How did sleepwear, our most vulnerable garments, become armor in the horror genre? This idea has always been buzzing within the back of my mind. In any given horror film, we see our Final Girls and heroes battling the “big bad” in the dead of night, wearing nothing but the flimsy clothing they laid down in. Looking beyond what these garments actually are, you will start to see the symbolism and weight of these pieces. Are they the physical manifestation of how their oppressors look at them, then becoming just the opposite? Or, do they signify to us, the audience, that the horrors before us are being acted out on someone so completely unthinkably deserving that the pure shock of this act makes the horror effective.
The latter has been true for decades of filmmaking, starting back at the beginning of film history. We see women in the silent era and in the Universal era who have been presented to us as the ones who need saving, those who cannot fend for themselves and wouldn’t even think to try. They were adorned with thin sheaths of linens and silks, flowing nightdresses that hugged the small frames of these damsels. It made their vulnerability tangible, as they appeared frail, so when one of them became scooped up by a monster (because for some reason we liked to manhandle and pluck women out of their beds in these films), yards of fabric were draped over them, their captor, and sometimes the floor trailing behind them. Sleepwear, just like daywear, for women was presented as shifts and dresses for the bulk of our modern history.
It wasn’t until the practical era of WWII that pant sleep sets became “en vogue” for women. This makes sense, with more women entering the workforce and high-end fabrics on ration, practicality took over style, and comfort became the name of the game. But usually, the women of Hollywood were shown in white, soft pinks, and creams (though the black and white nature of the film didn’t allow viewers to distinguish between these colors). I would surmise at this time that this was a projected armor by the hulking men who came to save these women, not self-imposed by the women which we see later.
Think Mina, played by Helen Chandler in 1931’s Dracula. Carried frightfully away in the arms of her captor, stolen from her slumber and wrapped in white laces and chiffon. All the women of this era are very similar, milky white skin, with yards of fabric covering all the right places, married, and wrongfully stolen or seduced. The best example of a contrasting woman would be the forever-mentioned Hitchcock’s titular Rebecca. We are given a glimpse of the woman she is by her nightgown. Black sheer chiffon that was not covering much of anything, but as revealing as this garment is, she chose this armor to show her husband that societal rules could not bind her.
These standards for women continue well into the next few decades of horror filmmaking, although the style of sleepwear changes, the intent is still the same. Something happens within the youth-quake of the late 1960s, social and political changes push back hard. We see this reflected in film with the dismantlement of the Hays Code in 1968. One of the first post-Hays films to really push these boundaries would be Roman Polanski’s Rosemary’s Baby.
Mia Farrow’s depiction of Rosemary Woodhouse echoes the fears for women of that time, and still resonates today. We see her through the onset of the film, never deciding without the input or help of her husband. We strongly see the hold he has over her, and how it impacts every facet of her life, exemplified when she decides to get a haircut on her own. He flies off the handle and berates her. So many sequences in this film show Rosemary laid up in bed or around the apartment while she struggles with her pregnancy. While in style at the time, her nightgowns have a childlike quality to them. Pastels and floral appliques, frills, and ruffles further emphasize the innocence her husband continuously projects onto her. This was true of the women of that time. While we fought for further equal rights, the patriarchy fought back to “put us in our place.”
Sleepwear liberation did not become self-serving armor until 1980’s horror films, so prominently displayed by Nancy Thompson (Heather Langenkamp) in 1984’s A Nightmare on Elm Street. The slasher sub-genre ushered in a new era in female liberation in horror. I don’t have to tell you twice about the Final Girl’s impact on storytelling. With Nancy comes the introduction of the pants sleep-set and this blending of the masculine and feminine. While still wearing white and adorned with rose appliques on her top, she chooses this armor for herself because she knows she is the only one who can stop Freddy.
Even costume designer Dana Lyman has said that for Nancy, this was “her armor as she went into battle”. The piping detail on her PJ’s is a blue trim (primarily looked at in this time as a masculine color), and the roses, while beautiful, have thorns and can fight back in the wild just like Nancy. Her cunning and creativity allow her to use her strength to defeat her enemy. We see more costume designers of this time using this device on their female characters to further emphasize their strength and vulnerability, creating further empathy.
With formal PJ sets becoming less of the norm, and the trope of the virginal final girl being upended, we see more women and men in modern horror using their sleepwear just as Nancy did, as their armor. The softness and breathability of these garments allow the wearer movement but gives us the sense of their warmth as heroes. The ribbed Henleys, plaid pants, and sweatshirts, give them a texture of protection that is rough on the outside but soft on the inside, just like them. I only wonder where the symbolism and future of sleepwear will take us—seeing reboots of pajama-clad strong women in the likes of Slumber Party Massacre and such.
No longer are these garments what others have to say about these characters, but what the characters have to say about themselves. So, whatever you find yourself sleeping in, know that it will not only be your best defense against the boogeyman but a reflection of your character. And if you sleep naked, well, let’s hope that Freddy Krueger picks a different dream.
