English National Ballet, Mary Skeaping’s Giselle (2017)

Mary Skeaping’s Giselle, we are told, aims to be a historically-accurate version of the ballet in its use of Adolphe Adam’s original score for the 1841 production. Well, most of the score in any case—for audiences today, the ballet would not be complete without Giselle’s variations in Acts 1 and 2, both of which were set to music by other composers and added to give the leading ballerina an opportunity to showcase her technique (see Markova for a magnificent, precedent-setting example). Indeed, with Giselle’s Act 1 variation being ubiquitously performed in the ballet competition circuit these days, it is easy to see those brief minutes and familiar steps as standing quite apart from the narrative.

However, for Laurretta Summerscales, one of the English National Ballet’s newest principals, Giselle’s variations were more than a virtuoso display. While Summerscales can certainly hold her own in any technical competition (as evinced, for instance, by her first gloriously suspended piqué arabesque of the Act 1 variation), her debut on Friday evening was a Giselle with both classical purity and real emotional depth, conveying the exhilaration of young love with light jumps and generous port de bras. Some ballet-goers often bemoan the dearth of ‘home-grown dancers’, but Summerscales’ flawless performance demonstrated that there is hardly anything to worry about. She was well-matched by Xander Parish, whose Albrecht in Act 1 was so noble that you wonder why the villagers didn’t immediately guess that this was a prince in their midst, and a prince very much missed in London.

Act 2, however, is where the real triumph of this production lies. This writer was moved to tears at the Royal Ballet’s Peter Wright Giselle last season when Marianela Núñez appeared to hover weightlessly above the ground as her bourrées took her swiftly and silently across the stage in Myrthe’s first appearance. It was an image of sheer ethereal beauty that I shall never forget, further cemented by the Royal’s corps and the incomparable Natalia Osipova. This is clearly not the intent of Skeaping’s production, where Act 2 opens with a group of huntsmen in a misty forest, and fleeting appearances of the ghostly Wilis. There is something sinister about this place: unsafe, threatening, and mysterious. This tension is further underscored by the fury of Michaela DePrince’s Myrthe (another confident and assured debut), accentuated with her powerful travelling jetés. Yes, there is beauty in Skeaping’s forest, but it is a beauty we ought to be afraid of. Unsurprisingly enough, this is a point often missed by male producers and choreographers.

The ENB’s army of Wilis similarly danced with real attack: every temps levé and grand jeté conveyed real scorn and disdain for the men they were dancing to their deaths. You deserve this, they seemed to say. Skeaping’s restoration of the original score—and especially of the fugue scene where Albrecht seeks refuge at the cross on Giselle’s grave—was highly effective in this sense. Skeaping’s Act 2 was thus not only about love, forgiveness and redemption, but also of conflict between the sacred and the profane, and of course, between man and woman as well. The menacing overtones of Act 2 are in turn finely balanced by the romanticism that Skeaping retains in the pas de deux and the ballet’s ending. Summerscales and Parish are so painfully poignant and tender in Act 2’s adagio moments that you truly and desperately believe in their love beyond the grave. This writer personally finds Albrecht to be an inherently unlikeable character (he is, after all, lying to both Giselle and Bathilde), but in Parish’s able hands, one cannot help but see why Giselle continues to love him. His impeccably-danced climatic solo prompted the loudest applause of the night (and a very enthusiastic Bravo! from someone sitting in the Stalls).

As with the best history lessons, Skeaping’s Giselle forces us to see its contemporary versions in a different way. We ought to be afraid of toying with the hearts of those who love us. And it is history very much worth repeating over and over again.

Royal Ballet, Anastasia (2016)

Kenneth MacMillan’s Anastasia opens with a scene of the Romanovs on their yacht, the Standart. The Tsar and Tsarina preside over a fairly idyllic tableau as their daughters, the grand duchesses, dance with various officers and play with their little brother, the Tsarevich Alexei. The Romanovs are, of course, not your typical royal family. They are (unbeknownst to them) Russia’s last imperial rulers, and the Tsarevich is afflicted with haemophilia, a debilitating and life-threatening condition that demands the attention of the sinister Rasputin. This is a family at sea, and they will truly be cast adrift shortly after this scene with the events of the Russian Revolution.

Anastasia, too, closes with this striking image. Anna Anderson surveys the individuals who populate her mind from her bed in the psychiatric ward, posed like a figurehead on the prow of a ship. Like the family she believes herself to be a part of, Anderson is adrift, free from the moorings of reality and identity. Yet, like a figurehead, she demands to be seen and recognised, even in the austere room of the ward, where we know she is utterly alone.

The third act of Anastasia, originally choreographed for the Deutsche Oper Ballet, was created by Macmillan in 1967 under a tight budget. Unhindered by these constraints, Macmillan used a bare stage to its full advantage, and created a piece of Expressionist dance theatre set to a haunting Martinů score. In contrast, the first two acts of Anastasia was choreographed for the Royal Ballet after Macmillan’s return to the company in 1970, and set appropriately to Tchaikovsky’s First and Third Symphonies, music which invariably invokes images of imperial Russia.

The Royal Ballet today is keen to highlight the cohesiveness of the entire ballet. The ‘documentary’ argument is that the stark contrast between the first two acts and the last act serves to remind us of how thoroughly the world of the Romanovs crumbled with the Revolution. It is, in this way, a historical prequel to the denouement of Act 3. The ‘narrative’ argument is that it serves to illustrate the depth of Anderson’s trauma and her unreliable memories, which manifests cleverly in skewed funnel of the Standart and the chandeliers of the Act 2 ballroom (or courtyard, it is never clear where everyone is dancing), overlaid on the blank walls of the ward.

Despite these efforts and reminders of Macmillan’s genius (emphasised one too many times during the cinema relay), the first two acts are far too long. Undoubtedly, Macmillan’s characterisation of the Romanovs and their uneasy dynamic with Rasputin is extremely well done, as is the way the vocabulary of Russian character dance inflects the movement of Acts 1 and 2. He also allows the company to do what they are best at, the small moments of dance acting which make the Royal so compelling to watch. This is, for instance, exemplified by Mathilde Kschessinska’s flirting with the Tsar (at his own daughter’s coming-out ball, no less) and the chilly response of the Tsarina. But this is far too long to wait for the pay-off of Act 3, especially since the pace is often sluggish. The most exciting part of the first two acts is perhaps the appearance of the revolutionaries, which is also accompanied by a degree of relief that we will soon no longer be subject to the antics of swimmers frolicking on deck and the swishing of ballgowns.

The dancers nevertheless attempt to make the most of what they are given in the first two acts. Cowley, Stix-Brunell and Naghdi make a fine trio as the grand duchesses, their epaulement demonstrating the insouciance and privilege of young women who have had the world handed to them. Cowley is especially well cast as Olga, the eldest grand duchess, employing the length of her willowy lines to great effect throughout all three acts. We are never in doubt that she is the oldest daughter, in some ways both Anastasia’s mother and sister, a point amply emphasised in Act 3. At times Cowley also very much resembles the equally long-limbed Arestis, who dances the Tsarina with both regal authority and vulnerability. Di Primo, the company’s Prix de Lausanne apprentice, makes an impression in his brief (and sadly uncredited*) appearance as the lead revolutionary, his quicksilver turns brimming with all the energy and fervour of an uprising. As Mathilde Kschessinska, Nunez is seductive and almost Odile-like. Though she and Bonelli do not carry off the virtuoso pas de deux with ease, they can hardly be blamed for the fiendishly difficult choreography.

Finally, although Osipova has her detractors, they surely must be silenced with her remarkable and thoroughly convincing performance in Act 3. Her emotional commitment to the role could be felt even in the amphitheatre, and the cinema relay cemented her status as one of the greatest dance actresses. She is clearly made for the stage. Her intensity in Act 3 would not be out of place in Miller’s The Crucible, and her ability to portray the emotional complexity of a young woman, as evinced in Acts 1 and 2, could easily find a home in Chekhov’s The Seagull. 

While this revival of Anastasia is an admirable attempt to impose an order on two different Macmillan works, the Royal has everything to gain by allowing Act 3 and Anna Anderson to speak for herself.

*I am grateful to the members of BalletcoForum for pointing out that Di Primo was credited at the cinema relay performance.