Rating

A Love Supreme: Swan Lake – Bolshoi Ballet (Smirnova, Chudin) – August 9 2016

Performances of this quality come along but rarely. One might say that with the Bolshoi, that the likelihood of such a night is higher of course, but that’s no guarantee. Certainly Svetlana Zakharova’s turn as Odette Odile left me a little cold. Not so here. Even in a production which essentially traduces – or at least significantly alters- Tchaikovsky and Peptipa/Ivanov’s intent in favour of Grigorvich’s interpolations and reworkings, the show worked.

It even seemed to go beyond those traducements, those alterations and interpolations, thanks to two heartfelt performances from both lead dancers.

Semyon Chudin (Siegfried) revealed himself to be a dancer of  generous musicality and poise. Gorgeous legato lines flowed through him when the libretto permitted, and when the writing called for the register of tours, jumps, tricks so often on display in ballet, Chudin proved their equal. Lyrical moments were never just steps, but illustrated and given life-breath and force. This was dance which meant something to Chudin, and which meant something to us as a result.

Near the end of the whole evening, as Odette and Siegfried are caught up in a whirling maelstrom of swan maidens, each trying to find the other, the choreography calls for Siegfried to search for Odette, suffering, as he knows he has wronged her.

In one simple movement, a yearning, reaching hand struck outwards; Chudin’s head went back a little, and we saw anguish writ on his face. The movement – that arcing hand, coupled with feet which then drew him back to his doomed love, was in its action, called upon by the libretto and learned by rehearsal, but in its expression, it lived, and spoke volumes. It was a moment of pure, right beauty, and it took my breath away. As to technique, I balked at nothing, a few heavy landings into arabesque excepted, all was plush, lyrically phrased with unhurried ease. The struggle in Scene II when Siefried gives chase to Odette has felt a bit like a pitter-patter around a gatepost from other Bolshoi boys. Chudin stretched, lunged and spun in desperation. Drama was never far from the fore.

Olga Smirnova was everything I want an Odette to be. Olga Smirnova was, frankly, a marvel. Her swan-princess was humane, loving, tender. It seems some dancers shy away from this interpretation, favouring a cool reserve, a lack of eye contact which attempts to speak of regal coyness. But in ballet – or certainly in Swan Lake, love looks with the eyes. Love cannot blossom when gazes are too coy. We must believe in that intimate interchange of glances for the ballet to come alive. A tilt of Smirnova’s head said “I too am lost, like you.” A glance from her suggested that trust began, from whence love might quickly follow. And love, I felt, did. To believe in the story there must be that love.

905a73d135da16e938bc4dc39396bac1

Olga Smironva and Semyon Chudin as Odette and Siegfried in Bolshoi Swan Lake.

My favourite moments, those caught falls in the Scene II Pas de Deux, the loving embraces in that same dance, all were presaged by a simple look. Odette asking, Siegfried saying ‘yes’, and Odette knowing, finally, the prospect of release, safety, love.

And if not love, then all is just dancing, however glorious that is. With the Bolshoi, “just dancing” means glory, guts, grit. Couple Bolshoi technique and training with vibrant central performances, and you have a night to celebrate. Couple all that with these two stellar dancers and it is a night to treasure.

Purists may look at Smirnova’s fouettes and find them comparatively poor, compared with her compatriots and with her own fine dancing. There was, as with Stepanova, no triples or doubles or as with Krysanova, no arms rising en couronne, then placed haughtily on hips after every few turns. There was, as with Zakharova, no long limbed, tornado-esque whipping of the leg. Instead, 31 or so pretty textbook spins. Applause which was more than adequate. But we know that Swan Lake is more than fouettes. Fouettes are, like the four jerky-headed cygnets in the Act before them, something of a parlour trick. Swan Lake is everything before, and everything after the fouettes. Although a true test of the ballet dancer’s resolve and skill, and a chance for them to show off, thirty-two, or even twenty something, of those tortuous spins, is just icing. Fluff.

And happily so. Smirnova knows it, knows that the adage is her comfort zone and she basks in its leisure and comforts. Which is not to say her Odile suffers by that preference. If her Odette is vulnerable – that fantastical chimerical mix of woman and hint of unattainable Other – her Odile is sensuality itself, smirking and challenging Siegfried, and leading him to destruction. True, as Odette, her arms have a tendency to sometimes almost appear as manic flapping, but Smirnova knows that those are the moments to show Odette’s suffering outside of the demands of written steps. With Siegfried, Odette’s soul flies, but not before Odette’s body has willed physical escape.

Smirnova’s portrayal was towering. Certainly I have never witnessed something so forceful, almost supernaturally so, as when in the dying moments of that final act, she simply rose from her swan-in-repose position to pointe. It was as if, with the swelling of the music, she was not so much being lifted by the music, which would have been magic itself, but as if she was almost carrying the music, embodying it, letting it soar through her, unified. In that moment she was in all parts, heroine and victim, and she slowly rose from the floor as if freighted with quiet unassailable power. Those who think Odette weak needed only to look on that moment and see it refuted. Odette rose. She rose with adamantine resolve, adamantine – and here was the force, the punctum and the pathos, the thing that took the breath away – because cracked at the core. It was as if she was a phoenix, yet doomed to die. And yet, she knew it. The feeling of Fate taking hold was overwhelming. I will never forget those few seconds of utter nobility.

And so too, those ranks of perfectly posed swans will remain a memory of Bolshoi’s visit. There’s not room to praise other dancers, nor to compare or contrast this or that. All was good, but the night belonged to Smirnova and Chudin, and the libretto which they brought so dazzlingly to life. Theirs was a love truly supreme.

As such, they have earned my first “AlephNull” rating, for performances beyond a simple “10”. Bravi.

Don Quixote – Bolshoi Ballet – July 26 2016, The Royal Opera House

The Bolshoi set out their stall in this barnstorming, ebullient version of Petipa’s old classic, and what a joy it was to see. In fact, Alexei Fadeyechev‘s new version, first seen at Bolshoi in January 2016, more than sets out a stall: one feels it sets it out, shows the Bolshoi’s wares (dazzling,  scintillating, beguiling) and then realises that it secretly wishes to burn down the marketplace. “They’re the best in the world!” said a lady to me. Is there a best? Opinions differ, and patriotism may play a part, but there is no doubt they came with a mission to show us how it’s done. Chutzpah carried the day. Supernumeraries, an excellent corps de ballet gave it the requisite energy, but the star turns (and there are, literally, many tour and turns) propelled the ballet into the realm of excellence.

There’s hardly a story. Boy (Basil) likes girl (Kitri) and girl likes boy (a good start!) but each can’t have each due to socio-economics (viz., being rather poor)  although Basil’s wonderful sparkly costume in the final pas de deux suggests he has come into some money, or that the magical kingdom of the dryads grants not only a visions of loveliness, but wishes too…And if not so poor, then to judge by Kitri’s father’s reaction,they are poorly matched. Don Quixote himself gets mixed up in the affair,but really, it’s not his ballet.

Certainly B + K (B: Vladislav Lantratov, K:Maria Alexandrova) have million dollar smiles – one suspects hardwired by daily Bolshoi grind, the rigours of class, ground further by the polish of experience and professional lineage, ground so much indeed that they become not a lens to see into any particular insight of soul (Don Q doesn’t quite need the dramatic register of say, an Odette,) but more a highly polished mirror bouncing the spotlight’s bright gleam, refracting that light and lighting up the stage with joy. “Eyes and teeth!” says the showbiz adage, and there were plenty here. Smiles bright, no cheesy false grins, all appeared genuine or at least expertly veneered (and I don’t mean literally cosmetically, but who knows, perhaps to get ahead, Russian dentistry may lend a helping hand to some dancers, to lend them a razzle-dazzle to set them apart from others?)

Certainly there were none of the fixed grimaces one sometimes encounters, not even in some of Kitri’s more fearsomely teeth-gnashing, toe-mashing moments, those fast “pricking” hops on point, and those travelling showpiece hops on on foot. Pirouette after pirouette was pulled off nicely (although Lantratov did seem to forget to “help” on one turn!). Those familiar thirty-two fouettes were taken at some clip, precise, powerful and focused, traversing unerringly laser-like  downstage to front and centre, ending in a perfect “ta-da!” – arms aloft in glee, Alexandrova’s happy “yep, I just killed it!” grin, our applause. The audience were all so taken in by the show they would have applauded (and did) at everything. Job well done. (Interested youtubers can see here a sense of  Ms Alexandrova’s Kitri!)

Sure, Basil wasn’t always so tidy in the air but he was just what the Don ordered, cheeky and playful. Not quite  Baryshnikov‘s jaw-dropping panache, that laugh-out-loud insouciance, but chutzpah in spades, showbizzy flourishes at landings, even an audible humongous sniff of superiority at the end of his variation – a triumphant gesture, and just what the doctor ordered. Too, his “suicide” scene was genuinely amusing, and that’s no mean feat.

As a partnership, they seemed genuinely happy to be with each other. The famous one handed presses, no-hand fishdives, flying leaps into embraces were all present if at times maybe not as utterly effortless as they could be made to look,  so technically as a pairing they were (the very very minor instance above excused) sound, but more than that there was chemistry galore. They found the core of the story, and sold it well. (In the meantime the marketplace kept burning, fanned by fantastic footwork, collective mission, and Fadeyechev’s expert direction). Little admonishments and taps of Kitri’s fan told Basil just who was boss. Coy glances, smitten stolen kisses, not so much smouldering as just plain charming.

Lincoln Center Festival 2014

Lantrantov and Alexandrova as Basil and Kitri at Lincoln Center Festival 2014

Fadyechev’s show feels, to use a friend’s thoughts, rather like an old fashioned musical from the 1950s, as if one were watching a Rodgers and Hammerstein-esque affair onstage. There was the same commitment to pure entertainment without affectation or embarrassment over the means to achieve it, the same technicolour, larger than life appearance, gorgeous to see. A lady nearby said “its very Russian”. What this means I believe is the same: that same unfeigned dedication to entertain, a presentation which doesn’t shy away from mime – here actual pantomime, comic and played right to the back of the house which might otherwise have seemed “over the top”, but instead was pitch perfect. (Consonances with the big-top and Russian circus clowning are not too distant.) As such, Denis Savin‘s Gamache was beautifully given, comically foppish and yet hard not to like.

More cynical observers may have found it all over-cooked, but watching it, it’s undeniable that each member of the company believes in what ballet can do, and that they believe it’s a valuable, vital artform. And that’s what matters. If you are going to sell as story, belief transmits to hearts. I was sold.

oxana-sharova-c2a9-yekaterina-vladimirova (1)

Oxana Sharova as Mercedes.

So there was much fan-snapping and tambourine bashing (no “olé’!”s happily,) and real castanet clacking, not least in  Oxana Sharova‘s (Mercedes) standout solos full of  sinuous cambrés and lots of skirt waving. Townspeople and massed dances were full of vim, and their numbers of course fabulously danced.

I am delighted to report the Kingdom of the Dryads was legitimately beautiful, the more successful because a darkened stage brightens, to reveal a blue-tinged scene and ranks of statuesque beautiful dryads standing in perfect postures. A vision of another world, visited by cute-as-a-button Daria Khokhlova’s Cupid. No wonder Alexei Loparevich’s well characterised bumbling old Don Quixote appeared bewildered, enchanted by the scene.

Act II felt slower, but only in comparison with the preceding Act. I have never for instance (as in Act I) see a sheet-toss onstage before, and what a thrill to see, gasps from the audience as Sancho Panza (Roman Simachev) was hurled into the air, and then in one toss, headfirst into the waiting sheet over and over!

Everyone seemed eager to join the fun. Daria Bochkova‘s  first Grand Pas variation was full of energy and lithe joie-de-vivre, and she was just one of many soloists and corps members who impressed.  This was a wonderful night of ballet, from a company at the top of their game. Even Lulu loved it!

TWITTER ROUNDUP

 

LINK

http://www.bolshoi.ru

http://www.bolshoi.ru/en/

Betroffenheit-Sadler’s Wells – May 31 2016

How do you tell the story of a breakdown? You can either, Wozzeck like, show a man put upon, defeated, and we observers watch this downfall, or one can, as in this work, journey into a mind, to feel, to see and hear pain and trauma.

And “what a mind was here overthrown”, and what minds here elevate that to a work of substantial poetry. Crystal Pite, Kidd Pivot and Electric Company Theatre collaborate to bring one of the strangest yet powerful things I have seen on a stage.

Straight confessional would be boring, and best left to a psychologist’s couch. Stage movement here, whether acting or dancing, has to be metaphor for suffering. And there is, one gathers through the fractured, murky lines of text, in the dance, voice, music –  as one picks one’s way through a narrative anything but clear – suffering.

Why though? Why suffering? A little background reading after the show reveals it is co-creator Jonathon Young‘s catharsis, or rather, re-suffering. An act enacting pain as if to come to terms with it.

Part one is the phantasmagoria. The scene is set in what appears to be a sanatorium. It is peopled by non-sequitur and oddities.A  parody vaudeville act, Brazilian music and show girls, a spangly “King of Comedy”-esque duo (Young and the fantastic Jermaine Maurice Spivey) comes out to entertain. A tap-dancer (David Raymond) menaces Young. Playback voices cut up and judder and assault the ear.  Cartoon-esque nightmare figures grapple protagonist Young. A clown-woman (Tiffany Tregarthen, I believe) pushes a box onstage. Young climbs into it. She pushes it around a bit. It later comes back onstage to haunt him. Is this where he represses his pain? Or where he hides?

Dancers mime in grotesque over-the-top gestures to piped in dialog. Young engages in duologue with another speaker, perhaps himself. The speaker offers psychological babble to console him. There was much talk of “self directed, self percolating” outcomes, starts which became perpetual starts and hence fail. The duologue entangled in itself, chasing its own foundation and tail, and failing. Guilt strangles sense.

A philosopher said once “Perhaps I know best why it is man alone who laughs; he alone suffers so deeply that he had to invent laughter”. Nietzsche perhaps never thought laughter in the dark would be so chilling as here. Betroffenheit’s comedy only pushes alienation into one’s face. This is desperate life, despair from the depths of pain, laughter as defence.  Would that there was more laughter here, but it is not its remit. The comedy is levity, acutely judged, balanced and paced.

In performance and conception, Betroffenheit is resolutely post modern, Post-Bauschian. Bausch has involuted, shared insular worlds, festivals/spectacles of the absurd. Pite’s vision by contrast is here, the opposite: an engagement with a self: direct anxious questioning, a mind grappling with itself.

The insight into a mind fracturing then is painful, intensely so. Recursive, repeated patterns of recorded speech suggest nightmare of entrapment. This is not so much regression, as obsession. This is postmodern theatre and dance, and feels like it. It doesn’t so much pose question as demand them from the viewer. “Who is this man?” what’s happened to him?” and too a bit of “what’s going on?”. This is theatre of aporia.

After the havoc and chaos, the human spill of part one, came part two, which was here, almost pure dance. Here Pite’s dance language came to the fore, and Kidd Pivot thrilled. Jerky movements, group “strobing”, incredible synchronicity. The register was throughout kinetic, frantic, clamorous, exactly as the title of the piece connotes. Nuances of rictus crept in, disconcerting to watch.

Individual solos were graceful, articulate in design and expression, and group work was eye popping, the more so because I believe Mr Young has no formal dance training!

He was chased by the other dancers, pulled about as if a plaything, caught in time-freezing falls and poses, thrilling to see. Notable here was the animalistic trembling from all: palms on the floor, biceps quick-quivering in unison. Uncanny, un-human, almost. Young aped the same movement and was later left onstage alone. Head bowed, scampering on the floor slowly, he became devoid of face and thus became only form, movement: how quickly the mind forgets identity.

Spivey’s final solo showed off his remarkable skills, hints of “popping”, his facility with strobing, micromovements, and too, later, virtuoso tumbling and twirls and spins. All was mesmerising. One wonders, given Sellars’ same utilisation of dancers with street style as their focus, if similar dance forms might find poetic expression in contemporary theatre? I am thinking in particular of jookin’, whose grace and dignity or motion could lend grace and comment to anything which could so utilise it*.

Right near the end all that consoles Young is an embrace in the hush. Throughout, there has been depersonalisation, disorientation. Here, a moment of humane tenderness. Redemption, almost. One felt that in this quiet undisturbed by music, movement, audience noise, the moment would last for ever.

Watching Betroffenheit, one thinks of new syncretisms, new developments within the performing arts. It is thrilling to see the interstices of drama, comedy and dance create something so refreshingly whole. And technically, what a tour de force of theatre. Tom Visser‘s lighting demands precise cues and fast changes, a real workout I imagine for any technician. Nancy Bryant‘s costuming, 70’s sequins, showgirl feathers, modern-wear, nightmare-wear, must merely hint at her versatility and imagination. Owen Belton, Alessandro Juliani and Meg Roe‘s sound and composition underpin the whole strange work, sound in particular being used to amplify stage drama.

Granted, more could be done perhaps to explicate the meanings within the piece, especially in the first half. Its narrative, for those of us with no programmes was – purposefully? – opaque. This was less story than experience, sound and fury suggesting much. Nevertheless, it presented trauma from which one cannot turn away and, confronts us with dance of striking power of concept.It unsettles, and in art, sometimes that is to be applauded as it was here, by those who, realising what they had witnessed was brave and beautiful, cheered and applauded.

 

NOTE

 

*which is not to suggest these art forms “appropriate” it, merely that it deserves wider audiences, and the best way to do this might be to couch it in things people will go to see.

 

TWITTER ROUNDUP

 

 

 

 

 

Ratmansky’s Swan Lake

Alexei Ratmansky‘s Swan Lake was always going to contain moments which stood out. Swan Lake is perhaps the ballet one comes to know best as a ballet fan, and is perhaps the text most in people’s minds when they think “Ballet”. Any changes to the text or story will stand out, diverging from one’s favoured version or favourite moments. One watches these revisions for those moments of surprise, and to enjoy a work successfully and consistently executed with artistic integrity and vision. (Perhaps secretly we hope to see that really “it was better in the old days” too?)

The work was indeed consistently executed by the leads and corps of Zurich ballet, to a good standard –  of whom more later – however the text drew attention to itself, and not altogether to the benefit of the full dramatic picture.

Evolution tends towards gradual modification for continued success (if not full “survival of the fittest”) and in art no less is true. In the course of a theatre artwork’s life there might have been a paring down or amplification of drama, a change of artistic cadence, dramatic tension, or other alterations which bring either beauty or narrative clarity to the piece. Ideally both. Not all artworks are untouchable, and ballet since the mid-Nineteenth century has been palimpsest rather than Authorised Version. (One imputes authority to where one wishes to set store by it.)

With Swan Lake, no less is true. Any choreographic adjustments to fit those intents will have been inherited by us – around one hundred and ten years remove from the first (revival?) performance of the work. Revisions since 1895 may have been due to personal presence of any dancer (“I’ll just do a penché arabesque here, Mr Petipa? or perhaps a bourée here?”) and may too have been to the betterment of drama. What we are used to, is let’s face it, a text which feels standard, and which works well and is largely recognisable from Birmingham in the UK, to London, to New York or Paris or Milan. The story and process of the ballet don’t vary too much.

What does this revised, reconstructed work lose and gain? It loses more than it gains.

It clutters the crucial Act I Scene II pas de deux with many Swan Maidens, and I could not help thinking of The Trocks’ Benno (Andrei Cozlac), who (Trocks-style) catches Odette in those famous trust falls I so enjoy, which here are thus absent. What should be intimate and loving here feels instead like eavesdropping. With an audience on-stage, the romance becomes public and our private thoughts on love – as a private pairing – grumble slightly. The mind cannot quite countenance a display of undying love unfolding with Siegfried’s mate and Odette’s girlfriends in tow.

34157-thumb_ur93nr_resize_900_0

Kapitonova and Jones as Odette and Siegfried.

It also seems the 19th century predilection was not to dispose of dancers by filtering them into the wings to leave the stage clear for feats of balletic grace, but to use them as living frames, on three sides of the stage. In Act I, left, rear, right of stage was full of lines of bobbing heads, fifth position arms going up and down, changing postures of boys and girls while the Pas de Trois capered away. Admittedly this in fact links well with Ivanov’s same use of Swan Maidens in the white acts, and it is to Ratmansky’s credit to have through-composed this use of corps de ballet throughout. I imagine in an era before film that these pictures of a full stage in synchronisation were vivid and impressive. To modern eyes, and perhaps purposefully (or successfully?) so, they seem quaint.

A little more fatally, Ratmansky’s rehabilitation of Sergeyev’s notated version means that Siegfried’s character reverts back to a supporting role, rather as he would have been at the time the ballet was written.  Hints of his interior world – whether through acting or dancing, are noticeably absent, and this absence was keenly felt. As such his hope when finding revelation of Odette that his subconscious prayers have been answered, seemed less moving and the romance as a whole felt distant.

For those who are interested, herewith a catalogue of specific changes:

The maypole and stools from the now defunct Royal Ballet Swan Lake (they share the same reference text) were present, but the use of stools rather limited. If anything these variances from our known productions show how much was not recorded in the Sergeyev Collection’s archives. Clapping here was loud and rumbustious and streamers dropped from the maypole charmingly. The villager boys did little almost mincing bourees and “running on the spot” reminiscent of the famous four cygnet routine later on.

Odette’s evasive pirouettes timed to Tchaikovsky’s music were not in evidence. Instead at those moments, she stood like a 1920s silent movie star, hand on brow, one hand outstretched as it to say “oh no! away!”.

images

Fay Wray or, Odette vs. Siegfried

 

 

This was storytelling which stressed human feelings: Odette as woman, not chimera. It was lighter in poetic ambition, knowing itself to be a fairytale and as such it seemed to be asking for our indulgence. No longer was Odette a swooning naif, an ethereal creature doomed by cosmic forces, punished by cruel magic. She was just a princess. It felt odd.

The Swan Maidens have poinytails and little headpieces. Their tutus are older fashioned and there’s white feathers all over. This device makes them seem – as with Odette – more woman, than otherworldly creature. Their hair flops around. There’s little ghostly serenity, they’re more like Busby Berkeley than beautiful birds.

Odette doesn’t transform into a swan at the end of Act I, Scene II, and flutter her arms in lush Vaganova wings facing or away from the audience. She is borne away by Rothbart, abducted as if a slave in a harem.

Siegfried doesn’t “discover” Odette before the Pas De Deux, nor lean over and unfurl her wings. She just walks on-stage from the wings.

Odile’s variation breaks not with Odile appearing to confront/kiss Siegfried but with her grasping his knee and doing a deep arabesque. She ended the variation with curious brises and a chain of echappés. The act also contained a male variation for Siegfried I had not seen before.

Sets seemed oddly clean cut and austere, almost too modern and out-of-place. Jérôme Kaplan’s costumes were, happily, lovely.

There was, as one can see, much I noticed absent. And yet, some joys too*.

Of the dancers, the standard was high. Viktorina Kapitonova‘s feet were pinprick sharp at the end her white act variation, tempi swift. Her Odile was a striking contrast to her Odette. Alexander Jones was a gallant partner, but if only he had been given more space to, yes, emote!

Noteworthy was Giulla Tonelli‘s dancing in pas de trois. There were assemblies of steps which demanded speedy precision. Some of these were new to me, and she sailed through them with charm. So too Yen Han tackled the writing with appetite.

The Neapolitan (Meiri Maeda, Wei Chen, Lou Spichtig, Christopher Parker, Giulla Tonelli,   Surimu Fukushi, Marie Varlet, Shlomi Miara) started rather leaden, but this was misdirection. Ratmansky’s revision allowed for a thrilling, breakneck accelerando under Rossen Milanov‘s baton, the dancers keeping up with no problem.

The final Act was perhaps Ratmansky’s investment bearing best fruit. Odette is framed by her maidens, as if a stone in jewelled lozenge setting. The picture of arms and sorrow beautiful.

The “storm building” music was absent, Siegfried ran on-stage without any musical build-up. This anticipation and subsequent poetic music of his entrance  is for me one of the best moment in the whole ballet and I regretted it was not here.

08SWANLAKEJP-articleLarge

Odette framed by her maidens. (C) needed.

Yet after this, the drama went from slow bubbling brook to a surging torrent. The doomed lovers embraced to a cymbal crash, and Odette resolved to die. The tug of love and desperation was definitely tear-jerking and I have not seen this tragic deliberation done so powerfully before. I was truly caught in the reality of their fairytale fate. Those moments redeemed the whole show. It was as if here Ratmansky was free to give a modern voice to the work, and if it was really as the ballet was danced in the Nineteenth century, then sensibilities don’t change, and the heart is constant, from city to city, and time is nothing. The poets know this.Here, Ivanov’s poetry sang.

 

Ratmansky’s Sleeping Beauty  succeeded, I think, because it is a happy story and because it is not a narrative ballet throughout. Swan Lake cleaves to a traditional form of drama as lesson and journey (or just plain story) whereas Sleeping Beauty knows itself to be (in the kindest, most gorgeous sense,) beautiful frippery. Beauty bore the revisions better by wearing them more lightly.They weighed this Lake down a little.

Swan Lake matters, and Ratmansky respects it. He may have undertaken this ballet with the intent to do full justice to Sergeyev, Petipa, Ivanov. I just think that “historically consistent” may not be as enjoyable to modern eyes. As a reconstruction  it has merits: as a proclamation of aesthetic dissent (in its demands for lower legs, less acrobatics, more demure dancing) the same. As a project wholesale its rewards were for me, mixed.

 

 

NOTE:

  • And a disappointment. For all this ceaseless chasing of the mimetically Nineteenth Century, that there was shown a video Odette boureeing in pain, when Siegfried swears love to Odile. Such a shame.

Lohengrin, Bayerische Staatsoper, March 31st 2016

I had booked for Klaus Florian Vogt, in the title role of this, one of his fêted roles. I was disappointed to see he was to be replaced. Burkhard Fritz was an unknown singer to me, but by the close of this show, I was won over, indeed, moved by his performance.

Here was a Lohengrin of humanity – and it worked. Fritz’s is not quite the angelic mein of Vogt, the paladin straight from Monsalvat, not the stolid crusader one imagines Robert Dean Smith (another replacement) may have done , nor the dream(swan)boat of Jonas Kaufmann. My fellow opera go-er friend likened him more to looking like a psychiatric nurse. The tracksuit with silver stripes and the blue t-shirt are a world away from more traditional productions. (I recall footage of Domingo in full armour off Youtube…). Director Richard Jones shies away from this imagery, and produces instead a cogent work which moves right to the core of Wagner’s concerns. In the hands of Fritz, the work was done good justice. He doesn’t have the strongest, nor the loudest voice but that’s not his selling point. He made up for any quibbles about his voice by investing his performance with sincerity and belief. the text flowed through him, and the libretto was given depth by virtue of nuance, perhaps more instinct than from study. Partly this may be because he was rather a last minute choice, without much time to prepare and partly too, because Mr Fritz is a stage animal, with good stage instincts. The performance was full of splendid moments.

I like Jones’ staging, where a house is raised almost before an audience’s eyes – much easier to build than a castle! – as it links the two lovers together, and becomes something they share. This Lohengrin’s love for Elsa was pure and strong. He kissed her on the forehead in gentle tenderness when in the house and laid down a cot with the light of hope and promise on his face. The remorse he felt  at Telramund’s slaying was shattering to see.  Knowing his life at Brabant over, we saw his sorrow as he knew that cot would be empty forever. We saw him take it down and then raze the house with fire. The interior journey, its movement from joy then in to pain was fully human, and if not quite in keeping with the idea of a pure Knight of Faith, then forgiveable because affecting, in keeping with Wagner’s setting of a doomed love.

Whereas Vogt often sings”In fernem land” as if witnessing the beatific, a vision as Wagner intended (Nelsons helps here of course), and Kaufmann’s care for cadence and attack work to suggest true nobility, Fritz brought forth from within himself memory, love, a saudade of a kind, and a grief at losing Elsa. His hands held together in contemplation, resolve and prayer, Fritz drew us all to him, and to his story (except the gentleman behind me who noisily cleared his throat as the aria was a few line young.) When remembering his father Lohengrin hugged the invisible form of the King to himself; one saw the grail before him and knew he had seen Monsalvat and loved it, and at the fatal utterance “bin Lohengrin genannt” his voice cracked (with sorrow, not force or shaky technique) at “bin”. Unfeigned, I think, and more powerful for it.

Summoning his swan (“Mein lieber Schwan”) he knelt at front of the stage over the pit and beckoned to its imaginary form, as it came closer he stroked it in affection and love. This was a man for whom Lohengrin the man and Lohengrin the opera mattered, and as such, it mattered for us.

Edith Haller as Elsa had an agile, youthful voice perhaps chosen for its potential match with Vogt. Some greater intensity of acting would have been good to have had, but her pairing with Fritz worked fine.

Günther Groissböck as the King was sonorous and one empathised with his conduct, his difficult position of leadership. Petra Lang seemed a little underpowered when she was not declaiming (but her declaiming “Gott?” was rather chilling!). She could do this role in her sleep I think, and certain critics might charge her with doing so, lately. Thomas J. Mayer as Telramund her husband gave  a strong performance, but not perhaps as evil as I would have liked. Notable for me was one of his henchmen, Tim Kuypers, who lent sincerity to his role and belief in the libretto. A stand-out performance, and a singer to keep an eye on.

Lothar Koenigs‘s conducting was of a generally high quality, but I would have enjoyed a more numinous accent to the opening of the whole work, and some more celestial shading at moments needing it.  (I don’t ask much, right?) The choir of the Staatsoper performed well, but some acting was variable, as was their “you’re on stage” discipline. Shuffling feet and wiping noses may be natural but can be a bit distracting! I enjoyed the fanfare trumpets being distributed around the house, aurally involving the audience, and it was a pleasure to see Utz and Jones’ intelligent staging of this magical text unfold before my eyes. Worth the trip.

The Russian Ballet Icons: Ave Maya – March 6 2016 – The Coliseum

Lots to enjoy in this gala which was lightly sprinkled with ballet stars from the stages of the world. The air of the Coliseum was thick with excitement, and in fact, one could have been mistaken for thinking its foyer and halls, cluttered as they were with avid fans, was instead a theatre in Moscow or Saint Petersburg, such was the representation from the Russian population of London (and doubtless elsewhere). As such outside, sleek limos, burly guards; inside, stoles, a few fancy dresses and even, in the auditorium for added Russian-gala authenticity, one or two gentlemen tossing very Russian BRAVO! and “VO! VO”s with glee and generosity (as well as volume…).*

We fans were rather treated. Fourteen couples, a gamut of dance from the 18th Century up to the present, a few showstoppers, a few snores (for me) and happily, only one real stumble. There were more fouettés and cabrioles than you could shake a stick at, and enough sequins to please even the most ardent lover of sparkle and glitter (me).

To proceed in the order of running:

There was as with last year, a video shown on the far back wall of the Coliseum stage, which was more a tribute to the largesse of the stalls perhaps rather than to Plisetskaya herself, as those in the dress circle and above (certainly in the balcony) could really only see pointeshoes and ankles, rather than her full lush line. Her face became instead lips, a smile. Shots of limousine glamour became instead knees and calves, arms clutching flowers. Thrown flowers in ovation became legs below the knee. You get the picture – or rather, we in the cheap seats didn’t. Ballet is of course about footwork, but it is about features, too – faces, smiles, laughter, despair. The parade of shots and clips of a headless Plisetskaya wasn’t quite the best start.

mayaplisetskaya-750

Maya Plisetskaya. (Most of us saw the mouth only of the picture on the left…)

However, fine features there were, the gala a celebration of the beautiful (just about everyone,) and the bold (Kimin Kim, for example, and one Ivan Vasiliev – of whom more later,) and a range of those same emotions (smiles, laughter, despair) fully explored in mostly  digestible snippets.

 

The evening started with the Grand Pas de Deux ‘Sleeping Beauty’, danced with charm, a nice amuse bouche. There were good turns from Victor Lebedevand crisp cabrioles but the partnership with Angelina Vorontsova felt a bit scrappy. There were nice relevés from her, although some of the choreography looked a bit weird to me, a few chutzpah poses Lebedev felt a bit more Don Q than Prince D, but there again, there was a correct (and lovely to my mind,) recognition of each other, a mutual bow during the dance, ballet’s beautiful politesse asserted. I was also pleased to see there were in fact no fish-dives in evidence but the choreography in general was unfamiliar and in many ways not fitting. (I have since learned that these were Nacho Duato’s own choreographic inventions.)

Second came the Balcony Scene from McMillan’s ‘Romeo and Juliet’, with the Royal Ballet’s Frederico Bonelli and Sarah Lamb. This section is a tricky one to do on an open stage. Juliet lacks stairs to rush down, and there’s no balcony at the end to yearn from and reach for her lover’s hand. Bonelli fizzed in his turns, full of youthful verve, however the partnership didn’t quite effervesce the same. There were fine moments, Lamb’s “feel my beating heart” well telegraphed but in places her dancing felt more a case of steps, rather than invested with life. One or two moments felt a bit mannered. It here also became apparent that a gentleman in a stalls box decided to urgently answer emails on his phone, or instant message Kanye West, or play Candy Crush Saga…or just check his phone. In fact, every time he was slightly bored (which was often, it appeared,) his phone would flash on and that was that act lost to him.

Thirdly came Gusev and Petipa’s ‘The Talisman’. I had noted the delicacy of Ekaterina Osmolkina and was rather taken with her dainty dancing – until she stumbled. She quickly righted herself and recovered well. Her plush jetés in particular were lovely to watch, and she showed lovely form and shape in the large number of carried lifts, and her variation carried the same breath of delicacy and charm. As one rather expected though, Kimin Kim came blazing on stage bounding and leaping in his trademark way and obliterated what charm she established, but hey, it’s what galas are for. I am rather less taken by his line in turns, but his prowess in the air was clear.

Piped-in piano (Phillip Glass on playback) brought the fifth act (Benjamin Millepied’s ‘Together Alone’) to a start. Aurélie Dupont and Hervé Moreau danced this whirring structure of movement, the narrative a little less clear to my eye, which finds the modern (perhaps modernity wholesale…) rather inscrutable. There was here ceaseless flow, an abhorring of static poses and clear phrases. At one point the dancers seemed to end as they began: supine, Dupont pointing to a corner of the stage, and thus people applauded, more perhaps in gratitude to find the piece ending as it felt a little over-long. But ended it was not. (Can people not recognise a musical cadence which announces “not finished yet!”?) There was more twirly-whirly-ness for a minute or two and then the spotlight faded. It was nice to see Dupont, who like Rojo heads up a ballet company yet still dances, but the piece didn’t affect me greatly.

A bit of comic relief with ‘The Bright Stream’ from Bolshoi’s Ekaterina Krysanova and Andrei Merkuriev. Merkuriev knowingly applauded his partner, made impressed faces at her fouettés, denied her the nicety of acknowledging her applause, and then hustled her offstage. He wasn’t quite mercurial, he seemed a bit too old perhaps to play this cheeky young man, but more worryingly he was a tiny bit sloppy, particularly in the arms. Nevertheless I found (perhaps misplaced?) consonances with Ashton in the choreography – there was that same sunniness in address, a touch of capering in the writing for the male dancer, the same cheekiness which Ashton’s males enjoy too. Krysanova’s razor sharp fouettés impressed as they travelled toward us with laser-like intent, and both dancers earned those distinctive Russian whoops from those who cried them out.

The renunciation scene from Cranko’s ‘Onegin’ was next but it felt rather robbed of passion in isolation. Onegin (Jason Reilly) himself felt slightly anonymous. Polina Semionova‘s Tatiana showed a grief well done, but the push-me-pull-you of emotional torment and suffering in Cranko’s narrative didn’t quite develop. And how could it really, in eight or so minutes? More desperation from Reilly could have helped. (Still, I liked Semionova’s costume.)

Next up, Xander Parish and Kristina Shapran in a section from Act II, ‘Giselle’. Parish still seems so young, and with it so full of promise. Those seemingly never-ending legs signify nobility he has yet to fully attain. Giselle herself had (aptly) beautifully airy feet but didn’t quite portray the spirit-girl as she should have been. At one point though, I think Xander pulled off one of the nicest grand jetés of the night.(Certainly this section was different from his act last year!)

Russel Maliphant’s ‘Spiral Twist’ lived up to its rather uncreative name, in fact for me transcending that name to show itself as a piece of beauty. I was impressed by its innovations, its search for different statements of passage and movement, and how it achieved a poetry almost as a celebration of Being. There were many striking moments therein, the various spiral turns, whirligigs, twists and lifts never ostentatious (perhaps too transient to seem so). The lyricism of the piece stood in contrast to that which had come before it in the evening. I am old fashioned and love Petipean ballet, but the modern sometimes has an appeal to me too. Here this modernity was akin to kinetic sculpture, alive and wondrous, but again, sadly perhaps a tad too long. Lucia Lacarra and Marlon Dino danced to Max Richter’s music, which I enjoyed.

I saw ‘Bolero’ listed and imagined it to be Béjart’s famous treatment of the score, but instead Farukh Ruzimatov danced half naked in choreography which left me underwhelmed. It was perhaps the most singularly camp thing I have seen for a long time. I do not wish to denigrate Mr Ruzimatov’s abilities, which are considerable, nor his artistic intent, which is admirable, but merely to suggest that the piece was not to my liking. He is to be commended for shouting a heartfelt “YAHHH!” at one moment. The lady behind my is to be likewise commended for keeping accurate rhythmic time to the pulse of Ravel’s score, although I rather would have wished her not to have done so with her knee on the back of my chair in the small of my back, forcefully thrusting forward with each enthusiastic beat of her leg.

The way Mr Ruzimatov left the stage was perhaps worth the preceding ten minutes alone. A slow balletic walk which brought to mind The Trocks, and which closed act I.

Ave+May+-+Part+2_277+-+Daniil+Simkinn+and+Maria+Kochetkova+in+Le+Corsaire.jpg.small

Daniel Simkin and Maria Kochetkova in Ave Maya: Russian Ballet Icons Gala 2016. Photo (c) John Ross, used without permission.

The opening of Part II of the evening, a section of Act II from ‘Le Corsaire’ would have made a Best in Show for me. It was said elsewhere (by Isemene Brown, I believe) that in the English National Ballet’s run of Le Corsaire, some of the male Principals treated it as an audition for an international ballet competition: the male variation lends itself to this ridiculous effervescent style, its Soviet stylings made to show Soviet supermen defying gravity (before they really did, for the first time…) Stakhanovite levels of dedication (perhaps the norm for ballet dancers?) dominating the stage. As such, plaudits to be awarded to the no-holds barred work of Daniel Simkin in particular. Splendidly macho leaps and 540 degree turns, muscular attack and an approach which said “sod it” to finesse, this was glorious, gleeful chutzpah in spades, and a cracking spectacle. In fact, it sounded like some of the brass section were watching the antics on stage, I heard quite a few wobbles from them, perhaps in response to the feats on display? Maria Kochetkova’s fouettés were taken at a tempo which was almost openly absurd, and even though her arms weren’t the most elegant in doing so, applause for her came loudly and without restraint. The bravura fireworks had achieved their intent, and I think they got the loudest ovation on the night.

If Maliphant’s ‘Twist’ showed the virtues of modern elegance, Christopher Wheeldon’s noted pas de deux from ‘After the Rain’ was the poorer for it. Which is not to say Marianela Nuñéz and Thiago Soares didn’t dance it with conviction. But I do not understand how crablike positions, writhing a bit on the floor or kicking a girl over can be seen as graceful. The famous “Titanic” type pose was particularly well done though. I was also struck my how nice Marianela’s hair was (yes, I was.) Not my favourite selection from the night but inoffensive enough I suppose.

Matthew Golding is a favourite dancer of mine (which, I gather is a minority opinion…) contentious to believe, it seems. He and Liudmilla Konovalova gave us the Act III pas de deux from Swan Lake. Konovalova was not the most mendacious Odile, nor the most outstanding I had seen. She was however, technically secure and a bright presence on-stage. Golding’s variation found wonderful musicality and phrasing (this I judged mainly on concordance of his hands with cymbal crashes, those same hands and fingers always clean in expression and consistently fine, as if a flourish themselves). All variations were well done, fouettés present and correct, Golding launching some lovely turns from second position, to Tchaikovksy’s rousing score. Fun to watch.!

Of the ‘Spartacus’ we saw I can say very little except that Mr Grigorovich’s choreography doesn’t quite inflame my passion as much as it did Maria Alexandrova and Vladislav Lantratov. Danced to a taped score, it lost some of it’s drama. Nevertheless they gave it conviction. (And here the bravos came thick and fast…)

Antonio Ruiz Soler’s ‘Three Cornered Hat’ seemed a bit out of place by virtue of not being ballet. There was great dancing from Sergio Bernal. The fun flamenco-inflected dance and cape whirling passed by a little too quickly in fact, and it was a treat to watch him.

Vadim Muntagirov and Daria Klimentová’s in ‘Moshkovsky Waltz’ was fun, and it had some thrilling throws. Memorable was the distinctive spinning fishdive. Brave Daria to do these, but as it shows in their dancing, they are a strong partnership. The trust is there, the maturity of expression, and the joie de vivre sings loudly, clearly. A real pleasure to see. Their “curtain call” was addtionally delightful. Muntagirov running onstage with Klimentová aloft, totemic yet humble in the applause she was receiving.

Ave+Maya+-+Part+1_083+-+Daria+Klimentova+and+Vadim+Muntagirov+in+Moshkovsky+Waltz.jpg.small (1)

Vadim Muntagirov and Daria Klimentová in the Russian Ballet Icons Gala 2016. Photo (c) John Ross, used without permission.

Tamara Rojo and Isaac Hernández were next in Albert Alonso’s Carmen Suite. Hernández pulled off a few of his deliciously speedy spins, but too few. He is a dancer of pantherine dimensions, his comfort the brazen and the large scale. The choreography seemed to hem him in somewhat. As in his star turn in Le Corsaire, he needs a stage to bask and revel in, and smaller gestures, more limpid phrasing does not become him.

And thus, a full twenty five or so minutes after scheduled/advertised end time, came the star, nay, icon almost, everyone had been waiting for. Ivan Vasiliev came striding on-stage for a star turn as Don Quixote. And turn he did. In his variations he could not quite best Simkin for intent of expression but his “helicopter turns” and barrel turns were present, and lauded. (He could flick his big toe and garner acclaim…). His chaine turns seemed the poorer when one thinks of for instance, Steven McCrae’s same, yet Vasiliev’s disposition, his eagerness to show his abilities endeared him to an audience. One precarious moment of near overbalance from Kristina Kretova was saved by willpower and experience, notable for her focus in the face of near overbalance. Brava, Kretova. Her pointe was steely, her gaze the same. This was a Kitri not so much kitten as vixen. Was it worth nearly missing my train connection home to stay and wait for Vasiliev? Probably not as it happened. But as my friend said afterwards, had I not stayed, I would never have known.

I’d encourage everyone who enjoys ballet to attend the next one of these if it rolls around. The site listed the event as sold out, yet there were empty seats everywhere here and there. There may not, as last year, have been some stars as advertised, but London was well treated to a good collection of dancers.

Overall, 8/10!

NOTE

*Those who have seen the film Bolshoi Babylon may not be too surprised to learn of the identity of one of these gentlemen…….

Twitter Roundup

como el musguito en la piedra, ay si, si, si… – Tanztheater Wuppertal – Sadler’s Wells – February 14 2016

Bausch’s final piece (loosely translated as “Like moss on a stone, ah yes yes yes”) celebrates her dancers’ capabilities in extended solos, but fails to knit together into a satisfying whole.

Bauschean elements permeate the show, with a few video effects which are well used. The stage (Peter Pabst) moves apart and together in fractured pieces, like a jigsaw which (unlike the show itself) knits together seamlessly, and then pulls apart. One can fruitfully read ideas of dislocation, physical separation and divorce into it, these tectonic monoliths as shorthand for selves which never can know another, except to abut their neighbour – but mainly the set was just merely interesting, and the dancing rather the same.

A list of things that happen in “como el…”

(more…)

A Swan Lake sublime

Swan Lake – Birmingham Royal Ballet – Mathews, Lawrence, Dingman – Jan 28 2016, The Mayflower, Southampton.

 

John Keats and Russian myth don’t seem at first sight to be related but seeing Delia Mathews and Brandon Lawrence dance together was an event underlining the idea that sometimes truth is really beauty, and beauty truth. In the hands of these strong dance communicators there was here beauty, and so too truth, recognisable as great art.  The Swans may (and to pun, slightly) like Keats ancient vase, be mute, but thanks to Marius Petipa and Birmingham Royal Ballet’s fine body of dancers, they sing in other ways.
The Greeks may not have quite romanticised the Swan as the Germans and Russians did in the 19th Century (Leda is a close comparator, even though Zeus is in his potencies rather more mighty than Rothbart, who is of a more rural, domestic, druidic type of evil) but they surely understood the power of Terpsichore, the Muse of dance, whom they held to be sacred, and the line from her to Petipa and Ivanov is, despite the distance of millennia, traceable at least in shared ideals. Why else do we watch dance, and stories in-dance in particular if not to be edified, or even moved?

(more…)

Corsaires ahoy! (Le Corsaire, Jan 23, 24 2016)

 

 

Bounding out of the wings like some kind of piratical dervish, Isaac Hernández‘s Conrad looked like he was truly skimming the surface of the stage as he leapt and turned. He also looked constrained by the size of the Coliseum’s stage, a creature needing to stretch but instead caged.

(more…)

Rhapsody/Two Pigeons – The Royal Ballet – McRae, Osipova; Campbell, Choe, January 20 2016

Everyone really only wants to hear Variation 18 from Rachmaninov’s famous piece, and anything additional is probably a bonus. A big bonus is to see Steven McRae leap and bound with some ridiculous over-the-top, laugh-out-loud moments of dancerly pyrotechnics. Scything scissorring jumps, his trademark chaine-tornado, McRae revelled in Ashton’s writing. There’s flash, flair and brio which is McRae’s metier, and he showed glorious definition in tours especially.

(more…)