© Gene Schiavone Boston 'Romeo' reviews 'Romeo' reviews Ponomarenko in reviews Madrigal in reviews recent Boston reviews Carla DeFord reviews

Yanowsky (brother of Zenaida) as Tybalt was a revelation. He was the man you love to hate (much like Marcelo Gomes as von Rothbart in the ABT televised production of SwanLake). Sleek, seductive, and utterly confident, Yanowsky played the scion of the Capulets as rotten to the core. In his death throes Tybalt’s viciousness became absolutely explosive. After being stabbed, he lay prone on the floor, but managed to raise himself up just enough to lunge furiously at Romeo twice. He looked like some kind of crazed marine mammal going after its prey.

In this production there are three clowns, and two of them came forward to lay Tybalt on his bier. This seemed appropriate since his “beautiful wickedness” (cf. the Wicked Witch of the West) was a little over the top, though masterfully done. As he was borne away, with Lady Capulet on her knees astride his body writhing in grief, one was tempted to say “Good night, sweet prince of darkness, and flights of devils sing thee to thy rest.”

Reyneris Reyes as Mercutio was also wonderful in his death sequence. The best bit was when, after being stabbed, he played a sword as if it were a guitar and did a little dance with it. Memorable.

The star of the evening, however, was Larissa Ponomarenko as Juliet. As usual, she was superb throughout. Her attention to detail, her incredibly flexible back, the way she uses her head, all make her presence indelible. In Act I there was a wonderful moment when, after being lifted onto Paris’s shoulder, she slowly extended one curved arm, taking advantage of every nanosecond of the music. Indeed, one could imagine her actually stretching beyond the music, her reach exceeding her grasp, into the realm of pure spirit.

In the final scene, when she realized Romeo was dead, her silent scream as she ran across the stage transformed her face into the mask of tragedy. Another great touch was the tenderness she showed toward the dead body of Paris. It was a momentary acknowledgement of the sorrow and the pity of it all before she took his dagger, went back to the slab where Romeo lay, and plunged it into herself.

Nelson Madrigal, who was her Romeo, did a capable job. He was technically very good and an excellent partner. As an actor he could not compare to Ponomarenko, but few dancers can.

The Cranko choreography preceded and influenced the better-known MacMillan version, and they have many gestures in common. Although the MacMillan pas de deux are speedier, with a greater variety of steps and positions, the Cranko version of the ballet has it own virtues.

One characteristic I noticed is that Cranko likes to create emblems. An example was seen in Act III when Romeo prepared to go into exile, and Juliet begged him not to leave her. At one point Romeo faced the audience with arms outstretched and dragged Juliet, who clasped his waist, across the floor. It read as a gloss on the Virgin Mary grieving at the foot of the cross. A second example was even more striking. When Juliet implored Friar Laurence for help, she flung herself at him, landing on his hip, her bent legs on either side of his waist, and her face in profile. He then turned to the audience with arms outstretched, and she, like a supplicating angel on the cross, lifted her hands in prayer. It was a stunning image.

The Cranko choreography was also notable for its many quotations from Russian dance, especially for the men and the corps. There were lots of flexed feet, peasant-like circle dances, and line dances with corps members’ arms around each other’s waists, forming intricate patterns. My least favorite Russian move occurred in one dance near the end, which had the men and women of the corps bending down to slap the floor. By and large the Russian influence was welcome, and it certainly reflected the spirit of Prokofiev, but every once in a while it occurred to me that these people were supposed to be Italians.

In terms of the staging, some less successful moments included the opening crowd sequence in which the Capulet and Montague boys threw fruits and vegetables at each other. It reminded me of nothing so much as the flying chunks of cheese in the battle scene of the Boston Ballet Nutcracker a little silly and chaotic. On the other hand, Act II, scene three, in which Mercutio and Tybalt die, was beautifully arranged; you knew exactly where to look despite multiple centers of interest.

One problem was that there was only one set. It consisted of two levels: an arched bridge at the top, archways beneath, and no stairs anywhere. In the balcony scene Romeo had to lift Juliet down several levels of stone wall and do the same to get her back up again. In addition to being somewhat awkward, my issue with all of this is that it made Juliet seem passive, as if she were dependent on Romeo for her very locomotion. The final moment of the scene was effective, though. As Juliet lay down on the balcony, Romeo gripped its edge, swung his body like a gymnast and, legs in mid-air, stole a last kiss.

In Juliet’s funeral procession, one wondered whether (and how) her body would be carried over the arched bridge, but something more unusual happened. With the stage in near darkness, the bier carrying Juliet’s body, brightly lit, was lowered into the crypt below the bridge - surprising and well done. It was a little awkward, however, when Juliet then had to be carried from the bier to her final resting place. The slab on which they placed her was the same piece of the set as her bed (with the covers removed). I found this dual role a little unsettling, but perhaps it was a visual pun the set designer, Susan Benson, was aiming at.

Ms. Benson was also the costume designer, and many of the clothes were gorgeous. The metallic gold in the Capulets’ capes and ball gowns caught the light beautifully and reinforced the family’s aristocratic status. Romeo had a fluttering cape, of course, but at one point Juliet had one too, and it served as a visual bond between them.

It was great to hear the Boston Ballet Orchestra, under the direction of principal conductor Jonathan McPhee, in the Wang Theatre again. Several years ago The Nutcracker was forced out by the administration of that theatre to make way for more lucrative productions, and it is now played in the Opera House. Since the pit in that theatre cannot accommodate the orchestra, the sound is piped in from another room, destroying the visceral quality of the music. In Romeo and Juliet the music for the Capulets’ ball, with those tremendous tuba blasts, was particularly wonderful to hear. McPhee’s exquisite sensitivity to the dancers was evident throughout. (He once told me, “You can ask my musicians; I never look at them during a performance.”) The final death theme was passionate and heartbreaking. Between the intensity of music and Juliet’s anguish, it was difficult to maintain one’s composure.