The Emperor's New Clothes

Costume. The final piece in the jigsaw of characterisation, the lustre on the solid gold creation that is your role, the cream on your theatrical scone. Or a hideous polyester sack that will rub you raw, make you look like a star trek extra and will stink like a dead dog in ninety degree heat.



"Call my agent"

There are a handful of moments before the show opens that can define a job for an actor... meeting the rest of the cast, getting on the set for the first time, finding out that the west end transfer that was heavily tipped when you took the job is off (replaced by two weeks at The Stevenage Arts and Leisure Centre) and the day you first get fitted for your 'frock'.

After a fortnight of delving into the subtleties of a character, finding a delicate physicality and slight mannerisms it's a bitter pill to swallow to find you'll be spending 3hours a night wrapped in a velour smock thicker than a 70's lounge carpet.



Sean Connery proving that no-one is safe from the costume mistress


My poor relationship with costume started very early: In a school production of Aladdin (in which i gave my ground-breaking 'market seller') i was inexplicably dressed in a beige dressing gown, in itself not so bad except that in a quick change oddly in view of the audience the knot had become so tight that i had to free my arms and force the gown down over my hips, whereupon down came trousers, pants and all much to the amusement of the fourth year in rows a to c.

Things really reached an all time low though a few years ago in a touring production of Macbeth set in Medieval Britain. The meagre budget had already gone on huge freestanding wooden screens that could be moved to ingeniously define different areas of the castle (in the event they were extremely heavy and unstable, and one night, having toppled one over I was forced perform Macduff's "O horror...murder and treason" speech with one on my back like some strange Elizabethan tortoise). So the costume mistress bought up as much polyester and as many old velvet curtains as four pounds fifty would allow and did what she could. The results still bring a tear to my eye. Nightly for three months "Disco Duncan" was murdered by a Macbeth wearing satin pyjamas who was ultimately undone by myself as Macduff wearing a velour sack with a rubber tabbard (laughably impersonating a leather jerkin). The hazard caused by the static electricity alone doesn't bear thinking about.
And I'm sure many in the audience are still confused that the royal court of 11th century Scotland should all be sporting jazz shoes.