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You never forget your first, or so they say. In this case, it's one's first costume obsession. Mine, to be precise. It came to be in 1999 when I was five years old, and my dad took me to see Star Wars: Episode I – The Phantom Menace. Like many men of his generation, he was a fan of George Lucas's space fantasy, eager to share that love with his kid. It started with the original trilogy on VHS tapes and then came the movie event of the season. Though many hated the prequel, we two didn't share that feeling. Indeed, little Cláudio was besotted.
Sure, the lightsaber duels were memorable and the score was stirring, the CGI was out of this world and Ewan McGregor left such an impression I went as Obi-wan Kenobi to the following year's Carnival. But what most shook me was Queen Amidala, played by Natalie Portman bedecked in Trisha Biggar's costumes…
Her look was dazzling beyond words, enough to stir an obsession that saw me sketch her countless times, my room littered with childish drawings of sci-fi fashions. By Christmas, I got an Amidala doll and a cup shaped like Portman's head in her royal regalia. The next prequels were unmissable landmarks to me. Not because I wanted to see where the story went, but for what in heavens Amidala would wear next. After that, I started to pay attention to how characters dressed in movies and TV, gaining new sartorial muses left and right.
There was Glenn Close's Cruella, whose style inspired me to playact with blankets wrapped like furs and pencils held like her iconic cigarette holder. The Harry Potter characters were another point of interest, as was Cate Blanchett's scintillating Galadriel in the Lord of the Rings movies. By the time a The Affair of the Necklace DVD found its way into our home, I was predisposed to love the excess of historical fashions, and soon Marie Antoinette became another subject of my drawings. Looking back, Amidala and The Phantom Menace feel like the starting point.
Years ago, when the so-called Skywalker Saga reached its end, I wrote about some of this, elaborating a list of my favorite costumes in the Star Wars universe. Today, I'm going a step further to celebrate May 4th and the Phantom Menace's theatrical re-release. At first, the idea was to do another of those costume rankings, similar to the ones for Emma Stone's Cruella, Bella Baxter, and Scarlett O'Hara. However, let's shake up the model and try something different, a more linear look at how a movie's costumes can trace their own narrative and stylistic arc.
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Not that Biggar's designs are especially interested in subtle sartorial storytelling. In fact, there's nothing subtle about them, as if Lucas had grown tired of the half-derelict Galaxy of his original Star Wars movies and was taking a deep dive into the madness of space opera. Spectacle is the goal, sheer showmanship of imagination unbound, a franchise of erstwhile humility exploded out of proportion with resources to spare. In other words, it's glitzy and expensive, uninterested in simplicity. The same can be said of the narrative, where these dynamics have disastrous results.
In the realm of costume design, however, they produce wonders. Consider Biggar and Lucas' conception of Naboo as a prosperous culture living in what looks like a heightened variation of our Renaissance. It's lush and beautiful to regard, a futuristic utopia with foundational ties to recognizable history. Yet, when conceptualizing the planet's ruler, other aesthetic principles came into play for the filmmakers. In the text, Lucas presents Naboo's regime as one of an electoral monarchy – pardon the oxymoron – with a teenage queen democratically chosen by her people for a limited term.
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Moreover, to better protect herself, a system of loyal handmaidens provides disguises and potential anonymity, a web of decoys with which the ruler can move undetected. For this to be possible, the Naboo queen is designed as a ceremonial figure whose style effaces individuality. With a makeup derived from Kabuki theater, one can read a lot of similar theatrical practices in the character's presentation. The white face is like a mask that conceals emotion, while the ornate headdress further disconnects the idea of a teen girl from the sight of a powerful ruler. The status of the queen is a role within the narrative, a persona codified through curated iconography.
Hence, there's almost a separation between the person Padmé Naberrie and the icon Queen Amidala. One first sees her (them?) at the start of Phantom Menace, during a trade blockade by the Nemoidians, whose ships float around Naboo, ready to invade. She's glimpsed through a conference call, so still she looks like a statue of white marble and red gemstone on her throne, lacquered hair like a wood-carved frame around the face. Originally sketched by Iain McCaig and later developed by Biggar, the gown is a rigid construction of canvas and silk-satin, fur trim, bullion embroidery, and lantern-like light-up gems around the hem.
It's rigid and regal, a show of power whose general form comes from Chinese Imperial garments, specifically from the Qing dynasty. There's also a touch of Maria Montez in the Cobra Woman, the kind of Old Hollywood adventure flicks that left an impression on young George Lucas and influenced his entire career. Design-wise, it's a miracle of combining references to create something new, alien-looking, yet familiar enough to register as beautiful. Moreover, it's an important first impression to which every subsequent Amidala look is compared, intentionally or not.
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The contrast is immediate, as the vivid red and gold of the throne room ensemble gives way to somber black. As the Nemoidians invade the planet, the queen is taken hostage by their forces and appears to be mourning for her people. Biggar and her team created a spiderweb of handwoven lace to work as the gown's outer layer, an organic shape that looks paradoxically otherworldly. It also invokes the idea of a moth-eaten shroud, fragile and dilapidating, with jet-beading adding to the effect. In all this, the feathered headdress is an incongruous note, though it strikes a prideful stance.
Even in defeat, the queen has a great dignity, a show of quiet resistance against Naboo's enemies. However, it should be noted that the actual monarch never wears this piece, and Natalie Portman herself only ever modeled it in promo shoots. Instead, the costume is worn by Keira Knightley as Sabé, one of the royal handmaidens and Amidala's principal decoy. Watching the movie, it's easy to miss the change if you're distracted, with the elaborate presentation of Queen Amidala doing its trick of effacement and odd anonymity. Padmé goes unnoticed in her handmaiden robes, velvet orange like a flame of secret hope burning bright in a time of crisis.
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McCaig has said he wanted the handmaidens' costumes to work as disguises and as a contrast to the Orientalist facets of the queen's regalia. Instead of looking toward the traditional dress of Asian cultures, he took cues from the Pre-Raphaelite movement and Art Nouveau. Biggar later developed those ideas into practical costumes whose design complements the ruler's imposing image. The drapery draws vertical lines on screen, slashes of bright color in gentle opposition to the queen's space-taking somber fashions. It's almost an extension of costume into set design. Or costumes as sets, like Lucas' friend, Francis Ford Coppola, envisioned for his Dracula.
While one would expect Biggar and her director to pile on the ostentation for the queen's subsequent appearances, a shred of reason perseveres. Rescued by two Jedi knights, neither the monarch nor her companions have any change of clothes, remaining in the same costumes through their Tatooine misadventure, up until they arrive in the political capital of the Galaxy. A line from Obi-Wan contradicts this, noting that the royal wardrobe may be on board, but I like my theory. Before Coruscant, however, Padmé has that detour into the desert, wearing a hodge-podge of slubby textiles with crude wrappings to protect from sand.
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For the narrative, it's a meaningful gesture, putting the disguised sovereign at the same level as the slave boy she meets in Tatooine. Not in truth, but at least in visual shorthand.
Anakin Skywalker compares her to an angel, instantly smitten by the kind stranger. One can see why he'd say such a thing, and it's not just because of Natalie Portman's features. While the textures and general simplicity make the queen fit into her environment, the lightness of her sleeves and the color story strike a harmonious counterpoint. In a world of sand, sun-blasted stone and earth tones, she's a beacon of saturated blue and grey, a deep ocean or a stormy sky, a promise of freedom. She's everything the people of Tatooine aren't, everything they crave.
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Arriving at Coruscant, the story enters another chapter, and so does Queen Amidala's stylistic tale. First, there's a council scene with Senator Palpatine, set in his offices rather than the ceremonial rooms the audience first saw the monarch occupy. Fittingly, one perceives a slightly deflated quality to the dress, its kimono-inspired lines taking less space than her sculptural robes of yore. The soft lilac is much less imposing, too, looking wane against the décor and the Senator who, despite the hierarchy of power, feels like the one in control. Perchance, I'm projecting some of that sartorial weakness.
Though pretty, the visitation outfit always appeared odd to me. Though Biggar designed rounded sleeves with little to do with actual kimonos, the gown still looks too "real world." Moreover, the beads of the headdress are messy, the recycled portion of a 1920s piece that hasn't been perfectly integrated into the costume. The fan of hair(?) makes for a striking look, however, almost like the centurion crest from Roman warfare or maybe a Byzantine saint. The mismatch may never resolve smoothly, but the ideas suggested by the combined references are still neat details.
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From imperial Chinese fashions, we went to Japanese kimono, and now it's time for some Mongolian inspiration. In a time when Dune's debt to MENA cultures is heavily debated, it's interesting to consider how Lucas' work did much of the same with his Pan-Asian aesthetic, borrowing elements that look "otherworldly" when removed from their contexts and reinserted into a Western space fantasy. Iain McCaig's concept art emphasized this cultural connection, though Biggar's final design adds enough variation to avoid Portman looking like she's in yellowface.
Indeed, the costume designer and her team made this into one of the most sumptuous creations ever to appear in the Star Wars saga, so laden with detail it's a work of art in itself. An inner layer of sunray-pleated orange was made from vintage silk taffeta, collared with an amalgamation of beaded lace. The velvet outer robe is heavy with trapunto details, embroidery, extensive beading of pearls, and more. When seen through Anakin's perspective, she's something akin to a religious apparition, a saint of solid gold shining from the shadow.
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All those details feel extraneous when you consider the outer layer of a full-length faux fur cloak that envelops Amidala as she confronts the Coruscant Senate. Lost in the cavernous structure, the wig and shoulders make her seem more imposing than she physically is, while the overwhelming nature of the garments also conveys an idea of entrapment. Because, in the end, Queen Amidala's being manipulated, falling into the schemes of an enemy she thought was an ally. In the broad scope of the Star Wars narrative, her vote against the High Chancellor puts Palpatine's plans in motion.
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After such a show of power and Naboo culture, an echo of her first scene in the throne room, it's as if Queen Amidala recedes into the darkness of her plight. Pulling from the general lines of traditional Japanese attire and some Korean dress, Biggar created a vision of light-consuming black, with beading and metallic thread blossoming starlight in the gloom. It's notoriously a piece she wears here and at the end of the big Battle when receiving Palpatine as a victorious Queen. Mayhap Biggar was trying to underline the cost of war, the pyrrhic quality of it all, and how hollow the happy ending truly is.
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Before that, there are yet more costumes to consider. A traveling gown in somber purple projects royal regality while still emphasizing the queen's disquiet. The slashed outer layers reveal inner silk pleats, a touch of fragility within the space-taking fashion that befits the monarch. The gauziness of her veil – vaguely Turkish, or Twi'lek – is another exciting choice, more lightweight than almost anything else in the character's wardrobe. Despite keeping in line with what came before, the costume still seems significant in its whisper of vulnerability. Sadness in the form of fashion, this is also what she wears for Jedi Qui-Gon Jinn's funeral.
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For the Battle of Naboo, when the decoy ploy comes undone, Sabé plays Queen Amidala in a fascinating combination of black and red stiffened textiles, hard lines meant to convey the monarch's iconography within the practical limitations of a piece meant for combat. It all gets a bit ridiculous when you get to the gold and maroon headdress, but that's what space opera is for – opulence! Furthermore, it serves as a great juxtaposition with Padmé's handmaiden costume. For once, the vertical simplicity gives in to velvet flounces and graceful lines. Little trim, a touch of gold and maroon indicate a queenly presence that transcends the disguise.
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Risking Reynald Woodcock's fury, I'll even call it chic. It's certainly the most covetable costume from an audience perspective, if nothing else because it looks the most wearable of the lot. Then again, an ambitious fashionista might prefer Natalie Portman's final costume as Queen Amidala. Known within the fandom as the Jubilation Dress, it appears inspired by Japanese parasols and Hopi styles from India. However, it stands out most for its simplicity, the net halo suggesting a ray of sunshine that delivers joy unto all that fall into its warmth.
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The stillness of the first costumes is gone, and instead, a cape of oversized flower petals flutters butterfly-like. After the ostentation and weight of the other designs, there was no better way to end Queen Amidala's stylistic journey. For this and other reasons, one could argue that the prequels best the originals in the arena of costume design, even if none of its creations come close to the cultural impact of Vader's mask. I'd probably give Biggar an Oscar for her magnificent work, which the Academy didn't even nominate. After all, in the face of such beauty, I became a costume nut. In that regard, Star Wars will always have a special place in my heart, this misbegotten movie most of all.
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And now, it's time to finish this costume chronicle. Pardon the nerd behavior, but there's only one way to say farewell. May the Force be with you.