Strapless: A Failure of Narratives — Royal Opera House, 23/25 May 2017

I'm a big fan of Christopher Wheeldon's work. Which is why I'm dedicating an entire review to try and unpack why Strapless irks me so.

Strapless' Two Narratives
Strapless tells two stories — that of Sargent's repressed fantasies, and Amélie's salacious outing. The story opens on Sargent painting Pozzi, where the audience spies traces of his true sexual orientation in the tender way he positions Pozzi. Amélie enters soon after, and Pozzi is passed over to serve as her plot device, by sleeping with her and laying the groundwork for her debauchery. In the following party scene, we are introduced to Sargent's relationship with Albert, and have a fleeting development in Amélie's plot as she decides to commission a work from Sargent.

Parallel storylines for Amélie and Sargent. Source: DanceTabs

Next we come to the pivotal moment of the piece — where Sargent can only muster inspiration by imagining Albert in the place of Amélie. This presumably is what causes him to paint her strapless, his brush tinged with a lingering lust. Finally, at the piece's premiere, all goes to hell and Amélie's reputation is tarnished, while Sargent walks away unsullied. It is this contrast (I assume) that is meant to carry the emotional weight of the piece.

There are two main reasons why the narratives fall short of their emotional promise: a lack of stakes, and an absence of touchpoints between the two storylines.

Insufficient Stakes
The first error is mostly committed by Sargent's storyline — where there are never any stakes established for his potential outing. Perhaps one is to assume the backdrop that being gay was a grievous social transgression then, but the dangers of this are never made clear in the piece. Sargent flirts quite casually with both Pozzi and Albert, such that you assume his impunity from the beginning. Hence the unfolding of events in the ballet have almost no bearing for him — it becomes a terribly banal, straightforward story of Just another day in the life of John Singer Sargent.

The stakes seem clearer for Amélie, as a socialite with all her standing to lose. However, right from the get go, Wheeldon establishes her as an adulterer, indicating that she was perhaps already well on her way to becoming a pariah. The stakes of the painting itself are therefore brought lower, when her eventual outcasting appears inevitable.

Consequently, for both Amélie and Sargent, the audience is never able to truly invest in the rise to the climax and the fallout from it, as there are simply no relevant stakes at play.

Inconsequential Touchpoints
The second key way the piece suffers is that the narratives fail to effectively interweave. For two narratives to do so, they should share touchpoints that serve as a turnkey for both — such as (1) both undergoing the same initiating event but arriving at different outcomes;  or (2) both starting from different places to come to the same eventuality. Such interweaving allows two divergent stories to resonate, where the audience gains a greater appreciation for the significance of factors in one story because of the counterexample provided in the other. In the case of Strapless, the audience must ideally walk away with an understanding of what factors in Sargent's life enabled him to escape the fate of social exile that Amélie could not.

Ineffectively intertwined. Source: DanceTabs

Unfortunately, Strapless only manages a superficial tethering of the story lines — where as much as both characters appear in the same time and space, their stories fail to interweave in any way that is material to the trajectory of each.

For example, while Amélie and Sargent may begin with the same touchpoint of Pozzi, whom both use as an object of sexual desire, their interactions with him do not appear to be the reasons why Sargent's and Amélie's fates diverge, since both had illicit dalliances with him. Therefore, Pozzi serves as an effective foil to establish who the characters are, but does not serve the purpose of starting the characters on meaningfully divergent paths.

More likely, the cleaving event is meant to be the painting itself — the third scene, where Sargent substitutes Amélie with Albert for inspiration. However as much as this (supposedly) may be a pivotal moment for Sargent, where he perhaps embraces the truth and immutability of his feelings for Albert, this moment has no meaning for Amélie. She is merely a prop in this revelation for Sargent, and as such her own journey makes no progress.

I wonder if Wheeldon in fact meant this, where the weight of the story lies in how Amélie's fate was simply collateral damage in another man's selfish satisfaction. But to make this of consequence to Amélie's narrative, he has to show just how much this event matters to her — perhaps by removing her as the third wheel in the pas de trois, and elevating her half of the story with a solo, where she rejoices at the painting's completion, assuming it will only bring her greater social stature.

An Inexplicable Conclusion
Ultimately, because of these various shortcomings, the audience is never able to understand why the painting matters at all. The stakes that it is meant to be invested with are never well established, dulling the purpose of the story. Furthermore, the story is complicated by two narratives which are unable to bring each other any closer to meaning — but again, with no stakes at play, there simply is no meaning to hammer home. Consequently, Strapless really has nothing to say.

There are a couple of ways I suppose the piece might have been fixed. Certainly, the dichotomy of Sargent's and Amélie's fates... the seemingly unwarranted furore over a simple strap, etc. are fascinating raw material. If Wheeldon is still hoping to anchor the piece on why their fates diverged, he might perhaps consider the answer that Amélie's adulterous misdeeds were well known, while Sargent's were not. He might then have built the corps around them to indicate that the public was more aware of one than the other, such that the blame of the piece reflexively fell to Amélie in the end. Rather than building up Amélie's social capital (e.g. through her solo prior to the unveiling) only to artificially contrast her downfall (because the audience knows she was an adulterous pariah already), the piece might focus on how Sargent and Amélie managed the public's perceptions of them quite differently.

Or, they could have simply pulled a Symphonic Dances — and built moves that flow so seamlessly with the music, and are so intoxicating to the senses, that no one could bother any less about a story that begins with a bold overhaul of gender norms, only to end with surprising misogyny. (I shall get to you later, Liam Scarlett. Perhaps.)

2x3 > 6 at the Obsidian Triple, Royal Ballet, 11 June 2016

It’s not often that I’m in London long enough to enjoy two casts of the same show. So it was a delight to discover that in watching both Obsidian Triples on the Royal Ballet’s last day of the season, I got to see what felt like 6 entirely different pieces.

Image credit: Andrej Uspenski

Obsidian Tear, Wayne McGregor’s new piece, swung my opinions the most from cast to cast. In the matinee, led by Lukas Bjørneboe Brændsrød, Nicol Edmonds and Benjamin Ella, the story came across as one in which Brændsrød and Ella were lovers, torn apart by society. Their movements were complementary; their pas de deux conversational.

However in the evening’s performance, led by Matthew Ball, Calvin Richardson and Edward Watson, Ball and Richardson presented a striking similarity in physique, which suddenly implied that they were two halves of the same person – with Richardson the tender hearted core of Ball, which he eventually could not live without. Compared to the afternoon’s portrayal, their movement geometries were much more alike, and their interactions more of self-recognition than of love.

My second viewing also had the advantage of familiarity – I was able to follow more of what was happening, and soon discovered the unique characterizations of the different dancers. Some have mentioned Watson as a type of devil character encouraging Ball to abandon Richardson. However there was an interesting nuance to this, where it was Eric Underwood whom Watson first incited, in a very intimate pas de deux where he literally rubbed his influence off on the former. Underwood was then the one who marked Richardson, ultimately condemning him.

The other key revelation of the evening’s version was Calvin Richardson – an astonishing young spark who gave a remarkably honest and brave performance. He embodied McGregor’s choreography perfectly, finding its softness in a way I’ve not seen other Royal Ballet dancers able to do before, and grounding the moves in an emotional truth. I am very much looking forward to seeing him again.

Image credit: Dance Tabs

The interpretations in The Invitation were also wildly different between afternoon and evening. It surprised me how much there is to the ballet – it gets unfortunately shortchanged in summary when the description jumps to the rape scene. Ironically, it was that scene which was the least poignant for me, because of the far more engaging and intricate character developments that preceded it.

Thomas Whitehead’s Husband in the afternoon was your classic perverted sociopath – not shedding an ounce of feeling from start to finish. He only knew possessions, not emotions – and The Girl was to him like a porcelain doll to be added to his chilling basement collection. He touched her tenderly at first, careful not to damage the packaging – then finally decided To hell with it, this one I actually want to enjoy, and ripped apart the packaging like a rabid dog.

Olivia Cowley also gave a notable interpretation of the Wife in the afternoon. It could be her likeness in age and demeanour to Yasmine Naghdi, but I immediately saw The Girl buried inside her Wife. She had a strange look of recognition upon seeing her Husband’s interaction with the Girl, appearing to know from the start exactly how events would unfold. Her pas de deux with the Boy felt like a reminiscence to a time when she herself was innocent, and she was merely trying to recapture a young love that was never afforded to her. God, that hurt to watch.

Instead of reopening old wounds, the evening’s performance cut entirely new ones. Its brand of anguish was rooted in how the poison of a loveless marriage could come to destroy the innocence in its path. Gary Avis and Zenaida Yanowsky portrayed a Husband and Wife whose pursuit of an outward decorum had left all their arguments unresolved, festering into a deep mutual hatred. Their disdain for one another was apparent from the moment they entered – as Avis sauntered callously away mid-introduction, you could cut Yanowsky’s irritation with a knife. The hatred was spread thickly onto their pas de deux, as they pushed each other away as violently as propriety would allow. These two incredibly powerful dancers brought so much history and subtext to their partnership, even when standing still, that I truly felt the urge to tell them to slow down and stop yelling at each other.

The Boy and Girl then entered into this mire, and the resulting interplay was remarkably rich. Vadim Muntagirov soaked up Yanowsky’s predation with such painful innocence; and Yanowsky’s pride was palpable as she lured him in. Hayward flitted haplessly from Muntagirov’s clumsy affection to Avis’ serene gravity; and Avis became increasingly amused by her flirtations, repeatedly shaking his head subtly to both chide her and express his disbelief about his growing power over her. It was a treatment so disturbingly gratifying that despite the occasion, I began to grin widely, suddenly beside myself with admiration for this magnificent company.

With Yanowsky, Avis and Hayward in particular adding so much texture to their interpretations, there was simply too much to take in. At some point, after trying desperately to watch the Wife watching the Husband watching the Girl watching the Boy, I had to give up. What I can capture within my limits as an audience member is far smaller than what these artists give on stage; and what I can put into words, even less.

Image credit: Royal Opera House

I lie – I actually only saw 5 ballets, because Within the Golden Hour was so surprisingly soporific that I tuned out equally in the afternoon and evening performances. Both casts were stellar of course in their execution, but something just didn’t hit home with Christopher Wheeldon’s choreography. It could be the God-awful costumes, as has been commented – but for me it was largely the lack of an underlying movement theme. Nothing keeps the piece together – it is simply a series of charming, but underwhelming, vignettes.

Anyhow. Dear Royal Ballet: I will miss you sorely this summer, even more than I already miss you from living oceans away. But come hell or highwater, I will always find my way to Covent Garden.

Fascinating New Feelings at The Winter's Tale, Royal Ballet, 10 June 2016

Image credit: DanceTabs

At about 30 odd viewings and counting, this ballet really should not surprise me. Yet it not only did; it recaptured me wholeheartedly and brought me to the edge of my seat, wringing my hands until they paled.

Back in its 2014 premiere, I was already won over -- in fact, it was that very ballet that reawakened this blog, to give words to the many emotions that were overflowing from me, out of the theatre, and onto Bow Street. But since then, The Winter's Tale has been doing some very interesting evolution -- bringing out more of the emotional complexity that I loved in the original, resulting in an interpretation that is now far more human, far richer and beautifully uncomfortable.

The thing most clear now is how flawed Leontes is. Before, he came across as simply mad, which, to be honest, was a characterization almost too vanilla for Edward Watson. His anger and jealousy were unwavering, but because of that, uninteresting. In this new run, however, these emotions slowly grow on him. Watson doesn't rise straight to a gut-clenching, arm-twisting fervour in his solo -- instead, he is visibly cautious, confused as much as he is angered by the possibility of Hermoine's infidelity running through his mind. Even as he accuses Polixenes and Hermoine, he backs off every few steps to tease that perhaps he has calmed himself and is thinking clearly once more. He keeps vacillating in the conclusion he has drawn -- such than when he finally reaches for the knife, his murderous intent feels like a clear choice, not something he was driven to in a frenzy.

Consequently, Leontes becomes highly unlikeable. Before, he was just plain mad, to an almost forgivable degree. I mean, it happens to us all the time -- something snaps, everything becomes a blurry red haze, and we emerge on the other side friendless, childless, wifeless (or something to that effect). But for him to actually have a moment where he considers the baby, stirring hopeful excitement from Paulina; or for him to stare long, hard and almost gentle at Hermoine during her plea -- well then it makes me hate him to the core when he finally condemns his wife regardless. He is weak and unkind -- his actions resulting from a shallow need to preserve his pride.

Not only do I despise Leontes, it appears none of the other characters can stand him either. No one can bring themselves to smile at him throughout the ballet. Paulina turns her head away in disgust as he walks past her during the trial; Polixenes leans reflexively to run away when their paths cross again. Mamillius too (played again by the increasingly mature Joe Parker) clearly knows which parent to sidle up to.

Even the end is discomforting in this respect because it is clearly not a redemption for Leontes. It's been 16 years already but Hermoine is still disdainful of him -- she repeats her pleading arabesques almost to test if he is still the same insecure bastard inside. It is so much to Lauren Cuthbertson's credit that this scene sits as unsatisfyingly as it does -- she is now the one to vacillate whether she will hate him or tolerate him for the sake of their daughter. Zenaida Yanowsky (of course, that magical creature) likewise imbues Paulina with that uncomfortable tension, where it is clear that at not one moment does she forgive Leontes, nor is she trying to help him through a difficult time. There is no care in her embrace or her cradling of his head -- there is only a deeply buried rage that she has turned into resignation, to do a great duty of love for Hermoine, and transform him as much as possible into a better man while she waits in hiding.

Thus tonight, I am left full of angst. And I absolutely love it.

Elizabeth

Every time I leave a ballet, I marvel at what it has done to me. Some do a little, the worst do almost nothing at all, but the best -- the very best -- render an undeniable transformation. I write reviews as some attempt to capture this change; it is a desperate compulsion I feel after each piece to explain what I have experienced, that I might process why it engaged me so, and perhaps even pen it in a way that someone else might engage vicariously. But in many ways there is a necessary structure to this, a manner of informative exposition that pithily captures what occurred on stage, but so poorly captures what occurred inside me.

As such, this review, I write for myself. But perhaps, it is written for you too. Here is what it feels like to watch Elizabeth.

The quiet before a performance is one of my most favourite parts. Almost anything can happen. And even if you know what's supposed to happen -- who enters when and what the choreography is -- this is the point at which you surrender judgment, logic, thought, experience. In the social contract of the theatre, you give yourself to the performers, and enter the unknown. Raphael Wallfisch takes his place in the darkness on stage right, and Zenaida Yanowsky, Sonya Cullingford, Laura Caldow, Julia Righton and David Kempster arrive at their opening positions centerstage. Then, just before the first word is spoken, the first note struck or the first movement made -- in Wallfisch's poised bow and Yanowsky's parting hands -- I see a glimpse of where they will take me and the thrill of it is nearly giddying.

The story quickly unfolds, and I take in everything that Will Tuckett is saying to me. The language is foreign and fast but I grow to decipher it. I learn to toggle my attention between dancer and actor; I learn to connect them with the ticks he has given both, where Cullingford and Yanowsky wring their hands in the same way; I learn his syncopation of the movement between Yanowsky and Carlos Acosta, where in solos and even in pas de deux, they always mirror or wait on the other's move -- discovering this means that Elizabeth and her lovers are always out of phase.

I learn it sooner than I realize, suddenly able to translate his movement into not only thought, but feeling. I'm grinning the way Yanowsky is as she coyly references her bedroom affairs, or frowning the way Acosta is as his proposal is rebutted. My whole body tenses as Yanowsky watches the she-wolf Lettice Knollys, relaxes as she finds a nook in Acosta's neck to rest in, then soars as he lifts her in a pas de chat across the stage. My body has found an empathy with the movement -- and with that comes a power which is no longer in the hands of the choreographer or performers. Empathy is the point at which the audience takes over to multiply every emotion seen on stage by a hundredfold, with the joy and pain we have had in our own lives.

It is the authenticity of the performer that can bring the audience here -- one who is selfless enough in their performance to give everything to a character, and in so doing, give it away. Some dancers take the journey alone, creating a vision that the audience can find beautiful and admirable, but cannot live. But that is not the case with these performers, and especially, especially, not with Yanowsky. They bring the entirety and gravity of the characters' intentions into every part of their body as they move. Merely a glimpse in their direction and I cannot tear away, caught in the wellspring of emotion they have triggered.

And just when I am most deeply in their hold, Tuckett brings the piece around full circle. This point exists in almost every piece -- a special juncture at which it turns around and reflects upon itself, ready to unravel its true meaning and bring the weight of its message down upon the audience. As Acosta and Yanowsky dance their last two pas de deux, they replay much of the same movements from their scenes before. Elizabeth tries to revive Devereux's limp body to hold her the way others had; Acosta kisses a dying Elizabeth's hand as Dudley did, bringing a final rejuvenation that gives her the peace to let go. The symmetry of these scenes are their source of amplification, echoing the depths of what Elizabeth has lost and learnt to live with. There is far too much to speak about in these final moments of the ballet, as the volume of emotion I have built up through its course collapses in on itself.

The time here is both incredibly cacophonous and incredibly quiet. In the intensity of the emotion I find a space I rarely have the chance to visit. Not in the daily goings on that move too fast for emotions to be had let alone understood, nor even in the times of reflection where trying to understand an emotion somehow distorts it. Here, in the darkness of the audience and the light of the stage, I feel like someone has shaken me by the shoulders and told me who I am. I feel like I have been asked many deep and piercing questions that I haven't had the time to process, and I have answered as viscerally as I can through emotions I did not know I possessed. I feel like my mind has connected to my heart through a path I never knew existed, sending a shock through the rest of my body. I feel I've been helped to finish a sentence I never thought I had to say.

And then the moment ends, the lights raise, and the magic is broken. Yet it is somehow even more magical to realize it was made by the human hands that take their curtain call in front of you. I am exhausted, content, exuberant, refreshed, and I leave the theatre somehow more certain of who I am.

Elizabeth, Will Tuckett, Linbury Studio Theatre, 8/9 Jan 2016

This winter, the dark and austere Linbury Studio Theatre is an unlikely window into a beautifully painted picture of the life of Queen Elizabeth. With a small but powerful team, Will Tuckett brings Elizabeth to life through a stunning trifecta of movement, music and text. 

Zenaida Yanowsky fills the room with Elizabeth's regality from the moment the piece begins, pacing hastily onstage with her posse in tow. In her posture, expression and intricate regalia, she is an immediate queen. Yet this is swiftly undone as we dive straight into Elizabeth's last days. Laura Caldow, Sonya Cullingford and Julia Righton provide a powerful narration of Elizabeth's failing health and final lamentations of loves lost, which Yanowsky visualizes with desperate reaches, empty gazes and aching backbends. The portrait of a proud but exhausted and lovelorn queen emerges, as Tuckett lays the foundation to tell her story through the relationships that have tried her so. 

Scene by scene, we are taken through each affair -- from Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, to Duc D'Anjou of France, to Sir Walter Raleigh, to Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex. Carlos Acosta dances all of these in turn, instinctively infusing every character with a unique presence and style of movement. Dudley is warm and gentle towards Elizabeth, D'Anjou is foolish, Raleigh is pompous and Devereux severe. Acosta transitions effortlessly through this gamut of personalities, and whether he is curving his body with a shy and sheepish grin, or beating his chest with a rallying cry for rebellion, he is a consummate entertainer.

Each of these men captures and breaks Elizabeth's heart in increasingly deeper ways. It is ever captivating to watch Yanowsky as she transforms Elizabeth through each transgression. At first she is young and love is trivial, shrugging off the notion of marriage and letting Dudley's betrayal slide off her back. She is above love -- wedded to her kingdom, as Cullingford narrates so, and Yanowsky casts an imposing silhouette caressing her coronation ring. But she soon succumbs deeply to love upon meeting D'anjou, whose charming and ingenue ways soften her heart, only to cripple it when he dies in battle. A beautiful change in the architecture of the piece happens here -- the older Righton takes over from Cullingford as Elizabeth's voice, the choreography loses all of its cheekiness, and Yanowsky becomes cold, serene and hardened. Elizabeth ages greatly with this loss.

Then, despite initial skepticism, she lets her guard down and welcomes Walter Raleigh into her life, who turns and betrays her through affairs yet again. And finally Devereux betrayes her through rebellion, forcing her to order his execution. This final loss fills her with regret, which we see embodied in a stunning pas de deux between Yanowsky and Acosta. Elizabeth revives Devereux's body, hoping wistfully to have compromised that she might have enjoyed love. Yanowsky's dancing is beautifully and painfully contradictory, filled with anger at both Devereux and herself, as she leans into Acosta then furiously pushes away. She ends with desperate kisses onto his body, only to have him die once more. The piece then bookends with the repetition of Elizabeth's own death scene.

The whole affair is a complete symphony for the senses. The actors narrate almost every move, such that the audience both sees and hears directly of D'anjou's innocence as Acosta leaps jovially, or is provided the voiceover for Elizabeth's thoughts as she rages at Raleigh's betrayal. Oftentimes it is extremely direct, with both actor and dancer standing side by side, delivering dialogue through both word and gesture. There is even the occasional interaction between actors and dancers, where Acosta and Yanowsky respond defiantly to information from the actors that both Dudley and Raleigh are married. Through this all, the music provides yet another level of narration, where the masterful Raphael Wallfisch on the cello raises the tension, or baritone David Kempster eases with his voice.

Yet because of how complete it is, it is also lacking. Almost every thought and emotion is told to the audience, such that there is little left to infer, and because of that, little room through which one can dive deeper into the piece and have it engage deeply with one's soul. Dance, in particular, is something that typically leaves a huge space between then performer and the audience -- and the entire art form is then about the interpretation that is built therein. Even the performers themselves seem somewhat stunted, robbed of the ability to interpret a story in their own way, now that they are given a play by play of which expression to deliver. The most engaging were the pas de deux -- protected islands of just music and movement, that were prefaced by a concept in the text, but then richly interpreted in infinitely more dimensions through Acosta's and Yanowsky's powerful pairing.

Most of all, though appealing to the senses, there is no overwhelming reason in the piece to separate the dancers and actors so. If one was Elizabeth's inner voice and the other her outward personality, it may have made sense; if one the voice of reason and the other the voice of passion, that would have worked as well. Yet the decision of when to speak or dance each phrase seemed driven sadly arbitrarily, or worse, by whenever a water break or costume change was required.

As such, the piece is a beautiful one, but one that lives only in the space of 90 minutes, and leaves me quickly thereafter -- a hopeless contrast to my last visit to Covent Garden, which a year later, still resonates more strongly then the piece I left last night.

Variations on Odette: A Biomechanical Review of Swan Lake

After experiencing an amazing bout of ballet in 2014, I was inspired to put together the random skills I have, and offer a fresh perspective on the art form I love most. Friends also started asking about how one might begin to appreciate it, thus here is my best effort to do a very different kind of review -- a biomechanical review -- to lend both new insight and introduction to ballet!

What Makes a Swan Queen?
I have always loved classical ballet because of its fascinating duality. It is a highly structured art form, with a fixed vocabulary of steps that is centuries-old -- yet within this rigidity is in fact room for incredible flexibility, interpretation and artisty. Shades of variation exist in every performance that can make the audience's heart leap or gut clench, even in works like Swan Lake that has enthralled ballet-goers for 138 years.

What is it that makes every performance of Swan Lake unique? What makes one Swan Queen garner reviews such as "intensely dramatic", and another "touchingly vulnerable"? How can one dance "with bravura", versus "poise and subtlety"? How is it that audiences talk of discernible 'American' or 'Russian' or 'English' styles? My engineering insides hoped that Biomechanics would lend an answer (...perhaps because to a hammer, every problem is a nail!).

Mad Hatter's Tea Party (Live Stream), Lindbury Studio Theatre, 18 Dec 2014

The cast of Mad Hatter's Tea Party. Photo by Dave Morgan.

I shall never tire of singing the praises of the Royal Opera House. The company has been blazing such a trail into social media and cinema, spreading an appreciation of the arts through every platform possible. For far-flung-fans like myself, this literally means the world -- where the subtlest emotions on a stage far away can cross the 10,000km distance to move me. I was lucky enough to be in Covent Garden twice this year (for a Wheeldon Extravaganza and the profoundly phenomenal Zenaida Yanowsky Manon), but ROH further filled the rest of my year to the brim: with live streams of La Traviata, Moved by Myth and the incredibly insightful World Ballet Day. Even something as simple as their Twitter hashtags have helped me to enjoy every show vicariously. Through these efforts, ROH is reaching not only dispersed ballet and opera die-hards, but entirely new audiences as well.

Their final gift this Christmas season was a live streaming of ZooNation's Mad Hatter's Tea Party -- the first full length hip hop commission by the Royal Ballet, which is meant to complement Wheeldon's Alice currently on the main stage. If hip hop and the Royal Ballet sound odd together, Director Kate Prince explains it best: "when the music plays, however you dance, you've just got to respond to how you're feeling."

In this Alice-verse, our favourite characters are all patients in a mental institution, with an uncannily common experience of a place called Wonderland. The protagonist is Ernest, their therapist, played by Tommy Franzen (whom I came to know from Kim Brandstrup's hauntingly beautiful Leda and the Swan). Act 1 has a biographical solo for each character: a possessive pair of Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum dance-battle it out for a rattle, a sultry Queen of Hearts with supposed anger management issues comes off strangely more man-eater than manic, a confused Alice has an identity crisis, and a twitchy White Rabbit has OCD. Corey Culverwell as the White Rabbit was the most impressive of the Wonderlanders -- performing a skittish, neurotic piece of lyrical b-boying that conveyed his exhausting obsessions. With Culverwell just 18 years of age as well, all I wanted to do was give this ingenuous, troubled rabbit a hug. Duwane Taylor's Chesire Cat was another highlight, switching between cool head-bobbing to Reggae, and popping to heavy electronic beats, as he brings his fellow patients to a frenzy.

In the face of this chaos, Ernest is a bewilderingly useless, if not detrimental, therapist. He plasters a superficial antidote over Tweedle Dee/Dum's possessiveness by giving each a rattle, essentially enables Alice by ingesting her potion and cupcake, and utterly baffles me by drawing a picture of a rabbit to quell the White Rabbit's OCD. I suppose this ineptitude is just what causes his own descent into Wonderland, as he loses control of first the room, then his mind, at the end of Act 1.

As he unravels, Franzen proves what an authentic dancer he is. His body fights with itself as he tries to stay immune to the insanity, his legs begin moving as if independent of his body as they acquire a taste for Wonderland, and he gnaws at his sweater vest in frustration. He ends Act 1 by moving into a slow mixture of popping, b-boying and general flailing that is truly quite heart wrenching. In the first half of Act 2's garden tea party he comes across completely stoned, dancing with the same intriguingly passive somnambulism that he demonstrated so well in Leda. It truly is as if he's dancing while fast asleep. Finally, he strips off all his clothes just as he strips off reality, exposing some funky polka dot boxers and bumblebee singlet that unlock his inner Mad Hatter, giving in to Wonderland with a joyful abandon. Boy, do I love good dance actors.

Most integral to the evening's amazing performance is its riveting music. The surprisingly versatile band (with composers Josh Cohen and DJ Walde) invents a unique sound for each character and place, traversing every genre with songs that are upbeat and contemplative in turn, and which you can't help but want to dance to. Their greatest creation is a piece for the Dormouse, here a puppet emerging from a teapot, lamenting about how narcolepsy just gets in the way of life. It was awesomely trippy, and not just because it was 4:30am in Singapore by that point in time.

All in all, it was an utter delight. While I didn't always understand the characterisations or the storyline, it's a small matter in a piece that's mostly meant to get you pumped up and transport you to the colourful, energetic world of Wonderland. A terrific Christmas gift from ROH. And as if live streaming it wasn't enough, they've also made the whole invigorating performance available on demand. Enjoy it here on YouTube!

Manon, Zenaida Yanowsky & Roberto Bolle, Royal Opera House, 1 Nov 2014

1 November 2014 was truly a night to remember at the Royal Opera House. Ballets like this don't come around very often, and the cheering, stamping, standing audience at the end of the night knew it well. It was a night so amazing that it feels almost vulgar to pin it down to words and dare write about it, yet it must be preserved for posterity somehow.

Zenaida Yanowsky and Roberto Bolle gave a performance that was beyond description. They wove a love between Manon and Des Grieux that was so earnest, intricate and captivating, keeping the audience breathless for every second they were on stage together. From the moment they locked eyes in Scene 1, they fell convincingly deeper and deeper in love with every step they took together. Where there might have been doubt about Wednesday's love, here their repeated stolen glances, nervous joy when finally they met, and triumphantly exuberant first pas de deux, all made their passion abundantly clear.

In fact not only were Manon and Des Grieux falling in love, but so it seemed Yanowksy and Bolle were as well. One could see their thrill exuding with every perfectly spun pirouette, and their confidence growing with every breathtaking lift and throw. They upped the ante with each verse of the music, giving more of themselves to each other. As Yanowsky leans into him more daringly at the end of each arabesque, or pushes more fervently off his hand for a spin, Bolle meets her touch eagerly, powerfully launching her off again then catching her with an ever dependable stability. As much as they are in perfect physical synchronization, accelerating and decelerating together through the nuances of the Massanet score, so are they emotionally, gasping and almost laughing as they play with each other, casting gazes that look longingly as if into each other's souls.

Such magic can only be created by two principals clearly at their prime. Sure enough in their impeccable technique years ago, every extra moment on stage has evidently gone towards building a formidable library of expression that they both wield profoundly. For Yanowsky, I know her prowess well, yet she gave a performance this night that was more real and textured than I've ever seen. Markedly more confident at the start than she was on Wednesday, she fires out of that carriage with a gust of innocent enthusiasm, that's nestled in many subtle glances of familiar joy with her brother or gentle eye rolling at his machinations. Then towards Des Grieux's love through the night, her world visibly stops the first time she sees him; she reverses the partnering in the bedroom pas de deux with such playful invitation; her body softens as she gives in to his anguished solo in Act 2. What was a rare and special treat as well was to see how differently she handled subtleties in this performance versus the last, showing how she is not only inventive but responsive as a dance actor.

For Bolle, my first viewing of him on stage was treated to a remarkably sensitive theatricality. He is less bold in his expressions than Yanowsky but that is by no means ineffective here. He is a shy and beguilingly earnest Des Grieux, whose gentle pirouette into a kneel at the end of his Act 1 solo was so endearing that I perhaps fell deeper in love with him than Manon did. And I was astounded by the way he handled his righteous morality in Act 2, where he perfectly balances his incredulousness at Manon's susceptibility to materiality, his desperate desire to have her see the light, and his anguished sorrow for failing to treat her with anything but tender care. Thus in their combined maturity and thoughtfulness, that interacted so as to be more than the sum of its parts, the audience had no choice but to fall into their world, and both cherish then suffer together in their torturous emotional journey.

The rest of the stellar cast seals the deal. Laura Morera turns what could have easily been a token foil into a character with deep complexity, and it's a shame that much of this is seen best at the fringes of the stage. She is resilient despite Lescaut's callous treatment, and dedicated in her cautioning Manon against her dangerous materialistic descent. Carlos Acosta is delightful again as Lescaut, perhaps even more on point with the comedic timing, and more calculating in his dealings with Monsieur GM than the last night. And to his credit, Will Tuckett is downright repulsive as GM. One somewhat bone-chilling moment is when in the Act 2 pas de trois, Manon's skirt falls accidentally over his face. Once he finds his way out of it, he has an unexpectedly frightening look of satisfaction. Finally, Gary Avis is perhaps more ruthless as Gaoler, and paired with Yanowsky's all too realistic acting, I believe my heart actually stopped beating then. The energy was as infectious to the audience as to the entire cast, with every slight display of dancing or acting rich and provocative. I lament with other viewers that there was simply too much to see in this ballet!

As the evening wends its way to the final swamp pas de deux, the magic is unassailable. Here Yanowsky and Bolle cap the performance of a lifetime, hurtling themselves at each other in yet another profound showing of technical and emotional excellence. She limps about the stage then sets her eyes on him, is renewed with vitality, and runs full tilt for the clean perfection of one, two, three spins, to be brought lovingly back down by him. He pushes her head up carefully with his shoulder, then finds her dead with a pang of shock that reverberates through the auditorium, and he clutches her visibly mouthing "Manon, Manon."

It's back to Singapore for me, but this time I left my heart in Covent Garden.

Cassandra, Ludovic Ondiviela, Lindbury Studio Theatre, 31 Oct 2014

A piece about the perceptions of mental illness, Cassandra is clearly a labour of love for its creators Ludovic Ondiviela, Ana Silvera and Kate Church. They each have had personal experience with mental illness -- an intimacy with the raw material which truly shows in the sensitive and beautiful way they've presented the subject.

Cassandra is understated. It tells the simple story of a Daughter grappling with mental health issues, and explores the reactions of the people around her. You're brought through the arc of her condition's progression, starting with a guileless pas de deux of young love, to the onset she clearly finds both terrifying and confusing, to medication, and finally admission. The structure is straightforward, with each stage of degradation furnished with Cassandra's take on the situation, echoed by that of her family, lover, doctor. 

The point of this piece is not to be outlandish. It's to explore psychosis rather than exploit it, and so it isn't paraded around the stage in the almost exhibitionist manner it is in works like Giselle or Metamorphosis. Madness here is treated with reverence, as if it really did bring the prophecies of Ancient Cassandra. Ondiviela's subtle steps are the key to this. Olivia Grace Cowley's arabesques that stretch and then restrain themselves tentatively, Gary Avis' fingers that shiver independently at the end of outstretched hands, Mara Galeazzi's foot that hooks itself into Avis' knee while the rest of her tears away -- these intricate touches of Ondiviela's bring an air of quiet desperation, of fragile minds that both wish to belong and set themselves apart. 

Ondiviela is an extremely special choreographer. His steps have such an intriguing quality of duality that works perfectly here. It is both cogent and yet unpredictable, both soft and solid. He clearly has a physical language of his own, one that appears to have a broad vocabulary that will provide much room for expansion and permutation in the future. Moves appear random yet there is a discernible pattern and intention behind them -- it's almost as if his trademark is in the velocity and relative motion of the limbs rather than in the placement of them. Through this he seems to have found a direct emotional tap, where each move is such a clear representation of the dancer's emotional state. As such, simplistic movements like how Cowley's hands palm and stretch across her 'hospital bed' could've moved me to tears, and Galeazzi's perch on Avis' back caught my breath. Neither does this attention to detail come at the cost of the whole -- each segment fits together, varying to just the right degree to be unique but conforming, and story lines and emotions flow sensibly. An impressive feat indeed for his first full length ballet. I very much look forward to his future endeavours, even on the same topic, as one can tell he's not done telling the story yet. If there's one possible improvement on the evening, it's that perhaps it was treated too beautifully and superficially -- it can afford a deeper upheaval. It doesn't have the full bodied feel of a full length ballet yet, but of course that will come in time. 

But Ondiviela doesn't achieve this debut mastery on his own, he has generous helpings of interpretation from Cowley, Galeazzi, Avis, Paul Kay, Thomas Whitehead and Yuhui Choe. The moves fall beautifully on each of them, and Avis and Galeazzi in particular have the maturity to lend subtle layering to their movement, where their struggle and concern in treating Cassandra becomes self evident. I so wish I'd seen the Royal Ballet when Galeazzi was around more.

The collaboration between Ondiviela, Silvera and Church (also Becs Andrews and Paul Keogan for set and lighting) is also stunningly symphonic. Dance, music and film fit perfectly as if drinking from the same waters of inspiration. They complement each other yet also tell their own story -- Silvera with a vocal overlay that represents Cassandra's inner voice and film snippets that visualize her obsessions. The effectiveness of the combination is such that the onset of Cassandra's first episode is eerily familiar -- anxiety is something my mind used to dabble in, and that sudden shrinking away of the world, the grist-like quality of the film, the sound even, are pretty dead on. This team must certainly create together again.

Their most poignant message comes edgewise at the end. Here the Mother and Brother are on either side of Cassandra, caught up in their own quiet lamentation about the situation. They struggle with themselves, and for the first time the music and the moves see unprecedented discordance. It borders on chaos and ugliness -- they reveal a madness of their own. But just as it reaches its height, it becomes overlaid with the music's main (and highly danceable, by the way!) riff -- as if saying that one can always brush these oddities under the rug or force them into comprehensibility by imposing a familiar tune or mental framework on them. It's exactly as they question in the programme -- is insanity only the things we find unfamiliar?

Manon, Zenaida Yanowsky & Matthew Golding, Royal Opera House, 29 Oct 2014

Wednesday's penultimate Manon marked the return of Zenaida Yanowsky to the role -- a French courtesan beguiled by love and money, toward a tragic end. That role for which she won unanimous enthusiastic reviews in her 2005 debut, and which she herself's been eagerly waiting to reprise. That role which has thus become my holy grail of ballet -- ever since first chancing upon her in Sylvia March of '08, then reading about all her past performances, desperately going WHO IS THIS WOMAN.

The evening had been padded very nicely in advance. Roberto Bolle cast as her Des Grieux and Carlos Acosta debuting as her Lescaut -- a winning formula that sold out. But at the last minute, literally a day before, Matthew Golding had to replace Bolle due to a hand injury visible in their rehearsal -- hopefully, in a bid to save him for their Nov 1 performance (we'll see how it goes tomorrow..!). [Edit: one word - phenomenal.]

As a result I wasn't sure what to expect on Wednesday. I had faith Yanowsky would more than deliver the emotional goods (extravagant plane-ticket-to-London-for-2-shows-faith) but with the change I wasn't sure how everything would gel together. Golding was apparently fantastic with Melissa Hamilton weeks before, but my memory of him and Yanowsky in Bayadere 2013 was really nothing outstanding -- and true enough, their characters' love turned out to be as inconceivable to me then as this time around. Yet instead of marring the show, which for a time the audience and I really thought it might, it ended up making for such a spectacular take on the ballet instead -- one that was no less emotional and heart wrenching. Here Des Grieux is more plot device than protagonist, as the story shifts its focus to Manon's own internal journey through the vicissitudes of a life she's done her best to make do with, but never escapes.

Serenade/Sweet Violets/DGV Triple Bill, Royal Opera House, 14 May 2014

I had one of the best nights of my life watching the Royal Ballet's Serenade/ Sweet Violets/ DGV triple bill on 14 May. I bought the tickets (and stayed in London a week longer than I needed to) specifically to catch DGV, which I've been waiting about 6 years to see, ever since first learning about Christopher Wheeldon. After watching some clips of the ballet back then, the music also struck me, and I can honestly say I've been listening to MGV on repeat since 2008.

 Having the music so deeply ingrained beforehand, I had come to expect something stereotypically rhythmic, aggressive and perhaps a little repetitive -- and was truly delighted to find so much quiet space and fluid languidness in each of the 5 movements/regions of the piece. The start of it is beautiful and whimsical -- a "passenger corps" waves and jumps about in the backdrop, while Eric Underwood and Zenaida Yanowsky slowly twist their bodies, as if winding up to unleash the ferocity and purposefulness that then explodes in region 1.

Zenaida's lines are sharp and her expressions stark. I didn't know what journey she was on but I wanted to head there too. Even for how biased I already am, I simply couldn't tear my eyes away from the way she struck at every step with deep seated purpose. As a result I really didn't pay much too much attention to Eric, but he was a delight to watch in his own right (I do love him in everything I've seen, especially Mr Caterpillar in Alice), and also looked to be a wonderful partner. Having never ascended to that level of ballet myself, I don't necessarily know what makes good partnering, but I actually find myself often distracted by Zen's partners because they simply... Don't seem to know their way around her. Eric, however, moved her smoothly and expertly, and extremely strongly, all of which I suppose comes from having created the roles together and danced it since 2006.

Next pairing were Natalia Osipova and Edward Watson. I first watched Natalia in Coppelia when the Bolshoi visited London in 2010, and her allegro is really something else. She flits about the stage like -- in no insulting terms at all -- a fly you cannot kill. The speed of her attack is whiplash. (Edward though, I have to watch again... I simply kept going "Wait what are you doing here Leontes?" I'm not used to him being in a modern I suppose, and Natalia kept drawing my attention away.) I'm afraid that beyond this point I seem to have quite a patchy memory of the piece (though the emotions are vivid..!), but in general the visuals were just gorgeous -- the corps weaving their way around the principals and the set, the principals' simultaneous pas de deux in the 5th region, and of note, I love Jean Marc Puissant's interlude with the rising blue light, as Thiago Soares floats Marianela Nunez in on an impossible lift. The piece on the whole was simply miraculous. The steps take you through the same gamut of emotion and thought that the score does. As the curtain fell on the last mystical, gentle spinning of the ladies as gears, I literally yelled "OHMYGOD" in all the teenage frill I could muster.

Now that I've waxed lyrical about my favourite, on to the rest of the show. Serenade I've seen perhaps 5 times in my life -- it's a must do for any company visiting Singapore somehow. But while I've unfortunately developed quite a distaste and confusion for Balanchine, that night was truly enrapturing. It owes very much to Marianela, Lauren Cuthbertson and Melissa Hamilton, who actually characterized their arrant roles to make it interesting and weave a cogent (if still out of nowhere) storyline. Lauren, especially, had such a delightful reckless abandonment that left a huge smile on my face. I'm really appreciating her more and more with each role -- her expressions and inflections are coming close to that Zenaida-like quality that sucks me in deep. (Fantastic, the post-Zen era I'm dreading might be bearable after all.) Ryoichi Hirano was a new discovery for me as well -- I don't think I've seen him before and I really enjoyed his grace and elegance. To be honest that quality is reminiscent of what I've always enjoyed in male dancers in the Singapore Dance Theatre -- perhaps there's actually an Asian flavour of dancing.

Finally, Sweet Violets. Even before the piece started I was confused why there wasn't a synopsis in the programme, and after, even more befuddled. It's an extremely rich and complex piece with twists and turns that can derail you, though on reflection, I'm not sure it's actually supposed to have a clear narrative. From what I could glean from the programme, it's meant as an exploration of Walter Sickert's psyche -- in that he could or he could not have been the one murdering all those ladies. (There's apparently supposed to be some visual distinction between what is real and what is fantasy, but it was completely indiscernible if it did in fact exist.) So from that perspective, I can quite appreciate the disarray and general tossed-salad of misogyny, spirals of depression and angst that it was, for the overall taste of unrest it imbues, much like I suppose is what Sickert is feeling. At the end you wonder... Did he kill those women or not? Which instead of being a programming issue, is probably what Sickert is thinking as well.

The acting all around was superb -- Thiago Soares and his deep conflict, Steven McRae and his evil slink, Lauren and her, well, troubled sluttiness, and Laura Morera and her highly disturbing solo. Sarah Lamb's lines are beautiful to watch.

On the whole, what I appreciated most about Violets was Liam Scarlett's use of the music. I was surprised that Rachmaninov's piece was the unedited original (a huge shout out also to the amazing pianist, cellist and violinist), because of how well matched the elements of the ballet are to the score. Perhaps though, this is what forces the piece to a certain degree of back and forth. One thing is that his steps can do with more variety (there seem to multiple iterations of the same twisting pas de deux -- beautiful but tiring after a while), but it's something I believe will come over time. He's not my favourite yet, but I'm excited to see what more will come from him, especially as he starts to introduce more dimensions into his characters.

In conclusion -- I love the Royal Ballet. I can't believe I get to see this type of art in my lifetime. I became a young Friend immediately after the triple bill... because there is some very epic stuff (read: Yanowsky/Bolle Manon) coming up in a few months and I am gunning for the best seats in the house. Bravi and eternal grattitude, Royal Ballet.

The Winter's Tale, Royal Opera House, 1 & 8 May 2014

It has been a while indeed since my last review -- I attribute it to a permutation of laziness and other priorities -- but a recent trip to the Royal Opera House has provided just the right surge of activation energy.

I saw the first cast twice on 1st and 8th May. I had been eagerly anticipating Winter's Tale because of the utter delight that was Alice, which I watched for the very first time on 9 March 2011 (the production now immortalized on DVD..!). That and Carnival of the Animals (by Pennsylvania Ballet) are the only Christopher Wheeldon productions I'd seen, and Winter's Tale made a marvelous addition to this small collection.

The Royal Ballet is by far my favorite ballet company in existence. Granted I haven't seen quite all of them, but since my first viewing of Sylvia in 2008, it struck me as a company that centers around acting and expression that I've not seen elsewhere (and I've come to learn it's indeed known for its narratives and dance actors). Winter's Tale is no exception.

As I understand, Wheeldon chose the piece specifically for the talented Edward Watson to channel jealousy into King Leontes like I doubt any other dancer really can. And that he does. Yet, I still found something wanting in the character Leontes. Yes, he's a very jealous man, but I suppose to his disadvantage, I'm comparing him with Prince Rudolph (the other token angsty fellow in the ballet library, and Ed Watson classic) and thus was expecting just a bit more texture to the character. Act 2, for me, could have been pruned to give space for Leontes (and Hermoine) to work through a few more emotions as he discovers the "infidelity". Polixenes too, as 1/6th of the principal cast, certainly could have been given more to do. At curtain call I could barely remember what he'd danced.

In general, I feel it would have been a much more effective narrative to focus on Leontes and Hermoine (and a juicy opportunity to see more of Lauren Cuthbertson's hauntingly beautiful portrayal of this maligned yet resilient woman), but at the same time I know it would have been a far less vibrant and poignant piece on the whole without the contrasting levity of Bohemia in the middle. Anyhow in this I echo Alastair Macauly's NYT review completely that most people feel it should be pruned somehow -- but where exactly? It indeed is too rich a tale for ballet perhaps.

What truly made the ballet for me though was Paulina. First reason being that she holds the piece together, what with all its quick shifts in time and space, and she's essentially its Deus Ex Machina, "[masterminding] the happiness of others", as Alastair Macaulay again so aptly puts. But the main reason she's pivotal for me, is because I am fantastically biased towards Zenaida Yanowsky and everything she does. All of her roles have an uparalleled richness and complexity provided by intelligent timing, heartfelt emotion, and purposeful use of every extremity, as she apparently does quite intentionally. As such the way she lashes out at Leontes after Hermoine's death; her cautious introduction of baby Perdita; her lamentful caretaking of Leontes; her "own private desolation" at the end (thank you again Alastair), all move the soul deeply and provide most of the additional emotional layers to the story. That said, I had the opportunity to compare the May 1, 8, and 28 April (via live telecast) performances, and I very much appreciate the Paulina she settled on by May 8 the most. In April, Paulina is more angst-ridden and hateful towards Leontes; by May it's more shock and stoicism, with a greater understanding towards Leontes, which helps the audience to empathize with him as well.

As for the actual steps themselves -- they didn't do that much for me. I remember being absolutely blown away by the choreography in Alice, but here, they were often underwhelming. I agree that there could have been more effective language for Leontes' jealousy (again, Alastair, whose reviews I now realize I should read more). It's an easily ignored complaint though, because the lighting, the designs, the (gorgeous) music and the general velocity of the piece do more than enough to embed you in the story telling. The choreography I did fancy in particular were Hermoine's pleading arabesques in sequence, the Florizel and Perdita pas de deux, the Bohemians' general happy dance, and Paulina's statue dance at the opening of Act 3.

At the end of the day what I simply want out of this ballet is.. More. More development of the story in Acts 1 and 3 without cutting 2, and more dancing from the 6 extremely talented leads. This is the kind of ballet I'd be happy to sit through for a good 3.5 - 4 hours to flesh out its meat. I'm sure it'll instead by pruned by the next staging though, and I anticipate I'll be sad to have lost whatever went.