amount of fabric that could be used in any garment construction—including Hollywood cos—
tumes,” sighed Edith Head, by now costume chief at Paramount. Luxurious imported fabrics were
impossible to obtain. Forget satin, velvet, and gold lame’, the age of extravagant gowns was over?
for a time.

Instead, costume designers resorted to the time—honored practice of foraging, searching for
buried treasure in the racks of studio costume stock—even for the stars’ outfits. Cotton stood in
for silk, and actresses made the best of straight skirts and short jackets. The government even
enlisted Hollywood’s help in convincing citizens to conserve fabric, and especially silk (which was
needed for parachutes): In a promotional message early in the war, Edith Head counseled that “All
designers are turning to cotton. Silk is ‘out’ for 1942. Synthetic materials will be used more than
ever before, and we are fortunate because they have been perfected to such a degree that it is
almost impossible to detect that they are not pure fibers.”

Fabric was not the only thing in short supply; the studios also had to deal with an acute short—
age of experienced seamstresses. Stitchers could earn more sewing uniforms and parachutes for the
war effort than at any studio’s wardrobe department. Assembling aviation instruments turned out to
be a perfect match for the dexterous fingers of skilled embroiderers, headers, and lace makers.

Meanwhile, costume designers overcame the limitations of rationing, working in multiple
job jurisdictions to meet the production deadlines (which hadn’t disappeared with the resources).
Ginger Rogers recalled shooting Weekend at the Waldorf ( 1945): “When the day came to do a par—
ticular scene, however, the dress I was supposed to wear wasn’t finished. Rather than hold up pro—
duction, [producer] Arthur Hornblow asked if I had a dress of my own that might be suitable. I
never expected to hear a question like that from MGM! I did have a black silk grosgrain dress
designed by Irene, and I sent home to get it. It must have been somewhat embarrassing for the
producer to ask the star to dip into her own wardrobe to help costume the film.”

In like fashion, Vincente Minnelli asked star Robert Mitchum to “Bring me something
tweedy” for his role in Undercurrent (1946). “At the time, Bob had only two suits, and both of
them were still being made.” Mitchum continued the story: “I show up on the show with my
clothes stuck together with pins. Minnelli notices that I don’t look too elegant. ‘Are those your
own clothes?’ he asked. I’m sure he didn’t understand that an important player would be tapped
out and have no money for clothes.”

But Hollywood did not completely give up its love of luxe. For the 1944 film Laura, producer
Otto Preminger spent fifteen thousand dollars to clothe Gene Tierney by costume designer Bon-
nie Cashin-—and made sure both the cost and the costumes got plenty of publicity. Most “real”
gold and “fur” trim during this time were faux; the simple materials reflected the tenor of the era’s
realistic movies, which captured the somber mood of the nation. Audiences responded devotedly;
weekly cinema attendance rose from 80 million in 1940 to almost 100 million by 1946.

Hollywood had its best year in 1946, when servicemen returned from the war with time and
money to spend. Movie theaters sold more than 4 billion tickets that year. By the end of the decade,
the novelty of television would start eroding the audience, and movie attendance would drop while
Hollywood struggled to find another formula that might draw the public back into the theaters.

The neorealistic trend in America gave us what became known as film noir, a crime—drama
genre whose landmarks included Laura (1944), The Big Sleep (1946), Kiss ofDeath (1947), among
scores of others. Film noir took audiences to a shadowy underworld of con men and cops, tough

guys and dangerous dames; their stories were infused with dark passion, gunplay, and heart—

Uh DPESEED