between screen appearances of any one suit.” Only occasionally were male stars reimbursed by the
studios for their modern wardrobe. Additional designers were rarely given credit on pictures, and
titles during this time were likely to read only “Gowns by . . .” As a result, costume design credits
on many early films are nearly impossible to verify today.

In the 19205, MGM had begun with only two designers, Gilbert Clark and Clement Andreani
(“Andre—Am”); by the early thirties the studio had an extensive staff, England’s Dolly Tree among
them. MGM’s Adrian (Gilbert Adrian Greenburg) became a celebrity in his own right. Pattern—
makers and stitchers, embroiderers and lace makers were at his service. Jewelers and furriers pro—
duced custom accessories, and headers painstakingly ornamented gowns according to Adrian’s
exacting standards Warehouses were filled with every imaginable imported fabric and trim,
storerooms loaded with buttons and braid from every era and region. In a December 1935 piece
in Modern Screen, journalist Adela Bird offers a sense of the designers’ resourcefulness: “Rene
Hubert showed me some fabric swatches which he had brought back from Paris. All of them had
exotic textures Some were shaggy with cellophane threads woven through the materials to give
them [a] hairy look. Others were skillfully executed in stunning patterns. All his costume fabrics
are selected with a camera eye#they are chosen in textures that will photograph well and will
give you some idea of‘feel’ to the fabrics.”

The studios’ factory~like environment, born in the 19205, transformed a simple tailor shop
into an onsite assembly line in the interest of getting actors clothed as efficiently as possible.
Edith Head, who sometimes designed four or five films simultaneously, reflected that “the studios
had an enormous stock of fabrics, everything 1 could possibly need.” Adrian created some fifty to
seventyefive sketches a day in genres from period to contemporary to fantasy. To speed produc—
tion, Adrian maintained a collection of padded dress forms in the measurements of MGM’s most
prominent stars, so that dress patterns could be completed without having to wait for the star her—
self. Finally, a formal separation was established between costume crew who worked on the seti
known as costumers/dressers—and the professionals who labored offset in the wardrobe depart»
ment creating the costumes. It was the wardrobe workers, not the designers, who first formed a
union (Motion Picture Costumers Local 705) in 1937 to protect their membership.

With a slate of new films released each week, screen designers worked to exhaustive standards.
First they would “break down” the script to determine what (and how many) outfits would be
needed in which scene. After creating a rough sketch of each change, a designer would present a fin—
ished watercolor for approval by the producer, director, and actress. Later the dress would be created
in muslin and fitted to the actress, who would stand under studio lights approximating those used
on the set. The designer would study the dress from every possible angle and make the necessary
adjustments. Only then would the dress be shaped in the expensive fabric intended for the film.

“Now we’re going to let you in on something very special. That glamour, that allure, that~
whatever the heck it is—is manufactured right in Travis Banton’s fitting room,” Sara Hamilton
declared to her reading public in “Secrets of the Fitting Room” in March 1934’s Photoplay. At the
final fitting, Adrian would film the actress in costume with his 16mm home movie camera to
ensure the effect was flawless. He also used this research to discover which fabrics were most
appealing on film, how they responded to light, and how they created a mood. His meticulous
approach produced some of Hollywood’s most memorable costumes, from the four thousand
embellished eighteenth—century gowns for Marie Antoinette (1938) to the whimsical costumes of

The Wizard ofOz (1939).

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