FIRST DAY IN COSTUME

First Day in Costume

When I started out in Les Miserables, by first big costume fitting was at Bermans & Nathans, who were later bought out by Angels Costumes in 1992, who are still going stong.

You walk in and it already feels different from rehearsal.

You’ve auditioned.
You got the job.
You’ve started rehearsing in joggers and trainers.
Now you’re standing in one of the most established costume houses in London for your first professional fitting.

That’s when it shifts.

This isn’t borrowed rehearsal kit.

These are costumes for a brand-new production.
The first ever national tour of a large-scale musical outside London.

And some of it is being made for you.

Rails of period costume.

Britches.
Tail coats.
Cravats.
Boots.
Top hats.

You don’t need a mirror to feel it.

Period clothing changes posture immediately. The cut of a coat pulls your shoulders back. Britches sit differently on the hips. Boots alter your stride. You don’t slouch in that kind of tailoring.

You walk like a gentleman because the clothes insist on it.

Nothing surprises you physically — no shock weight, no hidden restriction — but the structure of it is undeniable. It keeps you upright. It informs the spine before you even think about character.

There isn’t just one look.

There’s your ensemble track.

Your understudy track.

Multiple changes.

Different hats.

Different coats.

Some pieces are measured from scratch. Tape measure around chest, waist, inside leg. Notes taken quietly.

Other items are pulled from rails and handed to you to try.

“Let’s see this one.”

You step into partial builds. Some complete. Some pinned. Some still being finished in another room.

It’s a process.

The Costume Designer is there.

Watching.

Approving.

Rejecting.

You might like something. It might feel right. Doesn’t matter.

She says yes or no.

That’s the hierarchy.

You stand on a small platform while hems are marked. Sleeves adjusted. A boot checked for line rather than comfort.

It isn’t about preference.

It’s about silhouette.

For the first time, you see yourself as part of the production rather than someone rehearsing it.

This is the buzz.

Not applause.

Not opening night.

Standing in a tail coat, looking in a Bermans mirror, knowing this is real.

You’re no longer imagining the show.

You’re wearing it.

Rehearsal clothes let you act.

Costume makes you accountable to the period.

You leave with fittings logged, alterations noted, pieces still in progress.

But something has changed.

You walked in as a cast member.

You walk out dressed for a world.

And it fits.

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