The question that you might have about this review of a documentary about a preppy clothing brand in this space is most likely “Why bother?” Unless there is an art exhibition comparing the contents of a Molotov cocktail to the brand’s staple Fierce cologne, I can’t imagine that A&F even toes the relevancy of Boston Hassle. However, deep in my heart, I know that there is an audience out there who has peripheral experiences with the brand (or hey, maybe you did wear it at a wee age of conformity and braces!). What is it that A&F brings you back to? “Summer Girls?” Spiky-haired soccer players? How much you hated high school?

For me, elitism in the form of frayed zip-ups and purportedly ripped jeans was far too impactful in developing esteem for myself and those around me. There was no way in this God-given Earth that my fiscally conservative, prudish mom would have bought anything at a store that squeezes youthful sexuality at $30 a shirt, so the possibility of owning A&F was not in the cards. However, it didn’t stop me from thinking: would I have been cooler if I had worn an A&F sweater three days a week? Would I have fit in if I had created a book cover out of their shopping bag, making sure that the headless torso of a muscular man disguised the act of carrying a math textbook around? Would I have felt more at ease with myself?

Even if I somehow had wrangled a tee, there was a feeling I wouldn’t able to shake: that I didn’t belong in those clothes. Alison Klayman explores the jilted relationship between the company and its staff and customers at the height of its popularity. Using the voices of former employees and journalists, White Hot articulates what I wasn’t able to place a finger on until I was older: the idealistic image of the “All-American” look was young, white people. Even more so, there was a period of time that this was accepted, to a degree. It’s not the fault of teenagers who most likely didn’t pick up the marketing nuances of white nationalism and and spent more time worrying about making friends.

Nothing surprising is revealed in this documentary: A&F is evil, Mike Jeffries is evil, capitalizing on insecurity is evil. Still, it’s still saddening to see former employees who were 18-20 endure blatant racism without the tools for advocacy. Models — both front-of-store staff and photographic — were white. Very white, like the Midwestern, hair rolled in oats and sense of belonging, sunkissed shade of white. The brand’s recognizable homoeroticism smoldering posters and advertisements was achieved by Bruce Weber, who had later been charged with sexual assault. Like many other of Netflix’s documentaries, the malevolence drips right on time.

The title refers to journalist Robin Givhan’s description of the company’s downfall: “White-hot brands burn out faster.” Conveniently titled for its subject matter and the streaming service’s flashy films, the documentary is a quick stitch fix for a night of superficially remininiscing the ’00s.

White Hot: The Rise & Fall of Abercrombie & Fitch
2022
dir. Alison Klayman
88 mins

Now streaming on Netflix!