Edna Goodrich — The Importance of Being Well-Dressed (1918) 🇺🇸

It is, I think, not too much to say that clothes are nearly as important an element in dramatic interpretation as ability to act. Speaking for myself, I find it impossible to enter properly into the spirit of characterization unless I am correctly costumed to the very last detail.

by Edna Goodrich

Makeshifts of any sort in connection with a dramatic production make me miserable. I have been accused of over-emphasizing the importance of clothes in stagecraft, but no one has ever said anything that convinces me I am wrong in my view of the matter, which is that I am likely to look very much as I feel. If I don’t feel right, I’m certain not to look right, and to feel right I find it necessary to be correctly attired from the skin out.

Since this is to be, as I understand it, an intimate tale of my so-called idiosyncrasy for expensive clothes, I’ll confess that I spent last year over $5,000 for lingerie to use in my star roles, and I don’t play “lingerie parts,” so, of course, no one but myself gets anything out of the investment, except abstractly, since the wearing of pretty things appropriate to the time, place and situation makes me feel sure of myself, able to face the camera with confidence and a fair degree of success.

Of course, this is purely psychological, but, then, so is the art of acting. Certain kinds of lingerie are adapted especially to certain kinds of gowns, and in order to feel at peace with myself and the director, I want the kind that belongs to the gowns. When I am attired for the ballroom, (to particularize), I insist upon being clad throughout as though I were really going to a ball. If the action of the piece calls for Alpine climbing or horseback riding, I dress those situations with the same punctilious regard to detail.

I remember that while I was in London, newspaper critics were poking fun at the late Sir Henry Irving, because, as it was said, he changed his bill at the Lyceum on an hour’s notice on learning that certain starched ruffles he wore in The Corsican Brothers had not come from the laundry. This was regarded as the last word in temperamentalism, but I can very well comprehend how Sir Henry felt. He would have felt his characterization incomplete without the ruffles.

Nothing is more fatal to success in pictorial drama than slovenly or makeshift costuming. The idea some folks have that nearly anything will look fairly well in a motion picture has been responsible for some sad failures. My experience convinces me that the best of costuming is essential to satisfactory pictorial presentment. I spend more money in dressing for my picture plays than I do in dressing speaking stage parts.

For instance, the new clothes I wore in “Who Loved Him Best?” cost a trifle over $10,000. There was an outing costume — epitomizing simplicity in line — which cost $1,500. I wore a full dress gown — a Parisian creation with a good deal of expensive lace — which cost $3,000. The other items were riding costumes, boating costumes, golfing togs, hats, boots, shoes, parasols, gloves, furs and cloaks.

Novelty in dressing, so long as it violates none of the dramatic unities, is desirable. As an example, I wore a set of furs in one of my latest pictures that defied identification even by expert furriers and for that reason caused much comment. Those furs were procured for me by a friend in the United States Engineering Corps; he has been for some time engaged in taking the kinks out of the Trans Siberian railway between Irkutsk and Lake Baikal. The furs are Russian otter and cost $2,000. My beaded gown in the ballroom scene of “American Maid” cost $1,800. Another gown worn in the same play cost $1,000.

Aside from the professional utility of beautiful and expensive clothes, I must confess I love them for purely feminine reasons. I am never more happy than when wearing, for the first

time, a new costume that has turned out as I hoped it would. Call it a hobby if you will, but I’ll confess also to saving all my prettiest gowns worn in dramatic characterizations. I’ve a room full of them, dating from my earliest stage appearances, and they are all ticketed. This room devoted to gowns is referred to by my intimate friends as “Edna’s museum.”

Clothes do not make the artist, perhaps, but they go a long way toward establishing that self-confident mental poise which is essential to the best artistic results. In short, I’m a pre-Raphaelite for detail in dramatic dressing. I like it, and — it pays.

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Edna Goodrich knows whereof she speaks: her “creations” are inspired and inspiring.

Photo by: Mutual

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Collection: Film Fun Magazine, June 1918