Inside The Vulnerable Rock And Roll Style Of Penny Lane

While Almost Famous’ plot centers around the film’s men — an early-‘70s rock band led by Russell Hammond (Billy Crudup), as well as William (Patrick Fugit), a 15-year-old boy who is on tour with the band for a Rolling Stone assignment — it’s Penny Lane (Kate Hudson) who made the most lasting impression, lighting up every scene in which she appears. Vehemently rejecting the label “groupie,” Penny is a young woman following the band around (she calls herself a “Band-Aid”), and is paired off with Russell, though fully her own person with a fully developed fashion sense, with many of her looks frequently referenced over the last 20 years.

Costume designer Betsy Heimann says she was inspired by “many things” when outfitting Penny Lane — including women of the time, like Elaine Taylor, Pattie Boyd, and Janis Joplin (the sartorial inspiration for the fur hat Hudson wears in the film); photographs by Baron Wolman; and, more generally, the fashion of the late-‘60s — but, she was most influenced by Almost Famous’ writer-director Cameron Crowe’s descriptions in the script. “How the character was written on the page was very inspiring. She jumped from the page at me,” Heimann says. “From there, she was sort of creatively born in my mind.”

We first see Penny Lane outside the back entrance of a music venue. Though surrounded by the other girls, she instantly stands out on her own. “She is the leader of the pack. She’s a little bit down-home girl and a little bit of a rock chick,” Heimann says. “Her [regular] style was more casual, the jean-and-beautiful-blouse girl, and then with the very spectacular coat that was her persona, her shield, her cocoon that she could emerge from as a butterfly.” Indeed the olive green coat, with its furry collar and cuffs and a pleated back, is the film’s biggest fashion legacy.

“I was inspired by some drawings of Erté from the 1920s because they showed beautiful women hiding inside these voluminous coats,” Heimann says. “I also like to base my things in reality, and then take it from there. And, in reality, during that time, the embroidered coats from Afghanistan were very popular, and they had these long-haired sheepskin collars.” While working on the collar, she got inspired in an unlikely place. “I was in Urban Outfitters one day, and I was in the housewares department, and they had these rugs that were thick like the fur that I wanted for the collar. So I bought about five of those rugs, and [the costume department team] cut them up in all different sizes and shapes and dyed them in different colors of cream and white to see what would work best with the lighting,” she says. “[Penny Lane] was lit from within, her spirit and the emotional vulnerability that she hides, and her love of the music and what it does to her whole persona and her face when she hears the music. I wanted that coat collar to help illuminate her face.”

Heimann then looked for green fabric to match the rest of the film’s palette, primarily made up of brick red, denim blue, and lots of browns. “I was wandering around the upholstery store, and I found some cut velvet upholstery fabric, and I said, ‘There it is!’” she remembers. “For me, it’s always the little things. Things aren’t always born to me whole and complete until a little pop here and a little pop there, and then you mold it like clay.”

Other times Heimann worked backward, starting with finding vintage fabric — which she sourced from all over the West Coast for the film — and basing the design on it. “Sometimes you find little pieces of fabric, and you’re like, ‘I got to do this! I got to use it. And if I tie it around her and stretch, I think it will work. Let’s try it!’” According to Heimann, this became the case with the crochet-like midriff top (shown in top photo) Penny Lane wears to the hotel room the first time she brings William to hang out with the band. “That piece of lace is only maybe 25 inches long. But I was determined to use that piece of vintage fabric,” she says, and laughs. “I swear to god, every time we were shooting that scene, she would put her arms up… I thought it was going to ride up and show her breasts. It never happened, but I was a wreck that whole day.”

The fabric also inspired the ‘60s shift dress that Penny Lane wears in New York, a look that Heimann designed after seeing a picture of Pattie Boyd. “I just wanted Russell to be able to see her in a crowd,” she says. “It was made from vintage embroidered China silk that I found in my travels… It was just a little bit of what was left of a vintage kimono, and I just took it into my head cutter, Leslie [Miller], and I said, ‘I really want this dress.’ And, again, I think that dress was really short [laughs] because we didn’t have enough fabric.” But, in this case, that worked in Heimann’s favor since it meant Penny’s custom embroidered boots were shown off to great advantage. “I knew from the script that she was going to fall back on the sofa and her legs would be all you could see as they came up. So I said, ‘Alright, then it’s going to be something about the boots,’” she says. “The dress was short, so it was crying for some high boots.”

But while Penny Lane wears statement looks (all paired with a toolbox for a purse) when she’s going to concerts and partying with the band, she opts for classic denim and feminine blouses during the day. For the film, Heimann wanted authentic jeans for the era. “That was the big search of the movie because I wanted to use all original jeans on everybody. We went up to Seattle to Buffalo Exchange’s main headquarters with masks on our faces. We had our hair tied back and masks on our faces, digging through barrels looking for original 501s,” Heimann says. “I scoured everywhere, every resource I had. I had original jeans coming from everywhere.”

As for the blouses, Heimann wanted them to portray the character’s vulnerability. “She’s very fragile,” she says. “Penny has moments where she’s one of the guys, and then she has the other moment where she’s, like, “Russell, I am a girl, and I love you, love me back!” In one of the last scenes with the band, she is wearing a white blouse with ruffles as she learns that Russell traded her to another band in a poker game. “He sold you to Humble Pie for 50 bucks and a case of beer!” William tells her. Her face drops and tears fill up her eyes before she asks “What kind of beer” and cracks a wide smile, putting a brave face back on. “Penny Lane is laughing on the outside and crying on the inside,” Heimann says. “In the scene, she had on the sheerest blouse that I had. I made that blouse specifically for that scene, so she had those ruffles on the front that kind of covered her but actually you could see right through.”

According to Heimann, Penny Lane is representative of the time in rock and roll before the big deals and high-paying music tours came in and took the genre mainstream, making it less about the music and more about the money that it could make. “It was very important to see the end of this era, as shown by Penny Lane, this vulnerable, sweet, beautiful, young girl having the time of her life but who has fallen in love with somebody who it’s not going to work out with,” she says. “It’s got to be real.”

Which is maybe why, 20 years later, the rockstars of the film have faded from our memories, but Penny Lane lives on.

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This Is The 2020 Way To Do Go-Go Boots

Just as low-rise jeans and denim Dior epitomize the early noughties, and grunge-inspired flannels with ripped-up mom jeans (think Tai from Clueless) embody the '90s, the go-go boot is the quintessential fashion item of the 1960s. Designed by Andre Courrèges in 1964, go-go boots have had their fair share of iterations. And as of fall 2020, they're back in a big way.

From the original white mid-calf boot to knee-high styles in a range of colors and western silhouettes, every pair of boots we're dying to get our hands on this season (from brands like Ganni and Khaite) fall into the go-go category. So while the collections shown at fashion month in February may have predicted eras across the board to show up come fall 2020, for now, we're fully on-board with living in a very mod, very '60s-inspired world — at least when it comes to our footwear.

Click on for 18 ways to add some '60s flair to your boot collection this fall.

At Refinery29, we’re here to help you navigate this overwhelming world of stuff. All of our market picks are independently selected and curated by the editorial team. If you buy something we link to on our site, Refinery29 may earn commission.

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Mango Leather Boots With Wide Leg, $, available at Mango

Ganni Recycled Rubber Country Boots, $, available at Ganni

Z_Code_Z Nuria Vegan Knee High Western Boots, $, available at ASOS

Legres 11 Lace-Up Leather Knee Boots, $, available at Net-A-Porter

Nine West Adaly Heeled Boots, $, available at Nine West

The Source Unknown Lug Sole Tall Boots, Black, $, available at The Source Unknown

Alias Mae Tilli Boots, $, available at Alias Mae

A New Day Birgitte Animal Print Heeled Tall Fashion Boots, $, available at Target

Miista Sandy Woven Leather Boots, $, available at Miista

Jeffrey Campbell Twiggie Tall Boots, $, available at Free People

Marc Fisher Ragana Boot, $, available at DSW

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I Can’t Quit You: An Ode To The Dress That Taught Me How To Dress

The owner of my local dry cleaners gives me that look again. Then, she shakes her head and sighs. We’ve been here before; the long pause, the disapproval — I know it well. It began the second time I came in for a small patch job on my favorite dress: a long-sleeve, short, cotton masterpiece I bought in 2012. But this was different. I had returned for the fifth time, and with a new tear near the shoulder that was a wee bit longer than the ones before. (It is always at this moment I regret quitting my 4H Sewing Group, before I finished that poncho.) My tailor urges me to let go, to move on, to throw it away. But the rest of the dress is in perfect condition: There are no stains, no hem giving way. If Marie Kondo was there to witness our exchange, she might have asked, “Does the dress spark joy?” I’d tell Marie: “It fucking slaps.” Finally, the owner looks back at me, back at the dress, and then at me again. She takes the thin piece of red tape and lays it over the imperfection. She tells me to come back Friday evening. The dress will live. 

I never play this game with my cobbler, who does a yearly tune-up on my Prada riding boots, and we’re going on year seven. Nor do I get that look when I have my ancient Burberry tote bag’s leather handles replaced. But, at least with this tailor, extending the lifespan of my dress seems to push the acceptable boundaries of fashion repair.

So, what is this object of affection that I can’t quit? It’s an A.P.C. cotton dress bought for fifty dollars at a hectic sample sale in Brooklyn nearly a decade ago. I bought three A.P.C. dresses that afternoon. I still wear them, too, but only the favorite needs the extra work, a result of its heavy rotation in my wardrobe. The cut of the dress, the spot where the hem falls on my leg, works well with my frame. The dress goes from winter to spring to summer with uncanny ease. Its tight pattern of red, white, and brown vertical stripes is almost, but not quite, an intricate gingham. Its flattering jewel neckline with a single button in the back, long sleeves with a subtle puff at the shoulder, and three horizontal pleats that cascade toward the hem show just the right amount of leg. And the piece de resistance? Its unexpected smocking, up across the bodice and around the waist that renders it classic bohemian chic, impervious to trends or fads. It pairs well with hoop earrings, a jean jacket, cardigan, or peacoat. And it has pockets. 

When I first bought the dress I was a mother with three young children attempting to get my groove back. I wore it to playdates, potlucks, and parent-teacher conferences. And then I wore it to the offices of divorce lawyers. And later on, to an exceptionally excellent fourth date. I had a limited, nearly non-existent clothes budget, and had to make everything work, really work, season after season. I began to evolve with the dress, learning how to accessorize to keep it playful, or sexy, or both. I styled it with black tights, or better still, black knee-highs with clogs, or boots, or bare-legged with a pair of sandals. I loved the feeling of a bit of thigh showing, and  I learned that what a frock reveals is just as important as what it covers up. The dress taught me how to dress. 

The dress changed the way I shopped. Now, I look for flexible fortitude in every piece of clothing. Sure, I have seasonal favorites, a fisherman sweater bought in Canada, or vintage Lilly Pulitzer dresses, sometimes worn ironically. But when I think of my dress, I feel I’m finally fashion literate. And because I couldn’t figure out what work-from-home-wear was, my habit of buying things in a hurry, because things were cheap, or because I saw them on someone else, left me with a hodge-podge of garments and decision fatigue. These are the consequences of living in an era of easy access to fast fashion. It made the art of curating the personal capsule collection a choice, a skill, and not a necessity. 

And for every friend that says, “Oh you’re wearing that again?” there is someone else, a stranger, who approaches me to tell me, “I love your dress.” I am far from alone in seeing its beauty. So those rips that require mending, comments from friends, the judgy look from my tailor are a small price to pay for that feeling of being put together even when, at times, my life was a mess, and I wasn’t sure if I would feel attractive again. After kids, and after leaving my marriage, the dress gave me that feeling back.

While it has become my go-to look, it is not to be confused with a uniform. When I think of uniforms, I think of Steve Job’s awful black turtleneck — or Theranos’ Elizabeth Holmes. They both claimed that wearing the same outfit every day saved them time. I enjoy thinking about what I am going to wear, though. I also don’t wear it every day, but I’d be lying if that Reductress piece titled How To Save Money By Wearing One Signature Look Like a Cartoon Character didn’t make me both laugh and feel a bit uneasy. I’ve surrendered to the fact that the short dress is my trademark. Jackie O had her sunglasses and K Jacques sandals, and Maggie Rogers has her bell-bottoms. I wear the dress because it brings me joy. And if I squint a bit, I can even pretend to have a certain je ne sais quoi like cookbook author Mimi Thorisson, whose popular blog Manger and accompanying Instagram account have enchanted hundreds of thousands of followers for years with her recipes and aspirational lifestyle. She chronicled her glorious days donning A.P.C. dresses that she often paired with Hunter rain boots — another look I adore. I eventually had to stop following her on Instagram due to the overwhelming perfection of her French chateau life, but my longing for her lifestyle lingers.

I remember being surprised when, as a teenage exchange student to Finland, I saw fellow students wear the same outfits multiple times during the same week. They wore the same few pieces from local brand Marimekko, another label that wears like iron, over and over again. Their talents were lost on me then. And it was the opposite of how kids dressed back in my American high school, where we were poorer versions of Clueless’ Cher. It was part of the social contract. Our elegant high school French teacher, Madame Gilbert, once spent an entire class trying to explain how our European counterparts wore few pieces over and over again developing their look. Back then, I remember wearing so many outfits; many I didn’t love, that didn’t flatter me, or that I snatched damp from the dryer, all in an effort for variety. I used to do this as an adult as well. 

Does compulsive consumption win over a well-curated wardrobe? The latter is harder to pull off as one has to have a keenly developed sense of style, materials, fibers, and cuts to put together an environmentally friendly personal collection. But thanks to necessity, and the dress, I finally learned this skill in the crucible of my post-divorce life.

The design name and acronym A.P.C. is for “Atelier de Production et de Création.” Founded over three decades ago by Jean Touitou, A.P.C. first arrived on the scene with raw denim jeans and quickly moved to designing a women’s collection. There’s something almost stoic about Touitou, and by extension, A.P.C.’s philosophy, with its quiet quest for perfection and timelessness. And while I cannot say their price points are accessible (I wouldn’t own my A.P.C. dresses without that sample sale), they aren’t as expensive as other competing labels, and the cost-benefit ratio is excellent. 

I wish I could say that sustainability was the reason that my Instagram grid feed is a years-long pictorial journey of my dress and me. I’d love to say I wear and mend it because, as the planet barrels toward the point of no return in terms of climate change, I’m keeping it from a landfill. But perhaps being on-point is inextricably linked with finding a few pieces that last for years. In truth, the dress was a lucky accident. It was the right dress at the right time. And it miraculously brought me back to that feeling of being at home in my skin. I hope everyone has that frock they can’t quit — and a tailor that won’t quit, either.

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The Best Trends Of The ‘90s Are Brought Back To Life In Julie And The Phantoms

There’s little costume designer Soyon An wouldn’t do to achieve the perfect look. For her most recent project, Netflix musical series Julie and the Phantoms, An, whose resume includes American Idol, Step Up All In, and So You Think You Can Dance, even picked up scissors more than a few times for some creative tailoring — cutting decorative elements out of boots to place on a blouse, and turning a dress that didn’t fit into a jacket. “I feel like this whole interview is turning into a ‘Soyon deconstructing stuff,’” she tells me midway through our talk, laughing. But all the detail-oriented work paid off: Julie and the Phantoms costumes not only stand out, but they’re also full of hidden meanings that go beyond what you’d see in most costume work.

Madison Reyes plays Julie, a high schooler who loses her love for singing after her mother dies. Then, things get weird: The ghosts of three young musicians who died in the ‘90s (played by Charlie Gillespie, Jeremy Shada, and Owen Joyner) appear in her mom’s old music studio. And then things get weirder: The ghosts convince Julie — the only living person who can see them, no big deal — to start a band with them so that people can hear their music despite them being, well, ghosts.

As you can imagine, all of this has a big effect on Julie — and it’s reflected in what she wears. As she goes from being unable to perform in even a classroom setting to singing on the stage of the biggest music venue around, her wardrobe evolves from a sweater featuring a smiley face, jeans with sun-patches, and oversized slippers to crystal-adorned jackets and tulle skirts. “Julie is in mourning for her mother, so I wanted to be able to tell a story through costume, where, in the beginning, she is kind of hiding under a hat and under the hood and wearing more of an oversize fit, and then eventually she starts to walk into her own,” says An. “She is a sneakerhead, and she’s a little tomboyish. You can tell she doesn’t put much thought into her style, but it always looks cool.”

An pulled a covetable selection of sneakers, and even bid on a pair of limited-edition Air Force 1s, to feature in the series. “I wanted to get her kind of exclusive sneakers and really live up to the character being a sneakerhead. So I went on StockX, and I bid on the cheetah-print sneakers,” she says. “Because they are limited-edition and Madison had a body-double, we then had to paint another pair of Air Force 1s to match the original for her body-double.” She added special touches to other pairs, too: “Her Filas, I custom painted those sneakers, so it looked like something her character did herself. She is one to doodle on her pants and draw on her sneakers.”

For her clothing, An says that 50 percent was custom-made, while the other 50 was pulled from brands like Kate Spade, Urban Outfitters, Forever21, and I.Am.Gia and vintage stores. For one of her first performances with the band, Julie wears a camo jumpsuit, which An got in a vintage store in Highland Park in Los Angeles, serving as a nod to Reyes’ mom: “We discussed how wonderful it would be to pay homage to her mom, who’s serving our country.” An then customized the jumpsuit with patches she found at an unlikely place: the UGG store in Vancouver, where the series was shot. “It was hilarious. On the display, they had the patches on the UGG boots. For a split second, I was going to buy a pair [of boots] and cut all the patches off to use on the costume, and then [the salesperson] was like, ‘No, you have to buy them individually and then accessorize your boots,’” An says. “I was ready to cut them out for the series!”

This wasn’t the only scene for which An was willing to deconstruct some shoes. During one of Julie’s big public performances, she wears a white shirt adorned with colorful butterflies. “I loved the translucent butterflies on these clear plastic boots that I found on Dolls Kill, and I cut the butterflies off the boots and put them on her top.” Butterflies, a common theme with Julie’s clothing, are symbolic of her evolution as a musician. “A butterfly goes through a stage of metamorphosis, from caterpillar [to] cocoon to flying-free butterfly, and I think her character represents that,” she says. “There she is as a caterpillar before the series even starts, then she is a cocoon because her mother passes away, and, once she meets the phantoms and she finds her voice and music again, she is flying free.” Nowhere is that more evident than in a scene in which Julie performs wearing a crystal hat and sparkly pants featuring over 5,0000 Swarovski crystals (see top photo). “Those crystals were punched in, the grommets with the prongs. I think the pants weighed more than Madison,” says An. “She was like, ‘This is the heaviest pair of pants that I have ever seen in my life!’”

For another performance look, a turquoise dress with a fringe vest, An also applied her custom touch. “That turquoise dress was hand-painted. I think that dress was a black Armani Exchange dress, and I painted over it to give it that grunge, punk, rock and roll look.” As for the vest? I won’t spoil it, but it shows up first in episode 1: “There’s like, an Easter egg that I hid in there.”

For the final performance of the series, Julie wears a custom-made purple dress with a beaded leather jacket, made from a dress that An deconstructed and transformed. “The original idea was that she would have something fabulous from her mom’s closet, so I was looking at some vintage stores. On TheRealReal, I found this Balmain dress,” she says. While fitting Reyes, An realized that it was too big. “I couldn’t let go of the dress. I loved it so much that I took the outer layer of the dress and I used it as fabric and I made it into that leather jacket,” she says. 

But Julie isn’t the only one with an enviable wardrobe. Her best friend, Flynn (Jadah Marie), dons some of the most memorable looks of the season. “From the moment I read the script and could hear Flynn’s voice, I was like, ‘She is a fashionista, the cool kid on campus,’” says An. This resulted in Fenty-like tie-dye shirts, leopard-print everything, and brightly colored dresses and jumpsuits, as well as can’t-miss accessories like a bulldog-shaped purse, heart-shaped glasses, glitter backpack, and earrings spelling “What.” “That’s her personality. It’s like, ‘What?’ Like, ‘I don’t care, it’s cool.’ I wanted to embrace that language in the clothing,” says An.

In contrast to Flynn and Julie is their classmate Carrie (Savannah May), the spoiled daughter of a former rockstar, who makes Julie’s life hell in school, all while wearing a tweed matching set and loafers with bows, a feather boa over a denim top and skirt (with her boyfriend matching in a jean jacket, a la Britney and Justin at the 2001 American Music Awards, no less), and a “Royalty” T-shirt. As the leader of Dirty Candi, a girl group who feels threatened by Julie and the Phantoms’ new success, Carrie goes even more over-the-top with her looks with glitter shorts and high socks. While Dirty Candi’s costumes, with each girl dressed in a specific candy-colored top and wearing a matching wig, appear to draw from K-Pop, according to An, her biggest inspiration was the bright, iridescent hues of Jolly Ranchers. “One of the first looks when you see the Dirty Candi girls, they’re in the vinyl, translucent clear plastic jackets, and that right there is Jolly Ranchers,” she says. “I was like, ‘We have to spell Candi with an “I” [on the back of the jackets] so that the “I” can be a lollypop. That’s their logo!’”

On another stage, viewers can see dancers that could rival the best of Jazz Age and Moulin Rouge at the Hollywood Ghost Club, a speakeasy that sees ghosts and “lifers” mingling, owned by Caleb Covington (Cheyenne Jackson), a ghost-magician who can make ghosts visible to people. While luring Luke (Gillespie), Reggie (Shada), and Alex (Joyner) into the club, Caleb wears a rich purple velvet suit custom-made by British designer Joshua Kane. “[Director] Kenny [Ortega] was like, ‘Think: Houdini — he is a magician. And think of Cary Grant, those old beautiful movie stars, black-and-white films, and how dapper and regal they were,’” says An. To add to the wow factor, An and her team customized the coattails. “The look didn’t get there until four days before we started shooting, so then we had to fit Cheyenne, do all the alterations, then stick about 10,000 Swarovski crystals on that jacket until the morning of when we started shooting,” she says. After running out of the crystals that An brought from L.A, she had to source more from a local bead store. “They didn’t have all the colors, so then I had to implement other colors and recreate the design of the Swarovski pattern so that it was symmetrical.” While Caleb’s look is undoubtedly the centerpiece of the scene, which An calls one of the most challenging of the series, it’s hard not to be mesmerized by the sparkle of the rest with musicians in flapper-like dresses, performers in cabaret-like costumes, and the waitstaff in pink coattails, all inspired by “Old Hollywood — but with a twist.”

As for Luke, Reggie, and Alex, An wanted them to exude ‘90s fashion while also appealing to the modern viewers who are currently enjoying the resurgence of the era’s trends. “I wanted to bring all the timeless ‘90s pieces for the boys so that, looking at it today, you know that it’s ‘90s but still, it’s like, ‘That’s something I would wear today.’” She created a unique ‘90s look for each one, with Luke dressed as the “die-hard rockstar” with cutoff muscle shirts and the tight pants; Reggie, the “timeless rock and roll guy” who wears flannel while simultaneously channeling James Dean with the leather jacket, white T-shirt, and black jeans; and Owen “bring[ing] in some of that ‘90s street in a hoodie-cargo pant look with the cool ‘90s sneakers.” 

Indeed, the ‘90s staples of today, like Champion hoodies, tie-dye shirts, and retro-esque Nike sneakers, are all on display, proving just how cyclical fashion is — and how much foresight An had while filming. “I like to think forward,” she says. “I like to do, like, trend forecasting and create fashion trends on projects that I am working on that I foresee happening.”

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