When Dorothy Gale stepped out of her sepia-toned Kansas farmhouse into the technicolor world of Oz, her blue gingham dress became more than fabric and thread. It became a symbol of innocence, a visual anchor in a fantastical landscape, and one of cinema's most recognizable costumes. That transformation—from practical farm wear to iconic movie moment—captures everything costume design accomplishes in film.
From Actors' Closets to Art Form
Film didn't always treat costumes as art. In the 1890s, when moving pictures first flickered to life in New York, actors simply wore whatever they owned to auditions. If you had an extensive wardrobe, you landed more roles. If you didn't, you struggled. This bare-bones approach worked fine for early silent films, where nobody expected much beyond basic appropriateness.
The shift came in the 1910s. Producer Adolph Zukor recognized that costume design could be a creative force, not just a practical necessity. Director D.W. Griffith took this further by commissioning costumes specifically for his films rather than raiding actors' closets. Meanwhile in France, couture designer Paul Poiret brought high fashion sensibility to "The Loves of Queen Elizabeth," starring Sarah Bernhardt. By the late 1920s, costume design had secured its place in production budgets and processes.
The professionalization happened quickly because filmmakers realized something crucial: what characters wear shapes how audiences understand them.
The Golden Age: When Studios Built Empires of Fabric
Between the 1910s and 1960s, Hollywood's Golden Age transformed costume design into an industrial art form. Major studios—MGM, 20th Century Fox, Warner Brothers, Paramount—established dedicated costume departments that functioned like small factories. These departments didn't just design costumes. They manufactured everything actors wore, from undergarments to jewelry, sometimes producing thousands of pieces for a single film.
The scale was staggering. For 1938's "Marie Antoinette," Hollywood studios scoured the world for authentic period fabrics, purchasing materials from the actual 18th century. They could afford this extravagance because while America suffered through the Depression, studios had money that others didn't. Designers created costumes from the finest delicate materials, often combining fabrics that would inherently destroy each other—sheer silks ornamented with heavy beads, sharp-edged stones tearing through gossamer fabric.
This era produced legendary designers whose work defined cinema's visual language. Adrian Adolph Greenburg, known simply as Adrian, designed Dorothy's gingham dress and ruby slippers for "The Wizard of Oz." He created sumptuous period costumes for "Marie Antoinette" and "Anna Karenina," establishing visual vocabularies for historical films that persist today. Despite his influence, Adrian never won an Oscar.
Edith Head did. She remains the most decorated costume designer in Oscar history with over 30 nominations and 7 wins across a career spanning 1,130 films, ending with "Sweet Charity." Travis Banton dressed Marlene Dietrich in "Morocco" and "Shanghai Express," creating her sultry, androgynous image. He also costumed Mae West in "Belle of the Nineties," crafting her bombshell persona through clothes that celebrated rather than concealed.
These designers understood that costume design serves dual purposes. As Nadoolman Landis writes in "Hollywood Costume," it has both narrative and visual mandates. Designers serve the script and director by creating authentic characters, but they also compose visual frames where color, texture, and silhouette must balance perfectly.
The Language of Clothes: How Costumes Reveal Character
Great costume design operates like a second screenplay. Before a character speaks, their clothes have already told the audience who they are. Social status, profession, age, personality, emotional state—all communicate through fabric choices, color palettes, and how garments fit the body.
The process starts with understanding the character completely. Designers can't approach their work until they know who they're dressing. Is this character confident or insecure? Wealthy or struggling? Traditional or rebellious? These questions determine every design choice that follows.
Consider color psychology. Pale tones and pastels create different emotional resonances than deep jewel tones or stark black and white. In 2017's "The Beguiled," costume designer Stacy Battat dressed all the women in pale, ethereal shades. This choice made the isolated girls' school seem otherworldly, disconnected from the brutal Civil War raging beyond its gates. The costumes created atmosphere and character simultaneously.
Texture adds another layer of meaning. Rough, practical fabrics suggest different lives than smooth silks or delicate lace. In "Atomic Blonde," costume designer Cindy Evans dressed Charlize Theron's spy in boots with flat heels, turtlenecks, and belted coats. These practical yet stylish choices emphasized physical capability over sexual objectification. The character could fight in these clothes, and that possibility shaped how audiences perceived her.
Silhouette reveals character psychology through body language. Tight-fitting clothes create different impressions than loose, oversized garments. In "Call Me by Your Name," costume designer Giulia Piersanti used this contrast deliberately. Oliver wore short shorts and billowy open shirts that emphasized his physique, creating visual magnetism. Elio wore oversized clothes that made him seem younger, less formed, still growing into himself. These choices made the power dynamic between the characters visible before either spoke.
Modern Masters: Character Development Through Wardrobe
Contemporary costume designers continue evolving the art form, bringing fresh approaches to character development while honoring Golden Age craftsmanship.
Sandy Powell, who studied at London's St Martins School of Art, has created costumes for films spanning genres and periods. Her work on "Shakespeare in Love" balanced historical accuracy with theatrical flair. For "The Aviator," she captured mid-century Hollywood glamour. In "The Favourite," she took bold liberties with 18th-century fashion, creating costumes that felt both period-appropriate and psychologically modern. Powell understands that historical accuracy matters less than emotional truth.
Jenny Beavan has specialized in period films throughout her career, designing for "A Room with a View," "Maurice," "Howards End," and "Gosford Park." Her recent work on "Cruella" demonstrated her range, creating punk-influenced haute couture that revealed the villain's origin story through increasingly bold fashion choices. Each costume marked a stage in Cruella's transformation from downtrodden assistant to fashion revolutionary.
Colleen Atwood brings distinctive visual style to every project. Her work on "Sleepy Hollow" created gothic romance through costume. For "Chicago," she captured Jazz Age decadence. "Memoirs of a Geisha" required understanding Japanese aesthetic traditions while making them accessible to Western audiences. "Sweeney Todd" and "Alice in Wonderland" both demanded fantasy elements grounded in character reality.
These designers share a common philosophy: clothes must serve character development. When costumes change throughout a film, they represent internal transformation. A character who begins in buttoned-up formal wear and gradually adopts casual clothes is showing the audience their emotional journey without dialogue. Visual transformation mirrors internal growth.
The Tragedy of Lost Art
The Golden Age created millions of extraordinary costumes. Most no longer exist.
Studios treated costumes as work product with no value beyond production. After filming wrapped, these garments were given away as promotional materials, reused and re-cut for new productions, or simply stored carelessly. Costume departments kept their inventory in unused sound stages and temporary buildings where extreme heat, rain, and animals destroyed delicate fabrics.
When the studio system collapsed in the 1960s and 70s, costume departments were liquidated. MGM held a famous 1970 auction where decades of cinematic history sold to the highest bidders. A rental company in New Orleans purchased racks of costumes from "Marie Antoinette," renting them out for Mardi Gras celebrations until they literally fell apart. Countless other costumes ended up in landfills, buried like garbage.
This loss represents more than destroyed clothing. These costumes were historical documents showing how different eras understood visual storytelling. They were examples of craftsmanship that combined haute couture techniques with practical filmmaking needs. They were art objects that millions of people had emotional connections to, even if they'd only seen them on screen.
Of the millions of costumes created during Hollywood's Golden Age, relatively few survive in condition approaching their original beauty. This makes the work of modern costume preservation crucial and the achievements of contemporary designers even more important.
Why Costume Design Still Matters
In an era of CGI spectacle and green screen production, costume design remains fundamentally human. Actors need physical clothes to inhabit their characters. Audiences need visual cues to understand who they're watching. Directors need costume designers to translate abstract character concepts into concrete visual reality.
The evolution of costume design in film reflects broader changes in how we tell stories visually. Early cinema borrowed from theater, where costumes served practical stage needs. The Golden Age elevated costume design to high art, creating iconic images that transcended their films. Contemporary designers balance historical awareness with modern storytelling techniques, understanding that authenticity serves character development rather than mere accuracy.
When costume design works perfectly, audiences don't consciously notice it. They simply believe in the characters they're watching. That belief comes from thousands of small decisions—fabric weight, button placement, how a collar frames a face, whether shoes look broken-in or new. These details accumulate into complete human portraits.
Dorothy's gingham dress worked because it looked like something a Kansas farm girl would actually wear, even as it photographed beautifully in technicolor. That balance between authenticity and visual impact defines great costume design. It's why we remember certain costumes decades after seeing them, why clothes from films we loved become part of our cultural vocabulary, why what characters wear shapes how we understand their stories.
Costume design evolved from actors' personal wardrobes to industrial art form to contemporary craft practiced by skilled artists who understand psychology, history, color theory, and human nature. It shapes character development by making internal states visible, by showing transformation through wardrobe changes, by communicating without words. Every time a character appears on screen, their clothes are speaking. The art lies in knowing what they should say.