Spikes, Spandex & Space Camouflage: a century of Sci-Fi costumes (article).

If there’s one thing we’ve learned from a hundred years of science fiction, it’s that when humanity eventually spreads to the stars, it’ll do so wearing very impractical trousers. Whether it’s chainmail bikinis, military epaulettes the size of hoverboards, or beige jumpsuits with mysterious chest flaps, science fiction costume design has been telegraphing our hopes, fears, and sheer sartorial confusion about the future since before the first rocket left Earth.

So why does everyone in the post-apocalyptic wasteland have a mohawk? Why do all space marines wear armour with suspiciously plastic-looking rivets? And what’s with the endless leather? Let us, here at SFcrowsnest, take you on a stitched-together voyage through a century of sci-fi style.

The Early Days: Crêpe Paper and Pipe Dreams

In the beginning, the future was shiny. Look back at Metropolis (1927), and you’ll see a world where industrialism meets messianic robot women in sleek metal exoskeletons. Everyone’s angular, everyone’s miserable, and no one owns a comfortable pair of shoes.

The 1930s and ’40s gave us Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers, where men wore tights and women wore less. There was an optimism to it all—space was exciting, full of possibility, and apparently breathable since no one had invented helmets yet.

These films dressed the future in theatre curtains and welding goggles, but underneath it all was a vision of tomorrow where technology would fix everything—especially modesty.

The Cold War Era: Silver Jumpsuits and the Uniform Future

Enter the 1950s and ’60s, when the future began to look suspiciously like a military parade on the Moon. Suddenly, everyone was wearing matching jumpsuits in The Day the Earth Stood Still or Forbidden Planet. Spacefarers were neat, pressed, and positively hygienic.

This era reflected a post-WWII culture obsessed with conformity, chain-of-command order, and fears of infiltration. Aliens dressed just like us, only shinier. Scientists wore lab coats on alien planets (as you do), and robots always looked like dustbins with social anxiety.

Even Star Trek in the ’60s—forward-looking as it was—gave us mini-dresses, knee-high boots, and colour-coded optimism. The message: the future is structured, sexy, and very, very American.

The 1970s: Barbarella, Dystopias and Disco Space Chic

And then came the ’70s. Oh, the ’70s.

It brought us Barbarella (1968, just sneaking in), in which Jane Fonda wore what can only be described as a chainmail handkerchief and somehow made it look practical. Here, costume was not just style—it was softcore sociopolitical commentary with laser guns. The future, Barbarella taught us, was female, flirty, and frequently falling out of its spaceship.

Meanwhile, the grimy side of sci-fi was waking up. Logan’s Run, Soylent Green, and Zardoz (yes, the one where Sean Connery wears a red nappy and thigh-high boots) predicted futures where the only thing thinner than the atmosphere was the costume budget.

This was the start of what we now call the used future—the idea that in space, everything is a bit broken, dusty, and cobbled together from parts of a motorcycle helmet and an old toaster. Welcome to the aesthetic of Alien (1979), Mad Max (1979), and, of course, Star Wars (1977), where stormtroopers are fascist chic, rebels are Vietnam by way of space, and the only people with clean clothes are evil.

The 1980s: Mohawks, Megacorps and Shoulder Pads of Doom

If you were in a sci-fi film in the ’80s and you didn’t have a mohawk, fingerless gloves, or at least one glowing eye, were you even in the future?

This was the golden age of cyberpunk—Blade Runner, The Running Man, Robocop—and every character looked like they’d just been kicked out of a punk gig for loitering near a hover-scooter. Clothing was torn, layered, asymmetrical, and always vaguely angry.

The costumes reflected anxieties about corporatisation, automation, and whatever was happening with Thatcher and Reagan. The future was no longer run by scientists—it was run by morally bankrupt megacorporations. Everyone dressed like their pension had been stolen by a robot.

Meanwhile, back on the safer side of sci-fi, The Next Generation gave us unisex onesies, high collars, and space pyjamas—ideal if your utopia has no zips.

The 1990s–2000s: Tactical Vests and Trenchcoats of Angst

The military aesthetic clamped down in the ’90s and early 2000s like a stormtrooper boot. Stargate, Starship Troopers, and Battlestar Galactica rebooted the uniformed future. Everyone had gear. Webbing. Boots. Elbow pads. Laser rifles with more attachments than a Swiss army knife. You couldn’t sneeze without hitting a utility belt.

At the same time, The Matrix dropped like a fashion nuke. Suddenly, it was trenchcoats, sunglasses indoors, and leather—lots of leather. The future was not just angry; it was cold, sleek, and emotionally unavailable.

The 2010s–Now: Grimy Realism and Neon Dystopias

Modern sci-fi is a cocktail of everything that’s come before. The Expanse leans hard into NASA-realism-meets-blue-collar jumpsuits. Raised by Wolves gave us techno-spiritual body suits and haunted priest robes. Dune (2021) opted for space-Arabesque minimalist couture with hoods, veils, and moisture-wicking despair.

Mohawks and shaved heads remain a shorthand for “I live in a dystopia and I’m angry about it.” Why? Because it works. It signals rebellion. Unpredictability. And possibly poor access to conditioner.

Why It Matters: More Than Just Cool Threads

Sci-fi costume design isn’t just window dressing—it’s narrative shorthand. The moment you see a chrome helmet or a hooded robe, you know the tone, the stakes, and the setting. It’s worldbuilding in stitches.

Costume tells us what that society values (functionality vs ornamentation), what it fears (uniformity vs chaos), and who it serves (armour for the few, rags for the many). It shows us whether the future is hopeful (Star Trek) or deeply, painfully stylish while being utterly doomed (Elysium, Altered Carbon).

And it reflects us. Sci-fi fashion is always about now—projecting our trends, tech, and tensions into tomorrow. Whether it’s latex optimism, woollen rebellion, or chrome despair, we’re always dressing our futures in the clothes of the present.

In Conclusion: Bring Back the Chainmail

So yes, everyone in the gritty future has a mohawk because they’re rebelling against a system that doesn’t provide hair mousse. Intergalactic militaries all look the same because war never changes, even when the battleground’s on Neptune. And Barbarella? She wears a chainmail bikini because, in 1968, she was the future. And frankly, here at SFcrowsnest, we salute that level of commitment to fashion-forward photon-based absurdity. We’ve come a long way from cardboard rocket men—but we’re still, gloriously, dressing for the stars.