‘Rusalka’ Piano Dress

‘She’s Russian,’ says wardrobe assistant Leah, conspiratorially. Raindrops spill down the windows of the Running Wardrobe headquarters as she passes me a photograph of an elegant woman. ‘But she’s friendly.’ 

‘I see,’ I say, studying the face. I turn and run my hand along a length of silver satin that hangs from the door beside me, fashioned into a beautiful, figure-hugging dress. ‘And how much time do we have?’ 

‘Six minutes. Do you think you can do it?’ 

I nod thoughtfully. ‘Leave it to me.’ 

That’s six minutes to strip ‘The Foreign Princess’ out of a cream coloured two-piece suit and whip her into this silvery concoction, plus jam on some jewellery. Acres of time. Plus, we’ll be in the cage at the side of the stage, meaning that once the ‘Princess’ is ready, she will be able to leap to the stage in half a heartbeat. I know the dress rehearsal will be fumbly, but overall, I am feeling confident. We’ll need to work out the change choreography so that wigs and makeup can also do their bit, and then we’ll hit a groove. It’ll be fine. 

Today is Dresser Training Day for Rusalka, Dvořák’s operatic interpretation of The Little Mermaid that will be sung in Czech. I have been charged with five principal singers, meaning I will be on the Circle Level corridors, where the principals reside. 

This is the third time this production has been revived at Glyndebourne, and it’s a firm favourite among my colleagues. The music is beautiful. The design, by Rae Smith, is charming and brings to mind a timeless rustic fairytale. The direction is by Melly Smith - I once met her sister on a train but that’s another story.

I went to see this show when it was performed in 2012. I remember the scene in the woods, where the Prince is hunting a deer. The deer was moving about the stage with the theatrically clever yet simple gesture of holding two small antlers to her head. I don’t remember the details of the story, but I do remember the rolling feeling of sweet sadness as the final notes died against a visual of fading, twinkling lights, and that I had to root around in my bag for tissues to catch the tears that were slipping down my cheeks. On the website, Glyndebourne introduces the show with the question, `what would you sacrifice for love?’ 

During the morning, we are in the auditorium, watching some of the chorus girls rehearsing the water nymph scene. They are suspended high in the air on wires, and they are swirling thirty-foot long mermaid tails that brush the stage floor far below them. The effect is really quite breathtaking - they absolutely look as though they are under water - but I always smile when I remember the story of one girl who somehow got lowered down facing the wrong way, with her back towards the audience. During the scene, she was slowly rotated around until she was facing the right way, but this somehow just made the whole incident even funnier. 

The most famous Glyndebourne Rasulka story of all, however, is the one about the time the leading lady, wrapped in her mermaid tail, rolled off the edge of the stage and landed in the orchestra pit, smashing my friend Santiago’s cello. ‘I was in all the papers,’ Santiago told me. ‘I wanted to be famous for being a good cellist, but I’ll take whatever I can.’ He showed me the cello in question - a honey-coloured thing of exquisite beauty, especially made for some exotic prince in the 1620s, and worth apparently as much as a house. There was a stamp inside to certify its story. Glyndebourne paid for the instrument’s repair, and, so says Santi, it now sounds even better than before, since the restorers discovered a hidden crack that they think had been there for about 100 years.

But back to today. I watch as Ms. Smith strides among her cast on the stage, adjusting a movement here, refining and defining a reaction there. Her short silver bob flips about her face as she spins and turns, holding all the singers and dancers who are gathered on the set in her energetic force-field. When the scene is re-wound and played again, the modifications, deceptively subtle, make a clear impact. The storytelling is instantly and undeniably clearer and more powerful.  

Later, in the green room, I am chuckling with the other dressers as a tannoy announcement comes through the speakers. ‘Stand by, Flying Nymph Operators’ - a job description that surely anyone would love to have in their passport. But then there’s an even better one: ‘Stand by, Wood Wagglers.’ Quite who these mysterious Wood Wagglers are and what they do is still a mystery, but perhaps all will become clear during next Monday’s full dress rehearsal…