Netflix last week debuted “Trainwreck: The Cult of American Apparel,” a documentary that chronicles the rise and fall of the cult clothing brand. Central to American Apparel’s story is founder Dov Charney and what former employees assert was his consistently repugnant behavior.
Founded in 1989 by Charney, American Apparel was at the height of popularity, expansion and influence between 2005 and 2010. The brand began selling merchandise wholesale before opening retail locations in Los Angeles, New York City and Montreal in 2003. Revolutionary at the time, American Apparel was dedicated to making its clothing domestically without sweatshops. Charney was also known for his liberal-minded open-border immigration beliefs. American Apparel was flagged for allegedly hiring factory workers with false or forged papers, but a lawyer for the company said then that it had not been accused of knowingly hiring people unauthorized to work in the U.S.
Can you divorce the trend and the aesthetic from the man behind it? And, should you?
Now American Apparel and its aesthetic are poised for a resurgence: with Y2K and early 2010s fashion very much on trend, the makeup light, hyper-sexual advertisements feel very current. American Apparel appealed to us young 2010s shoppers because of the cost, the styles and the provocation. Today, those same things appeal. This reality forces an uncomfortable question: Can you divorce the trend and the aesthetic from the man behind it? And, should you?
In the midst of falling financials, Charney was ousted in 2014 because of an “ongoing investigation into alleged misconduct” which included reports of sexual harassment and violence toward employees. As Netflix acknowledges on its website, “Charney has denied the allegations and has not been found guilty of, or liable for, any crimes. The lawsuits against him either settled or went to arbitration.” American Apparel filed for Chapter 11 in 2015.
In a statement to Entertainment Weekly, a spokesperson for Charney asserted that “the Netflix documentary grossly misrepresents the story of American Apparel and Charney, relying on paid actors to emotionally restate long-disproven allegations. […] No credible insiders — including Charney himself — participated in the production. One can only hope the full, unvarnished story of American Apparel and the forces behind its downfall will one day be told.”
The Netflix documentary ends with brave voiceovers of women sharing their gutting stories of abuse they say Charney subjected them to. On-screen language from the film explains that “during legal proceedings some of the women’s allegations entered the public domain. Now for the first time we are bringing their accounts together, voiced by actors.”
Netflix didn’t immediately respond to a question asking if Charney was asked to participate in the documentary.
American Apparel’s ethos was stylized, sexualized basics. There were tank tops, T-shirts and skirts of every color. Choice pieces became ubiquitous and iconic: the shiny and tight disco pants, the mesh paneled bodysuit made famous by Megan Fox’s 2009 Rolling Stone cover and flowy skater skirts. You could get a plain cotton sweatshirt or a skintight bodycon dress (a staple in every 2012 teens’ wardrobe, much to our mothers’ chagrin). Everyone at my North Jersey high school and at my Connecticut college shopped at American Apparel in one way or another.
Everyone at my North Jersey high school and at my Connecticut college shopped at American Apparel in one way or another.
The brand was most notorious for highly suggestive advertising campaigns that embodied the indie sleaze aesthetic pervasive in the early 2000s. The advertisements were antithetical to what was appearing in glossy ads at the time: intentionally grainy, appearing unedited, inclusive of imperfections like stretch marks. They featured mostly makeup free young people in provocative positions. The ads routinely faced backlash and outrage, and some were even banned overseas. A notorious one, which showed a topless woman sprawled on a bed looking up from a man’s crotch, was followed by internet speculation that the man was Charney himself. Charney’s face appeared in many American Apparel ads.
Charney prized what he called authenticity. In a sprawling 2017 interview with Retail Dive, Charney explained, “What made it special is that it wasn’t rehearsed, it wasn’t contrived, it was honest. It was real. The people were real, and we challenged notions of beauty because we rarely used professional models. […] The reason that this was one of the most recognizable fashion ad campaigns or any ad campaign — a huge element of what made it special and why people connected to it — was its authenticity and its realness.”
Infamously, many of the women photographed were not professionals, but American Apparel store employees. According to Fashion Law, the brand’s website once read, “We find our models all over the world, through online submissions, word of mouth, and in retail stores, where we’ve been known to do an impromptu test shoot or two.” The documentary does a great job at examining the painfully chaotic, toxic and inappropriately sexually charged work environment that Charney created for American Apparel employees. This includes, of course, the numerous allegations of sexual harassment and misconduct Charney faced. In 2015, Charney unsuccessfully sued American Apparel and its chairwoman for defamation, a filing that prompted her to respond in a court filing that evidence of Charney’s sexual misconduct and his abuse of employees was “voluminous” and that he “engaged in all manner of sexual behavior with numerous models and employees, which for some incredible reason had been saved by Mr. Charney to the company’s network server by him with the use of his company computer.” Provocation, it seems, always appeals to younger people. Provocation, it seems, always appeals to younger people. American Apparel, at the time, was a way to push the boundary of your own self-expression and sexuality. When you examine the brand through a 2025 lens, it is clear that it worked because it married the edginess and the on-trend Indie sleaze with an ideological ethos at, crucially, just the right time. American culture, which is so often reflected back to us in the advertisements that encourage us to buy things, was that of exploitation and degradation for women. It was then and it still is now. Long after his public fall from grace, Charney’s career has never faltered. He’s gone on to found a company in American Apparel’s likeness called Los Angeles Apparel. He also helmed another company you might have heard of with a hugely problematic founder: Yeezy. Today, there are many TikToks, set to 2008 pop songs, that show young people modeling their genuine American Apparel finds from Depop and Poshmark. The look, the energy and the vibe once found inside of American Apparel stores is very much so back. So, can you separate the man from the aesthetic he helped create? It looks like we are going to.
Hannah Holland
Hannah Holland is a producer for MSNBC's "Velshi" and editor for the "Velshi Banned Book Club." She writes for MSNBC Daily. 
