The Naked Look: In Praise of the Backless / Strapless Dress

Rita Hayworth as Gilda wearing the iconic 
black dress designed by Jean Louis

Being something of an omosophile, I've always had a thing for necks, shoulders, and bare backs - though would draw the line at the buttocks (I'm not much of a pygophile). I am, therefore, a fan of the backless dress, which - if I recall my fashion history correctly - first appeared in the Roaring Twenties and was designed to expose the above areas of the female body to stunning effect.

Of course, the amount of flesh revealed varies with the style of dress. Personally, I'm not too fussed how low it's cut as long as the neck and shoulders are naked and the dress is held up either with ultra-thin spaghetti straps that look as if they might break at any moment, or fastened, halterneck style, with a strap that passes from the front of the garment and behind the wearer's neck where it's covered by her hair, thus creating the happy illusion from behind that the dress is kept in place simply by the grace of God or a gravity-defying act of will.  

If a woman chooses to wear a bra with such a dress it obviously has to be strapless. But daring to go bra-free is probably the best option and adds to the dangerous appeal of the dress - something which is even further enhanced if the latter itself is of a strapless variety, without any visible means of support.

There are, I know, many women who secretly long to wear such a dress, but worry about exposing rather more than intended should it suddenly slip south. However, those concerned about the practicality of wearing a risqué strapless number might find some reassurance watching Rita Hayworth in a famous scene from the classic film noir Gilda (1946), in which she wears an iconic strapless design by Jean Louis, inspired by Sargent's Portrait of Madame X (1884).

As demonstrated - to the disappointment of the men in the audience - the tightness of the bodice prevents the dress from falling off, even when she's singing, dancing, and performing an erotic striptease of the hand with some enthusiasm.

The dress - a black satin sheath with a straight neckline leaving the shoulders, arms and upper-back all beautifully bare - helped consolidate Hayworth's image as a femme fatale and was said to illustrate that unrestrained female sexuality ultimately leads to catastrophe. It's not merely coincidental, therefore, that the first nuclear bomb to be tested after the Second World War was nicknamed Gilda and decorated with an image of Rita wearing her notorious black dress. 

For added good measure, the floor-length dress also has a thigh-high slit, so we can fully appreciate the fact that Gilda's got legs (and knows how to use 'em). Finally, it will be noted that the dress is worn with a pair of matching full-length gloves, pushing the fetishistic appeal of the scene to the maximum. Illicit lovers of every stripe can find something to perv on in this scene.       

Of course, it goes without saying that all the usual suspects who like to decry the immodesty of fashion, bemoan the objectification of the female body, or condemn the half-naked women of today for cynically exploiting their sexuality, have attacked the backless/strapless dress. However, the ravings of such puritans need not detain us here ... 

See: Rita Hayworth as Gilda performing the number 'Put the Blame on Mame' (written by Allan Roberts and Doris Fisher) in the film Gilda (dir. Charles Vidor, 1946): click here. Note: it's not actually Miss Hayworth singing; the voice belongs rather to Anita Ellis. 
  

My Three Favourite Witches 2: Gillian (Kim Novak)

Kim Novak as Gillian Holroyd 

(with Pyewacket the Cat)

My three favourite witches are not the Wayward Sisters found in Shakespeare's Macbeth, dressed in filthy robes, performing weird rituals in the fog, prophesying doom, etc. Nor are they the cock-starved, devil-invoking trio of Alex, Jane and Sukie given us by John Updike in his 1984 novel, The Witches of Eastwick.

Rather, the three broomstick-riding women I find most spellbinding are Jennifer, Gillian and Samantha ...

The second of these, Gillian Holroyd, the free-spirited, Greenwich Village witch with a penchant for going barefoot, was played by Kim Novak in the 1958 romantic comedy Bell, Book and Candle (dir. Richard Quine). The male lead in the film was taken by James Stewart, playing Shep Henderson, the handsome (but much older) next door neighbour upon whom Gillian casts a love spell. 

Unfortunately, things backfire and she eventually falls in love with Shep; problematic for a witch as this (apparently) means the loss of her magical powers. However, rather like Jennifer in I Married a Witch (1942), played by Veronica Lake, Gillian decides this is a price worth paying; that love is stronger than witchcraft - or, at any rate, more valuable, more vital. She chooses fulfilment as a married woman, over the lonely and frustrated life of a spinster-witch.        

Interestingly however, her feline familiar, Pyewacket, is unimpressed with this caving in and conforming to a conventional mix of romantic idealism and sexism; when Gillian opts for love, he puts his nose in the air, turns tail, and leaves her to her new, all-too-human life.

Novak is an interesting woman: of Czech descent, she began as a model before establishing a career as an actress. Studio bosses initially hoped that she would be a new Rita Hayworth or Marilyn Monroe, but Novak had no interest in being typecast. Indeed, despite her success, by the mid-1960s she was fed-up with the Hollywood lifestyle. Rarely acting after 1966 (and preferring TV projects to cinematic ones), Novak chose to concentrate on her first love, the visual arts, often writing poetry to accompany her pictures.

Now in her eighties, she continues to create work as a photographer, poet and painter. But it's as a seductive (slightly scary) on-screen witch, humming that infernal tune and stroking her pussy, that I, like many wiccaphiles, most fondly think of her. 


To read part 1 of this post on Jennifer (Vernonica Lake), click here.
To read part 3 of this post on Samantha (Elizabeth Montgomery), click here.