Get involved: it’s the audience’s turn to play a part

PASS ME the sal volatile. If there were a chaise longue in the vicinity, I would swoon upon it for I can no longer breathe, although I am having a whalebone of a time. I’m in the dressing room at the Traverse Theatre, in Edinburgh, being laced into a ruby-red Victorian evening dress that comes with built-in corset, enormous skirts made up of layers of black tulle, scarlet satin flounces, and yards of pleated, sequinned silk. Beneath it all I’m wearing a vast black tulle petticoat – I am dressed to frill.

It defies belief that this custom-made frock I’m being imprisoned in was last worn by a Scottish Opera soprano in Nuria Espert’s legendary 1989 production of La Traviata. Someone actually sang their heart out while the upper half of their body was encased in something that feels like an instrument of medieval torture?

“They certainly did – the boning changes your posture; it’s a support. Some singers like to sing against the tightness,” reveals my “dresser”, Jackie Holt, one of the 20-strong costume team behind The Salon Project, which promises to be the most immersive theatrical experience ever staged.

Audiences – 60 people at every performance – will be costumed in period dress before entering Traverse One, which is being transformed into an opulent, Belle Epoque Parisian salon, for an evening of glittering conversation and music. Which is why I’m slipping into something uncomfortable in order to interview Traverse artist-in-residence, director-designer and presiding genius behind the project, Stewart Laing, fresh from directing Marc Almond in Ten Plagues.

“You look fabulous, that colour suits you,” flatters East Kilbride-born, Tony award-winner Laing, who is putting on his top hat, tying up his white tie – well, someone is doing it for him – and brushing off his tails. Duding up his shirt front, he looks dandy: every inch the Victorian gent, from his splendid ginger beard to his patent leather evening shoes. All he needs is a green carnation in his lapel.

“Good idea! I’ll suggest that to our costume designer, Theo Clinkard,” says Laing, who will wear this dapper ensemble, which he’s trying on for the first time, at every performance. Indeed, most men in the audience will be similarly attired. Laing’s outfit is also from that lavish La Traviata, so presumably our costumes – designed by Oscar-winner Franca Squarciapino – rubbed shoulders in the opening scenes set in the courtesan Violetta’s Paris salon.

We adjourn to the Yellow dressing-room and perch uncomfortably on modern chairs – you have no idea how difficult it is to sit down when your stays are cutting into your rib-cage and you’re wearing a barrage balloon of fabric. Gosh, my bum feels big in this. Behind us hang rails of costumes. Clinkard will decide which pass muster and which he’ll tweak and titivate since he’s responsible for how everyone will look. For The Good Old Days this is not; the audience is the cast of this innovative production – and all the theatre’s a stage. “The audience play themselves playing themselves as there are no actors involved, only a selection of invited speakers provoking discussion on everything from art and culture to politics and philosophy,” says Laing.

Dozens of costumes have been sourced from wardrobe departments in every Scottish theatre, including the Citizens, the Royal Lyceum, Dundee Rep, Perth Theatre and, of course, Scottish Opera. Many, Laing notes, are like finished works of haute couture, with hand-stitched beading and astonishing attention to detail.

“Some are as exquisitely made as gowns by Vivienne Westwood or Alexander McQueen or even Galliano. We’ve had requests from men to do drag because the costumes are so fantastic. No way! This is a serious enterprise,”

Salon audiences arrive 90 minutes before each performance. Laing’s team will costume them, make them up and accessorise their outfits. And, yes, tiaras will be worn.

Laing began his career painting scenery at the Citizens, where he discovered the joy of sets and went on to become head of design after training at London’s Central School of Art. Indeed, as costumes arrive from the Citz there are Proustian moments, recalling glorious productions, such as the late Robert David MacDonald’s version of Proust, A Waste of Time.

Were some designs inhabited by ghosts? “Nah,” replies Laing. “I don’t believe costumes are haunted.” Since his years at the Citz, he’s worked all over the world, from Broadway to Bavaria, both as director and designer, but he never knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of his profession until he agreed to chaperone his teenage godson, an extra in the 2005 film version of Pride and Prejudice, starring Keira Knightley.

“The film company wouldn’t pay for a chaperone so I went along and we both appeared in the film,” says Laing. “It was the first time I’d been on the other side of the fitting room. It was really interesting. It opened my eyes. This thing that I’ve done to other people was now being done to me. It was strange because I’ve always been a control freak. Then I discovered there’s this community of people who love being extras; it’s a sort of compulsive activity. I thought how fascinating it would be to use that as the driving principle for a theatre piece, to let the audience experience something that is usually only saved for actors.”

Laing was also intrigued by the notion of salons and has been re-reading Proust. “I have very conflicted feelings about period salons and I think that’s part of my interest. I find the exclusivity of it awkward and elitist, but I still have a love of it. ”

And does Clinkard think there’ll be incidences of costume envy? “I do,” he laughs. “But the whole idea is to make everyone look absolutely stunning – and I promise they will.”

Once you’ve booked your ticket you provide the company with your measurements – and there’s no point in being economical with the truth, warns Clinkard. These gorgeous designs are designed to fit exactly where they hit. As I take my leave of Laing, I can’t resist doing a twirl, skittishly picking up my petticoats. “Hands off your dress!” excaims Laing. “I’ll never forget Philip Prowse sitting in the stalls during rehearsals at the Citizens, forever screaming at actresses – and a few actors, too – ‘Never, ever touch your frock!’” So, no lifting your skirts, ladies, however neat your ankles.

• The Salon Project is at the Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh, from 10-22 October, alternate nights only). untitled-projects.tumblr.com.