Netflix’s Lord of the Flies transforms William Golding’s classic tale into a visually striking exploration of survival, identity, and the collapse of civilization. Costume designer Maja Meschede plays a crucial role in bringing that journey to life, guiding the evolution of the children’s costumes from pristine school uniforms and ceremonial choir robes to weathered garments marked by sweat, ash, blood, and time. Filmed in the challenging landscapes of Malaysia with a cast of more than 30 young actors, the series presented unique creative and practical demands. In our conversation, Meschede discusses the storytelling power of fabric and costume breakdown, the visual language behind characters like Piggy and Jack, and how found clothing, masks, and body paint help chart the children’s transformation as order gives way to chaos on the island.
Spencer Williams: I am so happy to be chatting with Lord of the Flies costume designer Maja Meschede! Thank you so much for taking the time, Maja!
Maja Meschede: It’s a real pleasure. Thank you for having me.
SW: Well, before we head off on our… cough “island vacation,” I would love to hear about your collaboration with costume designer Marianne Agertoft in the lead-up to production on Lord of the Flies.
MM: Marianne established a very strong creative foundation for the costumes through her research and early development with Mark. When I joined, my role became one of continuity and translation—taking those ideas from concept into a fully realized costume world in Malaysia. There were many practical challenges along the way, as there always are on a production of this scale, and a large part of my work was adapting, refining, and building on what had already been started. I saw myself as both a custodian of the original vision and a collaborator in its evolution.
SW: As you know, the series was primarily filmed in Malaysia with over thirty incredible young actors, all no younger than five, and no older than twelve. I don’t think the audience quite understands how daunting a challenge this could really be. I have been fascinated to hear more about your approach to working with these young actors and what the fitting process looked like.
MM: It was certainly a unique experience. The children varied in age, size, and personality, so the fitting process was as much about getting to know them as it was about measuring and dressing them.
One of the things that was important to us was creating an environment where they felt comfortable and relaxed. For many of them, this was their first experience on a production of this scale, so fittings needed to feel welcoming rather than intimidating.
From a practical perspective, we were working with a large cast of growing children, which meant keeping detailed records and constantly monitoring changes. Children can grow remarkably quickly over the course of a production, so continuity became an ongoing consideration.
What I found fascinating was how quickly costume became part of their understanding of the character. Once they put on the clothes, many of them immediately began to inhabit the story’s world in a different way. Watching that transformation was one of the most rewarding aspects of the process.
The scale of the project certainly presented challenges, but it was also incredibly rewarding. The children brought such energy, curiosity, and authenticity to the fittings, and that became a very enjoyable part of the work.
SW: Piggy is played by David McKenna, who is one of the core anchors of the series. I feel as though there is a lot of storytelling in Piggy’s costume as we spend time on the island. He starts off very put-together, with the blood-red sweater vest and, of course, the famous glasses. I would love for you to speak more about Piggy’s costume story.
MM: Like all of the children, Piggy is meant to look slightly out of place in the environment. He arrives layered up, dressed for a very different climate—practical clothing for cold weather rather than a humid rainforest.
He wears a coat, which later becomes his pillow, and a red knitted jumper, which feels both protective and too warm for the island. The red also becomes part of a visual thread that runs through the costumes across the series—an undertone that gradually intensifies as the story unfolds. His long socks are there to protect his legs from mosquitoes and sandflies, and his shoes are important for navigating sharp volcanic rock, coral, and uneven terrain when they go into the sea.
As the story progresses, those practical choices begin to break down in the environment, and the costume starts to reflect the reality of survival on the island.
SW: The first time we see the choir uniforms on the beach, it is both beautiful and concerning. They sort of glide over the sand, armored in heavy caps and clasped capes. Imagery that was once considered so innocent and childlike feels very authoritative and menacing.
MM: The scene is quite surreal. The children arrive looking almost dreamlike in those choir costumes—very precise, almost untouched, without the creasing or disorder you might expect after what they’ve just been through.
The uniforms also immediately establish a sense of structure and hierarchy. There’s a clear visual order within the group, which speaks to discipline, status, and a kind of inherited system they bring with them onto the island.
What’s interesting is how quickly that begins to break down. As the story progresses, that structure dissolves, and things become much more instinctive and raw. Jack, who begins within that choral discipline, naturally gravitates toward leadership, but it becomes increasingly unpredictable and driven by impulse rather than order.
SW: I could talk to you for a week about the breakdown of the costumes in this series. When the series begins, everyone looks a bit roughed up, but as the story continues, you can see layers of sweat, fire residue, blood, ash, and sand weighing on the children. How important were the elements to your storytelling process?
MM: Breakdown is a key part of the storytelling, but it has to feel very natural and never overly designed. The level of wear on the costumes subtly expresses the evolution of the children—from a structured, adult-led society to being stranded on a remote, humid, and increasingly hostile island.
As time passes, the costumes accumulate traces of what they go through: sweat, fire residue, ash, sand, and, at times, blood. These elements are not just surface detail; they reflect how long they have been there and what they have experienced. It becomes a quiet visual record of time, as well as the emotional and physical impact of survival and the progressive erosion of civility.
SW: I also wanted to take a moment to shout out your use of textiles and fabrics. The children arrive on the island with only the clothes on their backs, which appear to be fall/winter attire. How did fabrics play a role in your process?
MM: When the children leave home, it is winter/early spring, so their clothing naturally reflects that seasonal world—wool shorts, blazers, layered garments that feel very structured and British in character.
Once placed in the rainforest, those fabrics immediately become part of the storytelling. Wool, in particular, behaves in a very different way in that humidity. It holds heat, it absorbs moisture, and it doesn’t belong in that environment. That contrast was important because it helped make the children feel slightly alien in the landscape.
We were also very conscious of texture and how fabrics would age on screen. Natural fibres like wool, cotton, and knitwear take on the environment differently—they stretch, they shrink and felt, they darken, and they absorb sweat and rain. That allowed the costumes to gradually reflect the conditions they were living in without ever needing to force that change.
So, in a way, fabric choice wasn’t just about period or realism; it was also about how the environment would physically rewrite the clothing over time.
SW: I have often interviewed designers who have worked on road stories where a character has only the clothing in their suitcase. Well, in this case, the children are finding things in random suitcases on the island. How were those pieces inspiring character development in the series?
MM: When the children find the suitcases on the island, it becomes a really interesting shift in how costume functions. It’s no longer about what a character owns in their everyday life, but what they are drawn to in a found, unfamiliar context.
As they open the suitcases, certain pieces stand out, and they begin to assign meaning to them quite instinctively—almost asking themselves who they are in this place and what they need to survive or belong.
The choices were rarely random. Some children were drawn to structure or uniform-like pieces, others to more protective or practical items, or simply to a memory, a piece of comfort. Those decisions began to influence how they carried themselves during performances.
So, in a way, the costume pieces weren’t just dressing the character. They were actively shaping how the children understood and performed them on the island.
SW: As we near the end of the series, the island rapidly falls into absolute madness. There is danger at every turn, fear, and even death. Jack’s tribe has taken on a more feral look. What did you and your crew do to evolve Jack’s crew to their final phase?
MM: The face and body paint, masks, and clothes represent transformation. They give the boys permission to step outside of themselves and who they were before arriving on the island. There’s a sense of wanting to become someone else—someone stronger, more anonymous, less vulnerable within the group.
As the structure from their previous world falls away, they begin to build a new visual language from whatever is available to them. It’s not just costume in the traditional sense anymore. It becomes self-styling based on instinct, survival, and group belonging.
The paint and masks act as transformation tools, while the suitcase finds and clothing choices are worn in very specific, almost ritualized ways. Together, they form a new system of identity that replaces the one they left behind.