I was completely unprepared for the depth and scope of this show. Other than some overkill with the glitzy gizmos and perhaps excessive zeal with the archival frigid room temperatures, every aspect demonstrated exemplary intelligence.
It began with completely appropriate didactic/polemical points: displays making the argument that costumes mimicking everyday clothes can be as inventive as the crazy outfits of historical extravaganzas. Then came case studies that showed how costume designers work, the stages of their task, their interactions with the other visual designers and the director.
Only then did the exhibit begin in earnest. Room after room of costumes draped on mannequins, densely packed on platforms. Instead of generic heads, each mannequin was outfitted with a screen showing a clip of the head of the actor who wore the costume. A witty reminder that almost everything on display was made for a specific person.
The curatorial intelligence came into play in the groupings. This was not just a collection of the coolest clothes they could get their hands on. The emphasis was on demonstrating how specific character types have been dressed over the last century. The costumes were presented in clever compare/contrast groupings, such as a gaggle of gowns for Queen Elizabeths from different movies from several decades, multiple glittery sex goddess sheathes (plus Marlene Dietrich’s tuxedo) and an especially instructive display of dozens of costumes worn by Meryl Streep in her wide-ranging career. Each grouping contained a mix of very recent things for casual viewers, iconic old things for buffs, and oddball zingers (Ming the Merciless’s high-collared robe) for the fun of it. All the major movie genres were represented, with a century’s worth of outfits for cowboys, gangsters, spacemen, pirates, soldiers, ….
Over and over again, I was reminded of the decorative arts collection at the Getty. Just as the fantastically intricate André-Charles Boulle cabinet is a monument to the skill and labor of 17th century craftspeople, Edith Head’s peacock-feather cape and gown for Heddy Lamar in Samson and Delilah is a testimony to the skill and artistry obtainable more recently. Almost everything in the exhibit deserved the subtitle, Triumph of (probably female) Labor.
Beyond the specific excellence of the work on display, and the organization of the exhibition, I was haunted by two more general thoughts.
First, astonishment that any of it exists at all. It’s the same feeling I get when I see intact glassware from antiquity: How is it possible that, after it’s original use, it survived? What improbable chain of events led to it ending up here? The archivist in me wishes somebody could determine the precise combination of neglect and care that safeguards fragile things.
In the case of the costumes in this exhibit, the world owes a lot to Debbie Reynolds and Larry McQueen and the others who realized these artifacts were beautiful and important. What’s especially impressive is that people often had the foresight to save the less spectacular items. It’s not so surprising that somebody realized that Heddy's peacock-feather cape and gown was worth keeping: it’s obviously one of a kind, spectacularly crafted, and crazy beautiful. But it’s more impressive that somebody also saved John Wayne’s shirt and vest from The Searchers, which aren’t anywhere near as striking.
I'm afraid the other general response is ... doubt. At the risk of appearing ungrateful, I can’t shake the suspicion that putting artifacts that are essentially props on display runs the risk of distracting attention from what really should matter—the movies. Does everything have to turn into a how-to demonstration?
Of course, how could I not be transfixed by seeing in person the beaded cape and gown by Travis Banton that transformed Carole Lombard into shimmering white flame in My Man Godfrey? But I couldn’t help feeling that there was something beside the point about my fascination, as well as the object itself. Travis’s gown isn’t, after all, meant to be seen anywhere, in any context, on any body other than Carole Lombard’s, as it’s represented up on the screen in luminous black, white and silver.
But that's a bigger question--something the Academy has a few years to work on--that doesn't detract from this brilliant event.