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As an English national who has lived in Switzerland for more than twelve years, I am lured to Béjart performances for reasons other than the average Swiss spectator. I view his ballets with a critical eye, but cannot help adoring his multitalented, technically perfect dancers. I cringe when Béjart’s theatrical images bombard me from all directions, but simultaneously admire his collaborative approach to dance, music, and general staging aspects. And so I find myself returning to watch his ballets again and again. Just what is it about Béjart’s work that keeps me running back to his box office?

“La Voix Humaine et la Danse” (The Human Voice and Dance)
Béjart states in his programme that music and song have been a part of his life for as long as he can remember. He wanted to be a tenor, the conductor of an orchestra, or at worst an actor. However, not being particularly gifted in any of these areas, he eventually chose dance, and it was through his choreographic work that he began to utilise his musicality, sense of theatre and “la voix humaine”. In calling his newest creation “La Voix Humaine et la Danse”, Béjart firmly asserts that through the act of breathing, the throat is allied with our general bodily movement and gestures. (This ‘hypothesis’ instantly reminds me of Graham’s focus on the breath, and her related technique that was grounded in contraction and release). However, Béjart’s other primary concern in this ballet was to reveal the integral connection between ballet and music. A vast array of historic ballets have been sung, and indeed more than half of Béjart’s ballet repertoire has been accompanied by “la voix humaine”.

“Cantante 51”
The evening began with “Cantante 51”, consisting of four sub-sections entitled “L’Ange” (The Angel), “La Vierge” (The Virgin), “Deux Filles” (Two Girls), and “Quatre Garçons” (Four Boys). Soft, blue lighting filled the stage, and live musicians (dressed in periodic gowns, breeches and wigs) played Bach on a raised platform positioned upstage. The three dancers in white skin-tight leotards began to move to the musical strains. William Pedro, the ‘angel’ in white socks remained mostly central, while his female partners supported him to the sides of the stage on pointe. All three gestured intermittently towards the female (Elizabet Ros) lying downstage facing the audience. As the operatic scales vibrated, Pedro performed complementary turning jumps with a light-footed elevation that drew the audience’s breath. A poignant pas de deux followed between Pedro and Ros, who finally woke from her stupor. Arabesques merged and diverged, and then Ros began her own interpretation of the music, combining small ankle circles with long extensions into general space. The linear vocal scales were echoed in the dancer’s choice of gesture. Ros cut and pushed downwards with her hands, and dramatically finished her solo from whence she came. A spotlight overhead outlined her prostrate body, and then the audience’s attention was instantly diverted to the lively entrance of the ‘two girls’ after whom this next section was named. Their swift, dabbing movements seemed to follow the chattering of the violin, whereas the pas de deux with its series of sustained, linked balances reflected the melancholic strains of the accompanying female opera voice. This was a real musical-dance celebration.

The trumpet heralded the entrance of the ‘four boys’, bare-chested in white jazz pants (Béjart loves to show off his young men in all their naked finery). Movements passed from the pas de deux to the two girls, to the four boys and back again. The girls crossed paths, the four formed complementary and contrasting background shapes, and the pas de deux remained centre stage. The piece ended with the girls raised at arms’ length, holding impressive knee balances at opposite sides of the stage. Béjart’s love of symmetry (derived from his classical heritage) was immediately apparent. Unfortunately, the climatic end to the ballet was followed by the fainting of the operatic soloist during the applause. Trussed up in wig and gown whilst singing underneath the bright stage lights, she could obviously no longer sustain the heat, and was quickly helped off stage by fellow musicians.

“La Mort du Tambour” (Death of the Drum)
A dramatic clap of thunder and the sound of an approaching storm marked the beginning of this piece. Stripes of light diffused the stage, and a lone spotlight focused on the drum of the title. Six dancers entered the stage in cardboard boxes, with holes for their arms and heads. They performed robotic gestures to the sound of a metronome, and the audience began to laugh at their strange movements. A more serious moment followed; Gil Romain, was led onto the stage with a rope around his neck by a marching Nazi-type figure bellowing in German: “Freedom was yesterday, I can no longer give freedom…” Dressed in grey rags, Romain began his dramatic solo to a Mahler operatic piece. This “danseur étoile” has been performing with the Béjart Ballet since 1979, and is now assistant artistic director. He never fails to captivate the audience with his dramatic expression, agility, and charisma. His dynamic range is also remarkable; thrusting leaps and tight flicking gestures are performed almost in the same breath. He moved closer to the drum and began to incorporate this prop into his vocabulary. The drum became a headrest, an obstacle to be rolled over, and was finally kicked away with repulsion as he became fearful and weary.

“Wo die Schönen Trompetten Blasen” (Where the Beautiful Trumpets Blow)
Christine Blanc joined Romain for the next pas de deux. Blanc’s floor-length coat was immediately pulled off to reveal a flesh-coloured unitard, emphasising her petite frame. Light as a feather she was tossed high in the air by Romain, and lifted into counterbalance positions on one knee, then twisted into vertical splits while standing on her partner’s thighs. The audience gazed with admiration. Blanc awakened Romain from his despondent sleep, and they nestled into each other’s chests. She was both muse and guardian angel to him in the depths of his misery. As the male voice returned in the operatic song, the duo rocked and swayed to the lullaby ambience. They united momentarily in a back balance, but their happiness was short-lived. It was as if she were not able to help Romain after all, as he collapsed to the floor in despair and Blanc covered his body with her own.

“Why do the Nations?” (G.F. Handel “Le Messie”)
The curtains descended and Yannis François entered in front of them, accompanied by a spotlight and ballet barre. He began warming up for what we believed would be a dance solo. Béjart’s distinctive voice (I knew he had to make an appearance somewhere) was heard over the loudspeakers: “Vous dansez? …. eh bien chantez maintenant!” (You dance? … well now sing!) The dancer looked up to the gods, performed various floor work actions, and then began to mime German opera with a live harpsichord as accompaniment. The audience quickly realised that François was actually singing… and what a voice! Needless to say, he was given thunderous applause as he took his final bow.

“Tokyo Gesture”
The curtains opened to reveal five black flats positioned in a triangular shape. Centre stage, a lone male (Juichi Kobayashi) clad in black lycra and with white painted face began to gesture. A man standing beside him created a pulse with a large pole that he banged rhythmically on the floor. As the violins surged, Kobayashi danced a mock fight, with flapping hands, extended arms, runs, and breathtaking leaps. He intermittently pointed to the audience, drawing them into the dance. The banging pole then heralded the approach of five female dancers in long gowns and hats. Just like the Ascot scene from the film “My Fair Lady”, their costumes were variations of black and white. Some had chequered bodices, others had veiled black hats, but all of them had one long black glove. Thus, there was a subtle link between the dancers, even in their apparent disparity.

Kobayashi ran between the dancers, and as he gestured towards them they lowered and then returned to their original poses. He dared to touch a hat, and was pushed to the floor by an imaginary force. The five women approached the flats, and promptly left the stage by hiding behind them. As the flats were turned, they revealed the mirrors on the other side. Kobayashi was also given a hand mirror, with which he began to dance. Imitating the women, he stretched and posed with elegant vanity. He was quickly joined by five men in flesh-coloured lycra, and violently pushed and pulled around by them. He tried to become one of them, but they closed ranks and blocked him out with their bodies knitted together in tight circles.

The pole banging was repeated, and the black flats returned. Another male soloist danced (acting as a brief divertissement), while Kobayashi performed a quick costume change behind one of the flats. Throughout the entire performance, changes in set design, music, costume and dancers seemed to occur without the audience’s realisation, such was the harmony between all these elements. Kobayashi eagerly returned in swirling satin and sequinned head-dress. He coveted the women’s femininity, and was now transformed into one of them. He was subsequently worshipped by the male quintet that encircled him, and his every wish was seemingly granted. This section seemed to reveal the power of a ‘woman’, and the way in which they are sometimes placed on a pedestal by their gender opposites. This was contrasted with the stereotypical aggressive nature of men towards one other. The piece finished with humour, as voice vibrations were mimicked with shaking hand and foot gestures, and then the audience was kissed goodbye in theatrical Béjart fashion.

“La Reine de la Nuit” (Queen of the Night)
Elisabet Ros and Julien Favreau opened the second half of the performance, in a thought-provoking duo. Favreau performed grand jetés in red lycra across the stage, while Ros entered divinely on pointe, dressed in black net, lycra, and a sparkling crescent moon head-dress. The lyrics from the operatic music were referred to at times, as Ros repeatedly pointed to her partner uttering the words “du, du, du…” (German for “you, you, you…”). She dominated the action, and frequently gestured upwards to her ‘home’ in the sky. The finish was dramatic, as she retreated upstage and the curtains swished behind her. Favreau was left lying on the floor, reaching towards the audience. Throughout history and mythology, women have been associated with the moon. This piece seemed to confirm this relationship, but also unveiled the secret power of the moon, and in turn women.

“Manos”
“Manos” was subdivided into nine different sections, and the Greek and northern African influences were apparent throughout. An ensemble of women dressed in short black tops and swirling ankle-length skirts initially dominated the stage. They moved through group shapes of writhing masses to form a neat line downstage. They then sang like the birds of the title (“Choeur des Oiseaux”), and left the stage as quickly as they entered. Dionysos (Catherine Zuasnabar dressed in red velvet) graced the stage, breaking up the circles of posing male youths who performed Greek folk dance gestures and actions. Zuasnabar’s legs extended beyond the vertical as she performed upright balances, and then beat time with her hands and elbows. As usual, she enthralled the audience with her technical virtuosity.

Fifteen of Béjart’s Rudra company (young trainee dancers) then turned like whirling dervishes in their long, black skirts. They dropped to the floor on command from the male (Octavio Stanley), and in between performed Graham-like angular gestures and poses, bowing their heads and rhythmically stamping their feet. Small pitter-patter steps were used to regroup the females, and they passed on hand gestures in canon up and down their human lines. Group designs were carved out of the space, as they linked hands and formed twisted sculptures on the diagonal.

Ros returned briefly as “la Femme en Rouge” (woman in red), forcefully pushing away the small group of men who danced alongside her. The male pas de deux that followed was both uninspiring and unnecessary. Béjart seems to overestimate the audience’s stamina at times, and the performance should have been brought to a natural close at this point. Instead, ‘les oiseaux’ entered with stools in hand, using them to sit on, stand on and then they even placed them on their heads as they ran off stage, kicking in cabaret style. There was more to follow, as Myra Woodruff danced an insipid solo entitled “Manoula Mou”. This lyrical piece was totally out of place, and the limited use of stage space and repetitive actions fatigued the eye. She was just a young girl, and did not have the performance experience to hold the stage. Thank goodness the finale immediately ensued. For this, the company sat with their backs to the audience watching a large screen upstage. Grouped in pairs, and relaxed individual positions, dancers were randomly scattered across the stage. “Manos!” they shouted, and then rose in canon to wave at the audience, returning to their seated positions after the applause. This ‘curtain call’ was unusual, and swiftly followed by Béjart’s own traditional end-of-performance bow.

Final Thoughts
The vivid images, the subtle scene changes, the inventive mixture of live and recorded music, the imaginative costumes, the exquisite dancers… it all adds up to total theatre. The audience certainly gets their money’s worth, and perhaps in a capitalist country such as Switzerland, that is why the audience keeps returning time after time to see Béjart’s lengthy choreographic extravaganzas.

It is hard to imagine Béjart ever retiring to his rocking chair with pipe and slippers. He is instead audible (in voice-overs) or even visible (in brief star parts) during each and every performance. Even at the grand old age of seventy-five, he continues to control all with the air of a dance magician in his prime. And if this latest performance is anything to go by, there’s a lot more choreographic life in the ‘old boy’ yet…..