Signature Styles: Supernatural

Supernatural’s early seasons are a perfect example of when television still had that nostalgic sense of realism. Shot on 35 mm film with Panavision cameras and lenses, those first few years had a look that has become almost mythical. Grainy, dark and atmospheric, every frame felt heavy with mood. There was a gothic atmosphere, misty and dirty, with a sense of antiquity, almost of found footage. It carried that same tension and beauty you find in Lynch’s work, that sense of something both intimate and uncanny.

Created by Eric Kripke, the mind behind The Boys and Gen V, Supernatural had a texture that no amount of modern polish could ever replicate. It was imperfect in all the right ways. The lighting was low, the sets were tangible and the world felt lived in, full of smoke, rain and muted light, dark, gloomy, spooky. It wasn’t glossy or sterile; it was tactile, raw, human, it carried an authenticity that modern cinema fundamentally lacks.

The costuming was just as integral to that realism. Worn-down Carhartt jackets, faded denim, weathered leather, clothes that looked like they had actually travelled those backroads. There was no gloss, no theatrical styling, just authenticity. You could smell the dust and engine oil through the screen. Costuming, I would argue, is such an integral aspect of cinema. I cannot count the amount of times I have been watching something and instantly grimaced at the sight of a costume so painfully bad and costume-y, and I know I'm not the only one. That false sheen kills immersion instantly. When something is too clean, too styled, too self-aware, the illusion dies.

And then there is the 1967 Chevrolet Impala, the real icon. The Impala is more than a car; it’s a heartbeat. There’s a particular charm to classic cars that modern vehicles can never replicate. They have presence. They have weight. You feel every movement, every turn of the wheel, every vibration of the engine through your chest. The smell of diesel and the sound of the ignition is something very special to me, a reminder of endless summers in the 00s and 10s helping my grandfather restore classic cars for his collection. The shine of the paint, the broad leather seats, the outdated sound systems and beautiful interiors carry so much life and charm within them that the cars become characters of their own.

The Impala isn’t just beautiful, it’s alive. It carries the same kind of nostalgia that sits at the core of Supernatural, that bittersweet sense of something familiar but unreachable. Its black paint, chrome detailing and heavy frame make it timeless, but it’s the emotional resonance that makes it unforgettable. That car is memory in motion, grief on four wheels. Modern cars, sleek and soulless, could never hold that kind of mythology, that lived history. The Impala was chosen for a reason. It had character. It had weight. It looked like something that had survived things. A part of me adores the sense of lineage you get with vintage cars: decades of owners, each with their own lives, experiences and journeys, the cars taking on their own history. The American Chevrolet encapsulates a sweet spot in history, 1967, economy booming, American dream still in reach, at least so the masses believed. A promise of a life, faded into bittersweet nostalgia, the car was the life promised to Sam and Dean, suburbs, nuclear family, a kushy all American life,corroded and worn into reality.

It was a time when television still understood the atmosphere. Before everything was shot on digital and graded to death, before costume departments started dressing characters like mannequins of the latest trends. There’s a particular kind of immersion that comes from imperfection, from when nothing feels too composed or too clean. Now you watch a film and the clothes look like costumes and the world feels flat, sterile, emptied of texture.

And then there’s the music. The use of classic rock, Kansas, AC/DC, Bob Seger, wasn’t nostalgia, it was texture. It grounded the show in a specific kind of American melancholy, one that spoke to long drives, open roads and impossible choices. The songs weren’t background; they were emotional cues, tied to grief, memory and motion. They built the show’s rhythm as much as its dialogue did.

Supernatural season 1 is what television should be. It feels alive. It has grit, soul and weight. Every choice, the music, the visuals, the costuming, builds a world that you can almost touch. It reminds us that good storytelling isn’t about perfection. It’s about presence, and that is something television has all but forgotten.

This image captures the early aesthetic of Supernatural: rough, sun-streaked Americana with an undertone of melancholy. The faded denim, worn hoodie, and dirt-caked shoes evoke a realism that modern television rarely achieves. This is not fashion; it’s function. The clothes look lived in, not styled. There’s a quiet beauty in the dust on his jeans and the fraying of the jacket, the kind of detail that makes you believe the world on screen exists beyond the frame. The soft golden light, the desolate backdrop, and the muted palette all contribute to that singular feeling of Supernatural season 1: something wild, tangible and unpolished, heavy with the ghosts of the American landscape.

This picture captures the essence of Supernatural’s early world: two brothers leaning against the Impala, headlights cutting through the dusk. The brown jackets, torn jeans and heavy boots aren’t styled but lived in, their clothes carrying the same exhaustion as the road beneath them. The setting sun stains the scene with gold, giving the image a nostalgic haze that feels both cinematic and ordinary. It’s Americana at its most honest, stripped of gloss and ego. You can almost feel the heat coming off the asphalt and the hum of the car’s engine, a reminder that Supernatural was never about perfection, but presence.

These scenes capture Supernatural’s signature atmosphere: a world that feels soaked in twilight, where headlights slice through fog and everything seems suspended between night and dawn. The bridge shot, with its hazy blue light and silhouettes, feels almost mythic, like the threshold between the living and the dead. The Roadhouse glows in that distinct sodium warmth, its neon sign flickering through dust and smoke, the kind of place that exists only on the edge of reality. And the Impala cutting through the forest in monochrome feels like memory in motion, a dream replayed through static and film grain. Every frame feels heavy with air and silence, the kind of beauty that comes from stillness and shadow

The Impala is the spine of Supernatural’s visual identity. Its deep black body absorbs light instead of reflecting it, turning it into a moving shadow across empty highways. It’s not a sleek or modern car; it’s broad, heavy, and distinctly American, belonging to an era when vehicles had presence. Every shot of it carries weight, grounding the story in a tangible sense of motion and memory. When it drives through mist or sits beneath a flickering streetlight, it becomes part of the landscape, a vessel of ghosts and history. The Impala doesn’t just take the brothers from place to place; it becomes an emotional constant in a world that’s always falling apart. Its sound, its shine dulled by time, its interior cluttered with cassettes and weapons, all form part of the show’s language. It’s nostalgia on wheels, a symbol of continuity and loss, an artefact of an older America that still believed in roads that led somewhere.