by Susan Denton
’Im indoors has had a dream to go to see Swan Lake ballet performed in Russia. I couldn’t manage to take him there, so I booked the next best thing: The Alhambra in Bradford.
The version of Swan Lake was Matthew Bourne’s interpretation. I was under the impression the ballet was the same no matter who was dancing. Or where. No, no – oh so very no!
I have seen the film Billy Elliot and Adam Cooper’s iconic leap at the end of the film. I was as pro ballet as Billy’s dad. Or put it another way, I knew more about coal mining than some foreign music man called Tchaikovsky.
I went ahead and booked tickets for the Saturday matinee, two in the dress circle which included a programme each and a glass of champagne in the exclusive lounge.
I thought I knew the plot. Prince meets girl. Prince falls in love with girl. Bad man curses them, resulting in tragedy.
Lights down, curtain up. Music and dancing. Great, I thought, no dialogue, it’s gonna be a long afternoon.
At the point where the swans enter the story I was so confused. Where was the girl? Why was the prince running after the lead male swan?
I found myself leaning forward in my seat. I was so caught up in the story unfolding before me that the audience nearest to me seemed to blur in sight and sound.
The raw naked emotion flowing from the stage was making my ‘spidey senses’ tingle. The tension was magnetic. My eyes went from swan to swan, their movements resembling a power house of nuclear energy just waiting to break free.
The relationship between the prince and lead swan was one of love/hate. Their interactions a cacophony of silent anguish screening to be heard. I shivered as I felt the presence of a ghost. A love that shall not be named.
I could smell the primeval energy emanating from the stage. I didn’t need dialogue or to know the story plot. I was learning the language of a country way past normal human comprehension.
As the swans turned on the prince the lead swan tried to protect him. Inevitably the confrontation ended in the death of the prince.
I realised that the body or was it the soul of his essence was ascending in the envelope of the swans’ wings.
I was left with a deep sensation of satisfying sadness. My emotional cup runneth over.
Would I wish to experience, as I did not simply watch this ballet unfold, the last couple of hours again? My simple one-word answer would be ‘yes’.
From the opening of Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake at Sadler’s Wells on 9 November, 1995 an all-male dance phenomenon was born. A ballet that sent a tidal wave around the world beginning with the ripples of a stone thrown into a small pond.
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