How romcoms offered us a timeless sartorial guide to falling in love

My friend’s ex-boyfriend is the best way I can describe F. You’d think a decently handsome Italian guy like him would be cleaning up in London’s dating scene, but the reality is anything but. “Dating here is a nightmare tbh,” he DMs me during our conversation. “It’s a constant flow of getting ghosted or stood up,” he says. I joke that it’s not all that bad back in India. The following week, after reading an online report about how intimacy is Gen Z’s wildest kink (insert skull emoji) and sobbing to Close (2022) alone on a long-distance movie night that never materialised, I am convinced otherwise. I almost feel myself morphing into a geriatric senior while telling this story to a friend, wishing for simpler times. “What happened to the love story we prepared for all our lives?” she asks. 

The romantic comedies I lionised, profoundly shaped my understanding of romance, and maybe unfortunately so. Whether Bollywood or Hollywood, these films were never mere entertainment, they were portals to idealised worlds where love invariably triumphed amidst a backdrop of impeccable style. Each protagonist’s sartorial journey mirrored their emotional arc, with clothing serving as both armour and invitation.

Consider Shah Rukh Khan’s Rahul in Kuch Kuch Hota Hai (1998). His metamorphosis from a basketball shorts-clad college heartthrob to a suave, suit-wearing businessman reflected his transition from carefree youth to responsible widower. Alizeh from Ae Dil Hai Mushkil (2016), adorned in flowing kurtas and silver jewellery, embodied free-spiritedness through her bohemian wardrobe. These characters weren’t simply falling in love; they were falling in love with evolving versions of themselves, reflected in their dynamic style.

Hollywood, too, provided sartorial paradigms. Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman (1990) epitomised the quintessential Cinderella narrative, her closet undergoing a dramatic transformation from soft-punk pedestrian to elegant socialite. The iconic red dress symbolised her newfound confidence and burgeoning romance with Edward. Cher Horowitz in Clueless (1995), with her playful plaid ensembles, showcased fashion’s power to express individuality and adolescent angst.

Beyond the mainstream, films like Amélie (2001) whimsically depicted love in Montmartre. Amelie’s quirky style, characterised by Peter Pan collars and vibrant colours, mirrored her playful personality and journey of self-discovery. In the Korean drama Guardian: The Lonely and Great God (2016), the male protagonist’s timeless attire of tailored overcoats and impeccably draped scarves imbued his centuries-old romance with mystique and longing.

These films, spanning cultures and continents, instilled in me a profound appreciation for fashion’s role in the intricate dance of love. Clothes became pick-me-ups, and subtle cues. As a young, queer person navigating the complexities of modern dating in Mumbai, having relocated from the more erudite environment of Calcutta, these celluloid lessons served as an unexpected guide, empowering me to embrace my sartorial identity.

Romcoms, of course, are notorious for their idealised portrayals of romance. Meet-cutes are unfailingly serendipitous, conflicts easily resolved, and characters perpetually adorned in perfectly coordinated outfits. Real life, especially in a bustling metropolis, rarely mirrors such idyllic scenarios. My own experiences have been a medley of awkward encounters, fleeting connections, and nascent sparks that fade before igniting. 

Dating apps, with their curated profiles and filtered prompts, resemble an endless fashion show where genuine connection proves elusive.

Yet, amidst the disappointments, the sartorial lessons gleaned from romcoms have brought me affection. These films taught me to approach my wardrobe with intentionality. Every date became an opportunity for self-expression, a chance to narrate a story before uttering a word. A crisp linen shirt for a coffee date signalled effortless sophistication, while a vintage band tee for an indie music show conveyed shared interests. A patched bomber jacket for a night out served as a playful guard against the city’s unpredictable energy. These OOTDs were coded messages, that some luckily received.

Naturally, there were missteps. The time I donned a flamboyant printed shirt to a dimly lit bar, only to resemble a disco ball under the strobe lights. Or the time I attempted to channel my inner Shah Rukh Khan in a mildly oversized suit for a casual movie date, feeling overdressed and self-conscious. However, each experiment honed my ability to navigate the delicate balance between self-expression and excessive effort.

Crucially, I realised that true style, or true love, transcends blind adherence to trends or mimics romcom characters. It finds comfort, even if with one’s own self. It recognises fashion’s power to communicate one’s personality and desires to the world. While romcoms may not have prepared me for the realities of modern dating, they equipped me with a valuable sartorial compass, guiding me through the complexities of love and attraction with my unique style in tow. This, I’ve come to appreciate, is a timeless lesson worth cherishing.

Images: Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

This piece originally appeared in the October-November print issue of Harper's Bazaar India

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