A Terrifying Prospect

My nerves always slightly twinge when, at the beginning of rehearsals, the tape measure comes out.

The ghosts of costumes past flash before my eyes. The hot pink gown of cheap, itchy polyester for Hello Dolly, needing sanitary pads under my armpits to avoid sweat marks. The most gorgeous Cinderella ball gown for Into the Woods that was two sizes too small and required three stage hands to zip up as I held in my breath and never let it out. The Pierrot suit that swamped my body in The Boyfriend, feeling like I was the tent rather than the clown. 

The tap shoes too tight, the wigs too big, the bust too revealing.

The costumière too frightening. 

And then I think of the moment I said “no”. 

Several years after giving birth, my body had changed. My stomach and arms wobbled more and I’d gone up at least a size. 

I felt pretty good still - I was a curvaceous Mamma who had successfully auditioned for a comedic role in a hilarious play. I was putting on accents and dying on stage and having a ball.

But when the tape measure stretched a little further than the costumière desired, her eyes rolled and there was a “tut tut.” Apparently women in the 1940s didn’t have bellies.

Almost like she’d done it on purpose, the dress made of non-stretch cotton wrapped tightly over my waist. 

A bright red gut haunted me in the mirror. 

But I wasn’t young anymore. I was a full-time working mum who wasn’t committing to community theatre at night and on the weekends to feel like a frump on stage.

Like in a séance, my mouth moved without my mind. I spoke. Firmly. “I am not comfortable being on stage looking like this. My character is elegant, beautiful and mysterious. She needs confidence and class. This can be better.”

I thought she’d yell. I thought she’d refuse. I thought I’d be making my own costume out of sticky tape and staples.

But that apparition faded. She just said “ok” and got to work with solutions.

She knew I was right.

When I now look back, it makes me wonder how many other actors out there have had to grapple with the ghouls of costume. Do actors have to hold their own when it comes to feeling good on stage? Or is it the costumière’s job to get it right? Why can the tape measure be such a frightening prospect? And what needs to change?

Costume is essential to playing a role. It’s not just about creating a vibe or impression that the director values, it’s about the actor being comfortably able to enter that character’s world. 

A well designed costume should aid in the movement and fluidity of character - a certain cut of the shoulder can instantly make you straighten up, a flowing material can lighten your walk. A fur coat is opulent. Dungarees are liberating.

I don’t think it’s either up to the actor or the costumière to unearth this phenomenon alone. It takes a respectful conversation and a willingness to work with the body you’re dressing.

But, in my experience in community theatre at least, it often feels like costumières are a little bit mean.

Whether she’s a banshee flying in from the professional world or a spectre from the terrifying depths of dance mum, these people often seem to think they have the right to shame and deny. The notion that all bodies are beautiful doesn’t seem to enter their realm.

You can’t argue that their job isn’t tricky on a limited budget with limited sewers at their disposal, but I think everyone deserves to look and feel great on stage. And no one, particularly young people, should feel not quite good enough or voiceless in the conversation. 

Unfortunately, this seems to impact those who are up-and-coming. 

All too often I’ve seen shows where it’s very obvious that the chorus or minor roles have been left to fend for themselves. Hems too short and gowns too big or simply not suited to the era of the play, Kmart pieces thrown together under the guise of art or Amazon cosplay tweaked to just make do. All of which elucidates a lack of care and conversation between actor and costumière.

And I think you can feel it materialize in their performance - they’re not quite ‘there’.

But don’t dismay, all is not lost.

This time, when the tape measure comes out, it floats with a vision of motherly love and mutual understanding.

Mother Jan’s incandescence transcends all thoughts of being scared and bewildered.

She takes down your measurements swiftly and shows you researched ideas in her little neat mood book.

She’s excited by your suggestions and her only “tut tut” is when you doubt that she can do it. 

But she can do anything.

And she will. 

So that the spirit of the character can rise.

And so YOU are never afraid again.