Movie tee envy

This past summer, after buying a newly Bandcamp-listed “Bird” tee from post-industrial / avant-metal band Wreck & Reference, I had a realization: I’ve filled an entire middle dresser drawer of music-related tees over the years—now overflowing to the point where I’m displaying newer ones on hangers in my open closet to avoid wrinkling—but I’m a film writer without any film tees. Who am I, and what am I doing with my life?

Seriously though, that was just the prompt I needed to reflect on my history of curating tees since my teens. If I wasn’t browsing display racks during the early days of Hot Topic, I’d be driving down to Baltimore venues like the Ottobar and the now-shuttered Talking Head to buy whatever was prominently displayed on or behind the merch tables of touring post-hardcore, screamo, metalcore, and experimental rock bands. Claiming a shirt instilled cred and pride as a true fan.

Opposite today, that era’s “scene” fashion was to wear everything a half-size too small. When I gained weight in college, naturally, some of those small and even medium tees wouldn’t fit anymore. The fallout from those slightly ill-advised purchases meant that, for several years after, I seldom picked up show mementos in clothing form. Gradually I altered and streamlined my style a bit, stocking up on solid color long-sleeve dress shirts. All the attention I once paid to wearing and showcasing my distinctive taste on my sleeve (if you’ll pardon the expression) shifted to amassing or hoarding physical media instead. Though, I’ve acquired a distaste for that and have veered away, as I recently wrote for Tone Madison.

I suppose I’ve nearly come full circle; at this micro-crisis of identity, I have again begun mulling over the distinctive impression that even a simple shirt’s artwork can attract. I first attempted to recapture that departed era—or reconnect with the nostalgia of the adolescent initiation ritual—during the pandemic, when I became somewhat obsessed with the two NieR games on PS4 (the highly acclaimed Automata and Replicant, a remaster of the Japan-only version of the original PS3 game). One sheltered week I found myself clicking through various Redbubble pages for print-on-demand custom designs.

This prevailing white-and-black favorite, by krispies69, cleverly plays with negative space in rendering the Art Deco-like Copied City from Automata. Through that experience in 2021, I came to know more about what I was looking for in a game-tee design, but the process just didn’t motivate me to continue browsing or buying. I’m no expert on finding a good movie tee. I can’t pick them up in a movie theater lobby like I would with band tees at a venue, nor do I really want to rely on sifting through the design wastelands of e-marketplaces. So, whose advice should I heed? Where can I find inspiration?

Right as I finished asking these questions, it occurred to me that I should first look to YouTube. (Perhaps bad advice, but where else are my column ideas originating these days?) Around the time that Wreck & Reference tee arrived in the mail, I was watching a few Fish Jelly Reviews with Joseph Robinson and Nick Bell, who I stumbled upon in late 2024 when I was seeking out more worthwhile film criticism and endearing personalities on the platform. Their takes provided a bit of a break from the pale-white weariness of all the boilerplate top-10 lists.

Click on a random Fish Jelly video from the past several months, and you’ll see Joseph and Nick sitting Siskel & Ebert-style on their green-screen set in some of the most striking and amusing tees around. Their late-August critique of The Roses remake caught my attention, with Joseph sporting a design featuring Christina Crawford (Mara Hobel) from Mommie Dearest (1981), and Nick—on theme(?!)—wearing one of Dottie Hinkle (Mink Stole) from John Waters’ Serial Mom (1994). Iconic.

While those shirts are fabulous, I probably wouldn’t wear them. I’m too awkward and timid to flaunt the camp, and it’s just never really been my style. Though, I can absolutely appreciate it, and I have changed my whole aesthetic since my all-black goth phase. These days, I’d opt for something one of a kind—a shirt inspired by I Heard The Mermaids Singing (1987) to display appreciation for director Patricia Rozema, an image of pitiable Ray (Fergus Wilson) from current decade favorite Friends And Strangers (2021), some custom art from Richard Kelly’s now-reappraised masterpiece Southland Tales (2006), or—when I’m feeling particularly, playfully miserable—a hot-pink tee of Dawn Wiener from Welcome To The Dollhouse (1996). Maybe the latter would be most akin to Joseph and Nick’s typical flair, too. Though, I’d also make exceptions for an A24 cult favorite in the past 10 years. Surely I could most easily find something related to that feverishly esteemed distributor oft-seen as a brand.

I turned to the person I know with a sizable wardrobe of movie tees here in Madison: Four Star Video Rental’s co-owner and Tone contributor, Lewis Peterson. These days he’s only behind the counter a couple times per week, but when I see him, he’s always flaunting a distinctive film-affiliated tee. (This past Monday, in a House [Hausu] hoodie, actually—not the Criterion design.) Whether that’s the Quatre Nuits D’Un Reveur de Robert Bresson tee through Human Lanterns LLC—to coincide with the November 22 screening at UW Cinematheque—or an on-set portrait of gun-slinging American cinema godfather Marty Scorsese (from andafterthat), Peterson has the hook-up. Though, it’s almost exclusively through an array of e-shops like his most endorsed Terminal Classic, Human Boy Worldwide, restricted.vr, Nervous Designs, Goodbye Press, and Scorpion Home Video / Das Bootleg.

Thanks to Peterson, I’m now in the know. But I was still curious about a local presence, and he pointed me towards Cosmic Cabin, which occupies the second floor of Meep Meepleton’s World Of Fun at 912 Willy Street. The shop, helmed by Alex Thomas and Brandt Clawson, is sort of like a permanent pop-up that features “galactic goods,” as their branding promotes. While they had been selling online through Big Cartel for a few years, this past April, Thomas and Clawson pitched the idea of stocking a physical storefront to Meepleton’s owner Dave Farrar, who was thrilled to coordinate with them to officially open in June, exactly six months ago this week.

When I stopped in on a snowy November 30, Cosmic Cabin was running special Black-Friday discounted shirts (normally $30-35) on the racks for retro films like Carpenter’s The Thing (1982), Blade Runner (1982), Dawn Of The Dead (1978), Troll 2 (1990… Nilbog!). A lone XXL shirt for Jaws (1975) was on clearance.

Clawson let me know that I caught Cosmic Cabin at the end of their Halloween season stock, and that their limited-run designs will “go more toward the A24 lineup as well as more art-house stuff down the road,” he writes to Tone Madison via email. The proof is on the plywood table in the center of the main room, which includes (buy two, get one free) $10 medium-size poster designs for Ghost World (2001), The Darjeeling Limited (2007), Midsommar (2019), The Green Knight (2021), Villeneuve’s Dune (2021), and more. As an example, Clawson teases that he “actually spun up a Brutalist (2024) long-sleeve that I felt was magnificent, [but] just hasn’t found the right time for it yet.”

While Thomas’ name is on the one side of the business card tacked to the shop’s corkboard, most of the time he is working in North Carolina, while Clawson manages their operation here. Thomas primarily conjures up the designs (about 80%, Clawson writes), which are then printed “100% in-house” in Clawson’s studio in Columbus, Wisconsin, about 30 miles Northeast of Madison. And, on the subject of pitching Cosmic design ideas—well, perhaps not as niche as I may have daydreamt above—Clawson “ABSOLUTELY” encourages it. So, maybe there is a chance to eventually see one for The Fly (1986), which is at the peak of my personal horror canon.

Ultimately, no matter how I’d choose to start my movie-tee collection (while cycling out or donating some of my old band tees), I’m prone to thinking about the act in opposition to the mere concept of collecting media like records and games. I don’t envision it as a hobby that’d turn into a pricey competitive sport, and so it’s comforting—kinda literally—to know that wearing a unique merch item is a point of pride to convey and spur interest in (and even gift to) someone you know. It’s also a little heartening to pause to mull over all the stories contained within the when and where shirts originated (many in my drawer and on the rack are from Kayo Dot), and what it says about my personal micro and macro journeys.

Our former Publisher Scott Gordon can attest to that, too, with his loving meditation on local band shirts from February 2022. (His sentiment of “…These shirts mark a point in time, finite, not endlessly printed up on demand” perennially rings true.) Digging through the neat folds in my own dresser or sliding the row of white plastic hangers on a closet rack can be a kind of time-travelling trick, which is one of the reasons for my enthusiasm—striving little by little to create an unburdened moment in the troubled present, knowing it could become a bright spot for future musings.

This quest also provided a reason for me to start a new dialogue with another cinephile like Peterson and to make that first connection with a local artist and merchant like Clawson, who’s preserving a cultural niche through a physical space here in Madison. Cosmic Cabin might just have the movie-tee merch you’re looking for. Just make sure it’s on the slightly larger size.