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The two works emanated from very different literary sources: the classic myth of Sylvia (Neumeier), based on a sixteenth century play, and Emily Bronte’s dark novel, ’Wuthering Heights’(Belarbi). It was fascinating not only to compare the two works, but also to contrast them with the recent revival by the Royal ballet of Ashton’s ‘Sylvia’ and David Nixon’s creation of ‘Wuthering Heights’ for Northern Ballet Theatre.

I had anticipated great contrasts between the two ballets. After all, the plot for ‘Sylvia’ is much more complex, and based on classic mythology rather than the powerful tale of consuming human passion that drives ‘Wuthering Heights’. Likewise the music differed greatly since a contemporary score (by Philippe Hersant) had been commissioned for the Belarbi work whilst ‘Sylvia’ was based on the mellifluous music by Delibes that is romantic, with echoes of Wagner, Massenet and Berlioz. Yet there were some striking similarities, reinforced by the good fortune of seeing two of Paris’s most gifted dancers, Le Riche and Gillot, in both.

Other similarities included the design, which in each case was modern and minimalist. Trees dominate some scenes in each ballet. In ‘Sylvia’, the Greek painter, Yannis Kokkos, depicts Diana’s sacred forest by three huge trees backed by a green wall. For ‘Wuthering Heights’, Peter Pabst symbolises the wildness of both the Yorkshire moors and the violent passion of the two protagonists by a single windswept tree, bent over almost to breaking point. Another striking design feature was the fractured black frontcloth, opening and closing the ballet, depicting lightening and symbolising the torn passions. The sole prop in the ball scene of ‘Sylvia’ is a gigantic Classic-style male torso, decapitated and mutilated. The main prop for ‘Wuthering Heights’ is a large modern sofa, which is used creatively in the choreography, but also seems to represent civilisation, since both ballets contrast nature with civilised society.

The costumes for each were very varied. Those for ’Sylvia’ could not have been less like the Ironside brothers’ for Ashton’s version; there was no emphasis on classicism, whether in terms of Antiquity or ballet tutus. Diana and her huntresses wore sporty little two-piece numbers (a top and brief shorts). For other scenes, many of the clothes were contemporary, from dungarees to some stunning ballroom gowns. The message focused on timelessness. In ‘Wuthering Heights’, some costumes were historical whereas others did not relate to the period.

In both cases the décor was more spare and modern than for the English versions. This reflected the different conceptions underlying the ballets. Whereas David Nixon’s approach to ‘Wuthering Heights’ is largely narrative, with the structure detailing much of the novel’s plot, Belarbi’s is more general. The essence of the story is conveyed but in a less literal way. He was ambitious in trying to develop a number of themes: the contrast between good and evil; masculinity and femininity; wild freedom versus societal constraints; the interior and exterior world. All these are shaped in the context of the power of the four elements of earth, wind, water and fire, fire which is used eerily at different stages of the ballet.

But, of course, the overarching theme is the power of love; and the consequences of rejecting true love in favour of more materialistic goals. This is Catherine’s tragic mistake in ‘Wuthering Heights’, with traumatic consequences for herself, Heathcliffe and their families.

Yet again this turns out to be a similarity with ‘Sylvia’. Sylvia falls in love with the shepherd Aminta but feels pressured by her mistress, Diana, to reject him and rejoin the huntresses and their pursuit of pleasure. Sylvia later develops a range of other erotic relationships, including with Diana, but Aminta’s love survives and years later, when they meet again, Sylvia’s love is renewed. The end result is Sylvia’s death, just as in Catherine’s case.

Neumeier’s ‘Sylvia’ thus has a different libretto from Ashton’s, even though they share the same literary source and musical score. The choreographic texts differ markedly, too. Ashton’s ballet, flawed though it is due to the complex scenario and structure, contains some of his most luscious choreography. Neumeier’s work is quite eclectic, employing different styles. A mixture of neo-classical and contemporary, there are passages which echo Kylian, Ek, Petit and even the darker side of Paul Taylor in a wonderful section for menacing men pounding away in evening suits. The overall style is clear and lucid, characteristic of Neumeier. Both point work and huge jumps are used to produce dramatic statements. There is interesting partnering work for the corps as chorus and a range of pas de deux for the different relationships between the four main characters. Yet there is little emotional engagement, apart from the solo for Aminta after his humiliation, and the final pas de deux for Sylvia and Aminta. The ballet is a modern take on the universal theme of the tensions between love and commitment. But the fact that, for me at least, the only moving sections related to Aminta, the one human character, makes one wonder why Neumeier chose a libretto from the antique classics rather than a more human story, such as his ‘Dame aux Camelias’ (the Neumeier Margeurite and Armand) which the Paris Opera Ballet will be performing next season.

There were absolutely no misgivings about the cast, however. There were stunning performances by Aurelie Dupont as Sylvia and Marie-Agnes Gillot as Diana, Manuel Legris as Aminta and Nicolas Le Riche in the triple role of Love (in different guises). The ‘corps’ were experienced soloists and danced in unison, the huntresses ferocious in their attack, the ballroom dancers smoothly elegant.

The cast in ‘Wuthering Heights’ were equally outstanding. Le Riche was compelling as Heathcliffe, his dancing driven with force yet shaped by imagery. Gillot as Catherine was playful in the early scenes; like Nixon’s version of ‘Wuthering Heights’, the early part of the ballet focused on the childhood games of Catherine and Heathcliffe. She was poignant later, once married, and eery as a ghost in the second part. In this ballet, too, the corps were sometimes used as a chorus, at times as an extension of Catherine, especially in the second part where the female corps acts as Wuthering Wilis, tormented spirits of the dead Catherine. The reference to wilis is apt since Belarbi deliberately evoked the Romantic two act divide between the human and the supernatural, as in ‘Giselle’ and ‘La Sylphide’.

The two performances provided a clear view of the strengths of the Paris Opera Ballet. It highlighted the differences between the French and British aesthetic with the lesser reliance by the French, at the turn of the century, on detailed plot or elaborate design.