IT'S ONLY WHEN the wardrobe assistant has strapped me into the floor-length skirt with side panniers, and tightly laced my torso into the matching gold stays, that I begin to have a nagging feeling that, perhaps, I need to visit the loo. Of course, it's just my mind playing tricks on me, simply because I'm now stuck in this terribly restrictive, 18th-century-style outfit. Still, it's an experience that makes me appreciative of our modern uniform of jeans and T-shirts. Especiall
I'm here to look around Scottish Opera's wardrobe department, as they're preparing for their biggest challenge since they were established in 1962 – a production of Jules Massanet's (1842-1912) romantic "opera comique", Manon, which is directed by Re
nauld Doucet and has a chorus of 46 singers, five acts, various balletic scenes and, altogether, requires a collection of 165 costumes.
"Everything has to be made individually – hats, dresses, shoes," says a sharply-dressed John Liddell, head of costume at Scottish Opera. He explains that the wardrobe department has had to be canny, in order to produce this many outfits on a strict budget. To keep costs down, for example, some pieces have been borrowed from an opera company in Strasbourg, while others are reworked items from past productions.
The small wardrobe team of 21 people have been all hands to the deck since last November, when Liddell made the initial fabric orders in London, alongside the designer of this production, Andre Barbe.
My visit falls on the last full costume rehearsal before the premiere and it's frantic, as ladies with bosoms hoiked up by rigid bodices and flamboyantly dressed gentlemen in justaucorps (a pirate style jacket), waistcoats and breeches scuttle up and down the stairs.
While all this is going on, the wardrobe staff are attempting to keep tabs on the costumes, which are spread throughout the tiny rooms of this Victorian building. For example, gilt shoes with Baroque buckles are hanging from a rail in one of the many corridors, the inside of the stage door is packed with black leather doctor's bags and a cardboard box containing marabou-trimmed masks sits beside a doorway.
Downstairs, in the wings of the theatre, there are piles of gold hats and cage crinolines which match the gilded stage design, plus a springy-looking toile-de-juoy patterned bed. I would be dying to bounce on it, if it weren't stacked with platters of faux food – one of which features a tower of escargot shells and rose-bud topped cupcakes, while another boasts a stuffed drake's head and tail on either end of a wedge of pate.
However, aside from all these fantastical props, I'm most fascinated by the 85 wigs, in their various shades of mahogany, white and grey. Some of these are stored on polystyrene heads in one of the tinier rooms upstairs and (to me anyway) look slightly malevolent.
This sense is only exacerbated, when Barbe reveals that they're, "Made by a team in Strasbourg, from real human hair, or, in some cases, yak's hair."
On my visit, some of the cast, including sopranos Anne Sophie Duprels, who has the main part of Manon Lescault, and Sarah Redgwick, who plays Poussette, are having their hairpieces fitted. "There's a great skill in putting them on, they're not like hats," explains Liddell. While I watch, both of these singers are at the stage of having a fine, flesh-coloured "cap" of nylon applied, in order to form a layer between the hair pieces and their natural locks.
"They might look itchy, but they're actually really comfortable," says Redgwick, as one of the five full-time "wig dressers" in this show attaches a curly chestnut affair to her head.
However, despite the fact that I've been spared a toupee, I'm not finding my costume very ergonomic. It makes me walk frustratingly slowly as I try to prevent the skirt from swinging like a church bell. It hasn't taken me long to discover that it's hard to be an 18th-century woman. Not that it's much easier for the men as, once they've sucked their bellies in (opera singers do tend to be portly), they must be securely buttoned up.
"Period costumes are cut very tightly – for example, at the sleeves and backs of men's jackets. So, there's always a restriction of movement and, if a modern person was to put on one of these pieces, they wouldn't be able to move their arms around much," explains Liddell. "However, they shouldn't be trying to, because they're acting as if they're in the 18th century. The director, Doucet, was very keen on this, as his background is in choreography and he knows how they moved in the time of the Baroque."
It seems that I've already picked up some of these archaic gestures, as the way my arms are naturally positioned – slightly bent, palms upwards – when they rest on the front of my panniers, is reminiscent of paintings of that era. In fact, the costume of the main character, Manon Lescault, is loosely based on a painting by Rococo-era artist, Jean Honore Fragonard, of a girl releasing a bird.
With all these references, I can just about envisage the period. Although, when I first saw these pieces, the frills, wigs, cakes and general frothiness reminded me of Marie Antoinette.
"No, no, no," says Barbe. "Manon is set in 1719. It was the era of Madame Pompadour, 70 years before Louis XVI."
Nevertheless, according to this designer, he did have to deviate slightly from an accurate periodical representation, in order to suit a modern audience.
There's been some artistic licence with the colours so that, according to Barbe, "they're more poetic". Another slight divergence from historical accuracy is that, back in the 18th century, many people would have donned robes volante (or contouche), which are, essentially, shapeless dresses.
"The ladies then would wear a certain type of smock, but they're not form-fitting at all, so we had to modify them for this production," says Barbe. "So, when it came to the characters of Poussette, Rosette and Javotte – we cheated a little bit and nipped them in."
As these three women are supposed to be playing ladies of "easy virtue", it would seem that something figure-flattering might be more appropriate for our contemporary sensibilities. After all, a shapeless sack ain't sexy. However, it does pray on my mind that, if I'm a bit squashed in one of these stays, how must the cast's diaphragms fare?
"Actually, we don't have to worry about the singers feeling restricted," says Liddell. "They don't object to tight bodices at all – in fact, most of them quite like it."
After getting a sneak peak at the prelude of the three-hour production of Manon, I can vouch for the fact that the cast look and sound spectacular. The detail that Barbe and the wardrobe department have managed is wonderful. It's just rather sad that, after the production closes at the end of June, all these labour-intensive costumes will be tucked away indefinitely. Mind you, according to Liddell, it won't be forever.
"They'll be kept in our repertoire, in case we do this production again as a revival, and perhaps lent out to other opera houses," he says, "which is wonderful, as some of these pieces are of the quality that only comes around once every decade or so."
• Scottish Opera's production of Manon is playing at the Festival Theatre, 13-29 Nicholson Street, Edinburgh, 20-26 June, 7:15pm. Tickets from £16, available at
www.scottishopera.org.ukThe full article contains 1268 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
