Growing up in Los Angeles rewires your brain. Drive past palm trees silhouetted against a sherbet sky and you’re not commuting, you’re in something. A high-gloss noir. In LA, the line between reality and the silver screen doesn’t blur. It simply ceases to exist.

That obsession crystallized working as an assistant costume designer to Christina Flannery on I Love LA cataloguing every silhouette and shadow until the city felt like one long costume fitting. It got me thinking about the women who’ve defined LA’s visual soul: the ones who wore this city like a second skin, or a disguise.

I grew up somewhere relentlessly sunny, but I could always feel the darkness underneath. In LA, everyone seems to have everything which usually means they’re hiding something. Noir just had the good sense to make it cinematic.

This is the first in a multiple part series: mood boards on how the great Los Angeles women of noir/neo-noir would dress today, if they traded their fictional streets for real ones.

Sunset Boulevard

The Boulevard of Broken Dreams (and My Personal GPS)

There’s a stretch of road in Los Angeles that will tell you everything you need to know about this city, if you’re willing to listen. Sunset Boulevard runs 22 miles from the concrete jungle of downtown all the way to the Pacific, threading through every tax bracket, every delusion, and every version of the California Dream in a single, unbroken ribbon of asphalt. Billy Wilder figured this out in 1950. The rest of us are still catching up.

I rediscovered the boulevard the hard way, by moving back to LA from New York and immediately remembering why I left. The freeways were out of the question. They’re not roads so much as anxiety attacks with lane markings. So I started driving Sunset instead, all the way from Silverlake out to Malibu to visit my dad, and somewhere along the way it became a ritual. A reminder that this city contains multitudes and that most of them are deeply, magnificently unwell.

Which brings me, inevitably, to the film.

Sunset Boulevard isn’t really a movie about Hollywood. It’s a movie about what Hollywood does to people, the ones it chews up, the ones it spits out, and the ones it leaves behind in a mansion on a famous street, dictating letters to a film studio that stopped caring decades ago. Norma Desmond didn’t lose her mind. Hollywood just convinced her, for long enough, that she was the only thing that mattered and then quietly changed the locks.

That’s the trick the industry has always pulled. It sells you the dream wholesale, then auctions off the pieces when you’re not looking. In Wilder’s hands, the boulevard becomes less a setting and more a state of mind: glamorous on the surface, crumbling just underneath, and lined on both sides with people absolutely certain their moment is still coming.

Drive it on a Tuesday afternoon and you’ll see what I mean. Past the Chateau Marmont, through the gilded zip codes of Beverly Hills, into the canyon where the city finally exhales and loosens its tie. The dream keeps shifting its address, but the boulevard stays the same. So does the story. Fame fades, desperation endures, and somewhere out there, someone is always writing their comeback.

They just haven’t read the script yet.

Norma Desmond is one of the great characters in the history of storytelling, a forgotten silent film star rotting gracefully in a Sunset Boulevard mansion, clinging to a comeback that was never coming. She is Hollywood’s most elegant relic: delusional, magnificent, and utterly convinced the spotlight is simply waiting for her to step back in.

Edith Head called Norma’s costumes the most challenging of her career and you can feel why. The design brief was essentially a contradiction: a woman desperate to appear contemporary, draped in the unmistakable shadow of the past. Norma wears fashionable silhouettes and bold makeup, but something is always slightly off, a hemline too dramatic, a gesture too grand, a fur that belongs to another era entirely. She’s performing modernity while being consumed by nostalgia.

What makes it even richer is how blurred the line was between costume and reality. Many of Norma’s pieces were pulled directly from Gloria Swanson’s own wardrobe, the actress playing a faded star, wearing the clothes she’d actually worn when she was one. In Sunset Boulevard, even the costumes have a past they can’t escape.

Here’s how to get the Gothic Maximalist look…

Robe, Slippers, Turban, Bag

Pajamas, Shoes, Turban, Earrings, Sunglasses

Ensemble, Leopard Turban, Earrings, Heels, Clutch, Cigarette Holder

I'm Sara Taves, and I started @fashi0ninfilm on Instagram during COVID lockdown. As an assistant costume designer out of work, it was the perfect time to explore my two passions: film and costume design. I felt a need for beauty during a difficult time, and suspected others might too.

Movies offer a unique escape. You settle in, the lights dim, and you're transported—whether it's to 1940s Hollywood, the streets of Paris, or fantastical new worlds.

My own fascination with cinema began with Alfonso Cuarón’s The Little Princess. To this day, its early 20th-century aesthetic influences my personal style.

Recently, I had an experience that reinforced why this work matters. I was at the Warner Bros lot in Burbank, feeling particularly drained by industry politics. Seeking a moment of peace, I wandered into the Costume House.

Among the racks, I spotted apple green dresses and velvet coats that looked incredibly familiar. My heart pounding, I quickly searched "The Little Princess, Warner Brothers" on my phone. The confirmation was instant: these were the actual costumes from my favorite childhood film, the very garments that ignited my love for cinema decades ago.

I called over a coworker, and together we found the actresses' names sewn into the costumes. Standing there, surrounded by these relics of childhood wonder, I felt an overwhelming sense of purpose. It was a clear reminder: this is why I'm here. Don't let the mundane overshadow the magic.

That moment shifted my perspective. It reminded me that fashion and film are more than just entertainment; they're essential for the soul. They can transport us, offering beauty and possibility when we need it most. Whether it's the elegance of a Givenchy gown on Audrey Hepburn or the intricate detail of a period drama, these art forms have a profound power to uplift.

That's why I'm reviving @fashi0ninfilm and launching this Substack. I believe we all need more beauty in our lives, and I want to explore how fashion and film combine to create that magic. Perhaps these stories will inspire you as much as they inspire me.

With love,

Sara