In 1510, the newly wed Catherine of Aragon was surprised in her bedchamber by a gang of rough men dressed in hooded cloaks and armed with swords, bows, and arrows “like out lawes, or Robyn Hodes men.” The brigands were in fact her husband, Henry VIII, and several other noblemen playing an erotic game with the ladies of the court. This was probably not the first example of cosplay, but it included all its most important characteristics. Cosplay involves dressing up in stylized costume (cos) for fun (play). The practice is at least as old as the Tudors, but the term is of recent vintage: It was first used to describe the practice of a Japanese subculture whose members dressed as anime characters and gathered at comic-book festivals. It quickly spread to the West and thrived at events like the New York Comic Con, where favored characters included superheroes and video-game characters.
Cosplay often carries a hint of sexual fetish. Many anime characters, superheroes, and video-game avatars wear tight, shiny, or revealing clothing, so the costumes serve as an excuse to dress provocatively, much like the nearly ubiquitous sexy versions of every imaginable Halloween costume (sexy cop, sexy nurse, sexy nun.) Dressing as a member of another social class was a common fetish in the late Middle Ages and Renaissance: Aristocratic men dressed as rakish highwaymen in a performance of dangerous virility while female sex workers dressed as noble ladies to indulge the common male fantasy of a tryst with a social superior. The sixteenth-century Italian writer Baldassare Castiglione wrote that “even though he be recognized by all…disguise carries with it a certain freedom and license.” This license would allow the Renaissance courtier to make advances toward a woman he would fear to approach undisguised; it might also allow the woman to return his attention without shame or scandal. The play in cosplay, echoes the play in foreplay—a game of seduction.
Cosplay has come to describe a broader array of activities, many of them much less enjoyable. For example, when Department of Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem recently posed for photos in full makeup along with what appeared to be hair extensions, dressed in a bulletproof vest and ICE cap, surrounded by burly agents, commentators described the spectacle as paramilitary cosplay. When Noem, wearing a similar getup, posed for photos in front of cages packed with undocumented immigrants at a maximum-security prison in El Salvador, pundits began describing her as “ICE Barbie,” a name that’s stuck: One headline read, “ICE Barbie…Kristi Noem’s DHS cosplaying has interfered with agency operations.” Here, vulgar fetishism is on full display, but the fun is gone: The play in cosplay refers only to calculated inauthenticity.
This characterization may reflect a bit of misogyny and objectification: The fetishistic element of cosplay often includes conspicuous markers of feminine beauty such as heavy makeup, long, thick hair, and formfitting clothing. Could one as easily say that Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth is cosplaying when he dons his somewhat undersized suits, embellished with stars-and-stripes pocket square and matching lining? (Apparently, he never read the flag code, which, as every Scout knows, prohibits the use of Old Glory as a fashion accessory.) Fair or not, the term is somehow more apt when applied to Noem: Her dress and grooming, designed to counterfeit the natural attributes of youthfulness, looks especially costumey on a middle-aged woman, and even more so on a professional woman who in another setting would dress in a less theatrical, more conventional manner. Perhaps the misogyny is less in the application of the term to Noem than in the social expectations that encouraged her to cosplay video-game heroine Lara Croft in the first place. It’s hard to imagine that Noem’s current look reflects her personal preference—it is so remarkably similar to that of other women in the MAGA set that it has been dubbed “Mar-a-Lago face,” a livery signaling allegiance to Trump. Moreover, a quick Internet search reveals that Noem had a very different pre-MAGA look.
Cosplay is everywhere in a society where typical people with typical jobs post vacations, first dates, weddings, and graduations on Instagram—all framed for the best envy-inducing effect. Playing up the glamour a bit in personal snapshots may have started off as fun, but it quicky became a form of social combat in a brutal competition for status—even a full-time occupation for a growing army of influencers. The play doesn’t refer to a good time anymore but instead to opportunistic scheming, as in: What do you think you’re playing at?
Has social media changed the game or simply supercharged it? Shortly after the reign of Henry VIII, a savvy commentator wrote that “All the world’s a stage”—haven’t people been engaged in cosplay ever since the birth of modern fashion in the late Middle Ages? Yes and no. Several features distinguish cosplay from typical fashionable dress. All fashion invokes memories, emotions, and stories by referring to familiar events or cultural touchstones—in this sense, we all dress up like someone else every day. But successful fashion borrows subtly, typically by detaching one element from a familiar ensemble and combining it with elements from a different historical period, culture, or setting. For example, the modern dinner suit, or tuxedo, covers the waistband with a cummerbund—a garment rakish men in the nineteenth century copied from Persian soldiers who wore sashes around their waists. The cummerbund lent an exotic edge to a staid masculine uniform; fashionable Western women of the same era achieved a similar effect by wearing a silk turban. Similarly, whenever a man wears a blue blazer with brass buttons, he is evoking the uniform of the British Royal Navy, whether he means to or not. This can lend a certain aristocratic flair and martial authority if one is savvy enough in how he pulls the rest of the ensemble together. But the stylish person never adopts the entire costume—she engages in selective quotation, like tossing off a line of Shakespeare as opposed to reciting the entire soliloquy.
The rookie move is to think that sartorial quotations should “match” each other. The effect is ruined, rather than improved, if the man wearing a blazer adds a captain’s hat, or trousers adorned with a gold stripe. Likewise, you might be able to wear spectator shoes, a shirt with a contrasting collar, a gold watch chain, or a fedora with fashionable flair, but wear them all together and you will look like an extra from Boardwalk Empire. Fashion involves borrowing a hint of the associations we have with a familiar uniform to express yourself, not dressing up like someone else. That’s why the surest way to insult a person who aspires to be fashionable or chic is to say that their outfit is costumey. Fashion—as opposed to cosplay—requires successfully combining elements that do not obviously go together: cowboy boots and a dinner jacket (Ralph Lauren); driving moccasins and a tailored suit (Italian men excel at this); ballet flats and a pencil skirt.
The migration of cosplay from comic-book-fan conventions, fetish parties, and Halloween parades to everyday life and politics is not a cause for celebration. Fashion has always been a form of self-creation, and it has played an indispensable role in the development of the modern sense of a coherent individual personality. For fashion to serve this function, it must reflect a unique personal sensibility—it must not be a costume. Costume involves a suspension of the self, an escape from the burdens and responsibilities of self-possession. This can be innocent pleasure if limited, for instance to enthusiasts’ gatherings, late-night seductions, or Halloween, but it’s dangerous when it becomes a way of life, a career plan, or a political tactic. Cosplay Barbies join in the innocent fun of the (terrific) Greta Gerwig movie. ICE Barbie plays dress-up for the camera, a cage of abducted human beings as her prop, blissfully oblivious to the viciousness of her actions.