The Symbiotic Relationship Between Melbourne Fashion and Queer Cinema

Melbourne has always had an eye for performance. You can trace it through the years: the drag-cabaret nights and queer nightlife that pulsed through St Kilda’s Fitzroy Street; the early drag scene documented in Melbourne’s hidden queer histories; the lineage that continues today through venues like The 86, one of Fitzroy’s defining cabaret institutions. Even back then, fashion was at the intersection of Melbourne’s queer culture and nightlife.

By the ’90s, subcultures like goth and grunge collided with the city’s emerging designer scene, giving birth to a distinctly Melbourne mood: offbeat and outspoken. In the 2000s, local designers were continuing to push the boundaries of dressing, from the androgynous tailoring of Materialbyproduct to the avant-garde silhouettes of Alpha 60.

The queer creative lineage runs from couture houses like Christopher Chronis and Toni Maticevski (whose early work played with structure and subversion) to the expressive theatrics of Paul McCann, whose sculptural designs sit as comfortably in the National Gallery of Victoria as they do on a body. Fashion is inextricably tied to identity and visibility, and this is especially true when it comes to the queer community. 

The ethos that self-expression is a form of resistance has driven queer cinema for more than half a century. From The Rocky Horror Picture Show’s corseted camp to Paris is Burning’s devastating glamour, costume has been central to how queer people have written themselves into film history. The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert made that story distinctly Australian: Lizzy Gardiner and Tim Chappel’s Oscar-winning costumes turned the desert into a runway, blending drag excess with outback iconography. It wasn’t just camp; it was sequins as subversion and stilettos as strength.

Fast forward to the late 2010s, and Pose brought ballroom culture to a global audience. The show’s costumes, inspired by designers like Thierry Mugler and Jean Paul Gaultier, weren’t merely era-accurate, they gave trans and queer characters access to beauty historically denied to them. For Dominique Jackson, who played Elektra Abundance on the show, the connection between fashion and liberation has always been personal. “The fashion in Pose was never just about beauty, it was about power, survival and storytelling,” she says. “Every outfit carried its own language.”

That philosophy extends to her new film, Queens of the Dead, which screened at Melbourne Queer Film Festival (MQFF) as part of its Searching for Queer Utopias program. Directed by Tina Romero (daughter of horror icon George A Romero), the film reimagines the apocalypse through a queer lens, one where beauty, resilience and community survive the collapse of everything else. “I hope audiences walk away with a renewed understanding of the power of unity and the necessity of community. Queens of the Dead is not just a story about survival – it’s about the unbreakable bond that forms when we choose to stand together,” Jackson says.

“Fashion, for me, is my armour and my anthem,” she says. “It’s the silent declaration of who I am before I ever speak a word.” Generations of queer artists, who have used clothing as rebellion, protection and proof of life, would agree.

In Melbourne, this sensibility is shared by our city’s creative ecosystem. The ballroom scene thrives through collectives like House of Alexander; drag artists reinterpret camp films like To Wong Foo and Velvet Goldmine with wit and heart; and emerging fashion students continue to build on the foundations laid by Priscilla and Pose, transforming cinematic excess into avant-garde design.

For gender-fluid designer Nathan Van, founder of Queer Connect, that relationship between film and fashion is both historical and personal. Through Queer By Design – Melbourne’s largest all-queer runway – Van helped translate cinematic expression into real-world celebration. Van’s events feel like live-action film stills: bold, theatrical and alive with that same sense of chosen family that defines queer cinema. 

“The blueprint existed in the queer community and scene long before,” Van notes. “But the impact of this media is no less – it’s the peephole into the community for wider audiences that continues to have an impact that’s immeasurable.”

It’s a symbiotic exchange: cinema shapes how Melbourne dresses, and Melbourne’s designers shape how queerness looks on screen. As Jackson puts it: “The aspect of queerness that ties everything together is this sense of boldness [and freedom] to create.” 

That freedom – to play, to exaggerate, to exist in full colour – is intrinsic to both Melbourne fashion and queer film. They’re not parallel worlds, but reflections of one another.

mqff.com.au