Unraveling the dark threads

New documentary offers searing critique of the culture of environmental disregard, and the broader global repercussions of fast fashion

From film: Discarded Brandy Mellville clothes in Accra, Ghana Courtesy photo

My apologies for not writing as frequently - I've been grappling with a stubborn cold for the past couple of weeks. I did get to watch way too much television, which serendipitously led me to an engrossing documentary, which thought I would write about

At first glance, "Brandy Hellville & the Cult of Fast Fashion," which debuted tonight on HBO, might not seem like typical Cosmopolitics fare – but please stick with me.

The film marks an unexpected pivot for Australian filmmaker Eva Orner, whose previous work, Taxi to the Dark Side - an Oscar-winning exposé on U.S. torture practices in Afghanistan, Iraq and Guantanamo Bay - seems worlds apart from the glittering veneer of the fashion industry. Yet, Orner's foray into the realm of teen fashion with this documentary emerges as a searing critique of the culture of exploitation, environmental disregard, and the broader global repercussions of an industry addicted to rapid consumption and disposal.

At the documentary's core is Brandy Melville, a brand synonymous, to those with teenage girls (or our younger readers!), with Californian ease and exclusivity. Yet, beneath this facade, Orner unveils a perverse worldview—one that prizes a singular, diminutive aesthetic, spotlighting the brand's unsettling practices of size and racial discrimination, underpinned by the enigmatic Italian CEO, Stephan Marsan's, vision. Much of the film was informed by this 2021 Business Insider investigation into the company by Kate Taylor, who is interviewed in the film.

The documentary doesn't shy away from confronting the issues head-on: the alarming "one-size-fits-most" policy, the disturbing revelations of racism, antisemitism, and even sexual assault within the brand's chic stores. These are not merely internal issues but are indicative of systemic problems plaguing the fashion industry at large.

The narrative is enriched by poignant testimonials from former employees, many of whom shared their stories despite fearing reprisal, painting a picture of a toxic culture that prioritizes aesthetics over ethics, perpetuating harmful stereotypes and fostering an environment rife with self-loathing and eating disorders among its staff and young clientele, already besieged by the relentless pressures of social media.

Yet, it's the documentary's global journey that perhaps strikes the most resonant chord—tracing the lifecycle of fast fashion from Marsan's design tables in Italy to the shores of Accra, Ghana. Here, in stark contrast to the brand's glossy stores, mountains of discarded clothing from the West mar the landscape, a visceral testament to the environmental catastrophe fast fashion precipitates.

Alyssa Hardy, former fashion news editor for Teen Vogue, highlights in the film that annually, the United States and Europe together are responsible for the consumption of 36 billion clothing items, of which 85% ultimately becomes waste. Contrary to popular belief that donated garments benefit those in need, Hardy points out that a significant portion of these clothes actually ends up in Ghana.

"Ghana is a dumping ground for our unwanted fast fashion," Hardy says in the film. "We have deals with countries in Africa to take the clothing, even though they don't necessarily need it."

It serves as a harrowing reminder of the industry's ecological footprint and its contribution to a cycle of consumption and waste that respects neither people nor the planet.

"A lot of the Brandy Melville clothing says 'made in Italy,' which I think in the U.S. a lot of people see as a sign of quality and luxury," Taylor explains, challenging this perception by revealing the poor labor conditions in Prato, Italy's textile hub.

Claire Bergkamp, CEO of Textile Exchange, a global nonprofit that champions climate action within the fashion industry's supply chain, further amplifies this ethical price tag, stating, "If something costs very little...there is someone, somewhere in that supply chain that is not being paid, that is not being respected."

The film thus serves as a microcosm of the fast fashion industry's multifaceted crises, skillfully tying together threads of environmental degradation, labor exploitation, and the insidiousness of beauty standards that privilege a narrow, exclusionary vision of femininity.

Despite these revelations and the documentary's appeal for change, the brand's resilience and the fashion industry's cyclical allure of affordable trends pose significant challenges. Orner, however, remains hopeful, suggesting the potential for influence and change among consumers, particularly through platforms like TikTok, which has made information dissemination more ubiquitous than ever and where the film’s trailer garnered 2.8 views before it debuted. Orner posits that through collective action and a shift towards ethical, sustainable practices, the tide of exploitation and waste can be turned.

In the end, Orner’s documentary is less about the downfall of a single brand and more about the urgent need for a collective reckoning with the principles that govern our consumption. It stands as a compelling call to action, urging viewers to look beyond the allure of the new and to question the true cost of fast fashion—not just in monetary terms but in the toll it takes on human dignity and the planet. By tackling universal themes of exploitation, resistance, and the possibility of redemption through awareness and action, the film implores us to envision and strive for a more ethical path forward in our consumption habits.