If you don’t understand the purpose and relevancy of  Joe vs. The Volcano, then chances are, I don’t understand you. It could be, and I know that six dozen critics are about to “Pffff” me out of validity, but I think it could be the most underrated movie I’ve ever seen.

Joe Banks (Tom Hanks) finds out, due to his insistence of so many tests and examinations, that he has a rare disease called a “Brain Cloud” and it’s fatal. Four or five months of perfect health and then, Boom. Dead.  A rich maker of super-conductors, who needs a rare element only found on the island of Waponi-wu, convinces Joe to jump into a volcano and appease the “gods” as part of a trade with the natives. The rich man gives him an AmEx gold card and says, “Live like a king, die like a man.”

By the way, Lloyd Bridges may have the 3 most impactful minutes on a movie about jumping into a volcano in history. “Not a nice place you have here, Joe.” You have to see this movie.

Anyway, Joe hires a limo and a driver and makes plans to go into the City (NYC). That’s about it. He’s a simple man, working as an advertising librarian for a pharmaceutical company that makes petroleum jelly and prosthetic, um, body parts, before he knows he’s toast in wating.  The driver asks him,”Where do you want to go?”

“I thought I might do some shopping.”
“Okay.  Where would you like to go shopping?”
“I don’t really know.”
“Alright.”
“Where would you go shopping?”

And then Marshall, the driver, stops the car And this is the part that’s relevant to the blog:

“Why’d you stop?” Joe asks.
“ I'm just hired to drive the car, mister.  I'm not here to tell you who you are.”
“I didn’t ask you to tell me who I am.”
“You were hinting around about clothes.  It happens that clothes are very important to me, Mister...”
“Banks.”
“Banks.  Clothes make the man.  I believe that.  You say to me you wanna go shopping, you wanna buy clothes, but you don't know what kind.  You leave that hanging in the air, like I'm going to fill in the blank, that to me is like asking me who you are, and I don't know who you are, I don't wanna know.  It's taken me my whole life to find out who I am and I'm tired now,” you hear what I'm say in'?”

Yeah, that’s why a costumer’s job is so freakin’ critical. Because, just like in life, clothes make the man, the woman, the psychopathic killer with zero inhibitions and an interest in silver canes. And as much as it’s fun to wear “pretty” clothes, it has nothing to do with dressing a cast. In fact, the only thing that should matter is, “does the costume portray the character?” If it does, whether the actor likes it or not, it stays. If it doesn’t, back to the drawing board.

Take a recent real world experience. My son received his vaccinations today. A brand new doctor, never been to him before, mostly because we didn’t like the previous doctor. And it wasn’t for this reason alone, but part of it was, that a couple of employees smelled of nicotine and tobacco and wore a couple of tattoos. I have nothing against tattoos or people that wear them. However, when I think of a doctor’s office, I think of clean, health, problem solving. When I think of tobacco and tattoos, I think of hacking, coughing and death in a few years, maybe sterile needles and a mess of ink that will never, ever wash off, no matter how hard you scrub with soap and water. See the problem?

I know nothing of the person that smells of cancer and wears a massive winged devil on her forearm, except that she smokes and has a massive winged devil on her forearm. I’m not judging her personally, I’m judging my ability to relate to her while interacting in a doctor’s office, which is none at all.

If she were an advertising librarian or owned a company that dominated the world’s market for super-conductors, no problem. Just can’t do it when a needle and my 9 week old son is involved. Sorry.

So if the show opened, and Dr. Henry Jekyll sat at his desk, wearing a red t-shirt, a leather bomber jacket hanging on the coatrack, and a NY Mets cap slung on the lazy-boy, you would immediately realize something had gone horribly wrong, and somehow Footloose and Jekyll & Hyde collided into some unnatural horrific mesh. But if he stood to sing, “I Need to Know” in a white, high-collard buttoned shirt, a single-breasted vest, and a frock coat hanging on the coat rack and a top hat placed neatly atop his long hair tied nicely into a pony tail, you would know exactly the type of character Henry Jekyll was.  It is our first impression. And if they aren’t right, there will be something pushing our mental balance to one side until we either figure it out or it gets fixed. This usually happens when contemporary church shirts are attempting to be passed off as 19th century.

Clothes make the man. Or at the very least, clothes make the part.

For most of the rehearsal, costumes are an idea. A hope that what’s in the designers/director’s mind not only works, but is available.   Everyone, especially the actors, pray things come together in enough time to get comfortable with the new look and build the character around it so it doesn’t feel like Tom Sawyer in a top hat. It isn’t about looking “pretty”. It’s about looking right. Last night, cast members were parading around in costumes, getting the feel for them, deciding how easy/difficult it would be to make their character work with them. Some of them looked fantastic. Elegant ladies, distinguished gentlemen, while others simply looked like we borrowed the cast from a recent production of Carousel.

Of course, not all of them fit very well, either, which, for most of us is a wonderful chance to relieve some stress. At perhaps the most intense part of the play, one of the ladies, who could wear a paper bag and still portray elegance, strength and confidence, is gettting choked by Hyde. And as Hyde lifted her up, her skirt came down. I'm not lying. Fortunately, her petticoat saved the day or at least what was left of her pride for the evening, and she finished the dramatic ending in said petticoat with dignity and skill. I'm telling you, if someone had a video camera, they'd be the lucky new owners of ten thousand dollars.

There’s something about seeing your costume for the first time. Something even more knowing you'll be dressed as an English gentleman. At least for me. This, in my opinion, was the pinnacle of fashion for men. Coats and ties and top hats. Sophisticated, yet masculine (usually). I was looking forward to the last piece of my character to make him whole. And, after all the anticipation, all the nervousness, all the talk, last night Ifinally came face to face of who I will be for the next month.

A gray overcoat?

Honestly, that was my first impression. Doctor Jekyll isn’t gray. He is anything but gray. He is black, he is deep burgundy, he could even be a solid blue, but he isn’t a mixture of two colors that comes out a podgy bland no-conviction whatsoever gray.  The rest of the costume just seemed to be a collection of Dickens’ rejects. My heart sank. I didn’t know what to think, what to feel, didn’t know what course of action was available to me. All I could think of was how hard we had all worked just to be waylaid by a proverbial  Mets cap and bomber jacket.

I can talk like this, because the theater has since come through spectacularly.

I wasn’t the only one who felt my concern. Alane, who has never been anything but on the side of the actors, who knows and remembers what actors think and feel and worry about, felt the same things. So in less than 12 hours, everything changed. I’m going to look awesome.

Clothes bring confidence. If you look good, you feel good. You feel good, you act good. You act good, the audience rises in applause because you transported them back to a time they can only imagine through a story with no Collier pennies.  One less thing to worry about. One step closer to a great opening night, just a week a way.

“You’re coming into focus, kid.”