from literature, art, advertising, music, media studies, material studies, and sociology, contributors from across Europe, Australia, and the United States consider the function of fashion within popular culture. Chapters in the book cover both historical and contemporary concerns, addressing a variety of other questions, including the role fashion plays in subcultures. For students and scholars of fashion and popular culture – or anyone fascinated by what clothing can convey – Fashion in Popular Culture offers To view our catalogue or order an engaging, interdisciplinary analysis. our books and journals visit www.intellectbooks.com Joseph H. Hancock, II is associate professor in the Antoinette Westphal College of Media Arts and Design at Drexel University, USA. He is the Intellect, The Mill, Parnall Road, editor of Fashion, Style & Popular Culture, also published by Intellect. Toni Johnson-Woods is a senior lecturer in the School of English, Media Fishponds, Bristol, BS16 3JG. Studies, and Art History at the University of Queensland, Australia. With Vicki Karaminas, she is co-author, most recently, of Shanghai Street Style. Tel: +44 (0) 117 9589910 Vicki Karaminas is associate professor of fashion studies and associate head of the School of Design at the University of Technology, Sydney in Australia. Fax: +44 (0) 117 9589911

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