I recently watched the 1963s musical Bye Bye Birdie and wanted to quickly share some of my favorite costume moments from this wonderfully bright and colorful film (if you haven’t seen it, the camp factor is through the roof).

The costumes — executed by Pat Barto and Marjorie B. Wahl — include some pretty outrageous ensembles. Hearthrob Rock ‘n Roll star ‘Conrad Birdie’ (quite clearly modeled on Elvis) has some of the loudest costumes (including the tiger-print bathrobe seen on the right and an Elvis-esque gold lame suit), but the costumes of both Kim (Ann-Margret) and Rosie (Janet Leigh) have greater significance – both to film history and popular culture at large.

Many will be familiar with the theme song to Bye Bye Birdie from it’s brief appearance in a Madmen Episode, where Ann-Margret’s character is explored as the epitome of innocence and sexuality. In her autobiography, My Story, Ann-Margeret explains a little more of that dichotomy and how it worked to her advantage when getting cast in the role (See photos above):

For whatever reason, director George Sidney decided that I was perfect for the part of Kim McAfee. He’d even selected me before we met, having spotted me dancing at the Sands in Las Vegas the previous New Year’s Eve. A while later, he sent me a script for Birdie, then arranged a meeting in his office. He always reminded me that he’d had to keep from smiling at how I’d put on a pleated skirt and flats to try and look sixteen. ‘I saw how you looked in Vegas,’ he confessed. ‘It wasn’t sixteen.'”

Rosie, the character played by Janet Leigh, is supposed to be a wiser “New York” woman in contrast to Kim, the innocent teen. Leigh was a natural blonde, and that didn’t quite work for the character’s image. In a contemporary newspaper clipping, Leigh is quoted as saying “In my present film, “Bye Bye Birdie” at Columbia…I play the role of Rosie De Leon, Spanish secretary and girl friend of Dick Van Dyke. Now, with my blond hair I don’t exactly look Latin, but wearing a black wig—vive la difference! And that’s where the fun comes in.” [Taken from a clipping in the Bye Bye Birdie folder from AMPAS].

In her 1984 autobiography, There Really Was a Hollywood, Leigh went on to discuss the importance of that wig to her later career, saying “When I was shooting Bye Bye Birdie, Blake Edwards had visited the set, and was fascinated by me in the black wig. He was preparing The Pink Panther (and a wig ended up serving as the disguise for the lady’s escapades) and approached me to do the film.”

From a historical perspective, Bye Bye Birdie highlights the growing influence of youth culture, the increasing importance of television and other mass media, not to mention the cult of celebrity. Many of the costumes include the familiar 1950s shirtwaist dresses, and some vaguely mod references. Here’s a good clip to get you started:

Resources:

Ann-Margret, with Todd Gold, My Story, New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons 1994 p. 98

Leigh, Janet, There Really Was a Hollywood, Garden City, New York: Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1984 p. 300

In the beaux arts ball sequence of ‘An American in Paris’ [Walter Plunkett] really went imaginative. His materials included newspapers, oilcloth, canvas and felt. The hats were even more extreme. They featured cardboard boxes, sofa pillows and bird cages. One, of papier-mache, took the form of a woman’s leg.”–Quigg, Jack. “Have Nothing to Wear? Use Ingenuity,” The Washington Post; Jul 8, 1951, pg. S10.

You can see a clip of the scene referenced (the New Year’s Eve party)  here.

A nice side-bar for this is that Nina Foch’s gown, according to the organizers of the recent Debbie Reynolds auction, was designed by Orry-Kelly for Walter Plukett in this scene. (Click the image below for more on that!)

I had fun making it, but never expected it to have the impact it did. I was as surprised as anyone when T-shirts, jeans and leather jackets suddenly became symbols of rebellion… Sales of leather jackets soared, reminding me of It Happened One Night, when Clark Gable took his shirt off and revealed that he wasn’t wearing an undershirt, which created a disaster for the garment industry.”

–Marlon Brando (with Robert Lindsey) in Brando: Songs My Mother Taught Me, New York: Random House, 1994, p. 175-6.

“Designers Helen Rose and Walter Plunkett fitted me in an extraordinary swim costume—much like a diver’s body suit, only covered, including the soles of the feet, with gold sequins, fifty thousand of them—like chain mail. Atop a gold turban, which was wrapped around my head, they perched a gold crown. And it was the crown that held the dagger. . .”

“I took my position on the disk and the hydraulic lift started rising. Up…up…up I went, the pool, the crew dropping away. The lift finally jolted to a stop. I was perched on the height of a six-story rooftop. Acrophobia! Dizziness! My equilibrium was gone because my inner ear had never fully recovered from the seven broken eardrums I’d suffered through years of living underwater. I suddenly couldn’t tell if I was leaning or standing straight, and my mind—as well as my body—must’ve frozen up there. ‘We’re waiting, Esther!’ Busby barked. ‘Jump!’

I forced a smile for the camera and swan-dived from that tiny platform. Hurtling down, I muttered a silent, ‘Oh, shit.’ I suddenly realized what was going to happen next. The gold crown on my head. Instead of being made with something pliable like cardboard, it was lightweight aluminum, a lot stronger and less flexible than my neck.

I hit the water with tremendous force. The impact snapped my head back. I heard something pop in my neck. I knew instantly that I was in big trouble.

Totally unaware, Mervyn called out, “Great. . . Time for lunch.’ (219) Magic words. You only had to say it once. Everyone—Mervyn , Busby, the crew—trooped across the soundstage and within seconds vanished. Only Flossie Hackett, my wardrobe lady, remained, and only because it was her job to get my costume off for later shooting.

I could kick my legs, so I desperately treaded water; but my arms and shoulders were virtually paralyzed. The back of my neck was in screaming pain. In my mind’s eye I saw the headlines: ‘Esther Williams Drowns in MGM Studio Pool.’ I cried out, ‘Flossie, you’ve got to get some help for me.’

She thought I was joking. ‘C’mon, Esther, you’re such a kidder. I want to go to lunch. I’m hungry.’

Flossie, I’m really in trouble,’ I gasped. “Find two guys who can lift me out of the pool.’

Finally she believed I was serious. She ran to the big soundstange door and shouted, ‘I think Esther Williams is dead. She can’t get out of the pool.’

Some men came running in, quickly stripped off their shoes and shirts, and jumped in to pull me out. I was crying by that time, because the pain was so intense. They carried me to my dressing room. While we were waiting for the ambulance, Flossie carefully removed my gold fishnet bodysuit, rolling it down my body like pantyhose, and those fifty thousand tiny metal sequins were like little knives, nicking and cutting me. (Flossie was supposed to keep my costumes in good repair, so I’m sure the absurdity of peeling off the suit, instead of swiftly cutting it off, never crossed her mind.)

At the hospital, I blacked out from the pain. The X-rays showed that I had broken three vertebrae in the back of my neck. I’d come as close to snapping my spinal cord and becoming a paraplegic as you could without actually succeeding.”

-Esther Williams (with Digby Diehl). The Million Dollar Mermaid: An Autobiography, New York: Simon & Schuster, 1999 (219-220).