© Eric Antoniou Boston 'Swan Lake' reviews 'Swan Lake' reviews Ponomarenko in reviews Rykine in reviews recent Boston reviews more Carla DeFord reviews

Instead of focusing on overall interpretation, Kirkland’s words emphasize specific moments. When clearly motivated and executed, such moments function not as mere details or technical feats but as elements of characterization. It makes sense, then, to consider how certain gestures reflect a dancer’s cognitive process and communicate her conception of a role. Ponomarenko presented the audience with countless moments that read as thought made visible through movement.

One example is in Act II when Odette first sees Prince Seigfried. The terror that registered in Ponomarenko’s body made her look as if she had been electrocuted. The only time I can remember seeing something similar on stage was in John Selya’s performance in the lead role of Eddie in Twyla Tharp’s “Movin’ Out.” Selya, a former ABT corps member, was the originator of that role, and the first time he (as Eddie) saw his girl with another man, his whole body reacted as if he’d been shot at close range. In Ponomarenko, as in Selya, one saw the concept of shock incarnate.

When Prince Siegfried tells her of his love, Odette begins to embody the struggle between her desire to return that love and the impossibility of doing so. At one point there’s a beautiful lift in which she is clearly trying to fly away from von Rothbart’s spell. Ponomarenko used every ounce of her energy to move upward, with arms beating the air in a desperate effort to escape. Odette cannot liberate herself, however; proof of that comes at dawn when von Rothbart transforms her, once again, into a swan. The rigidity of Ponomarenko’s body, contrasting with her undulating arms as she bouréed off-stage, was the perfect emblem of Odette’s yearning for freedom even as she succumbed to enslavement. To put it in even more literary terms, she represented the soul fluttering its wings against the cage of the body.

As Odile, Ponomarenko clearly enjoyed being wicked. She consistently smiled - something Odette never does - and was the perfect illustration of Hamlet’s observation that “one may smile and smile and be a villain.” In addition, she frequently turned her head toward the audience. With both gestures, she appeared to be saying, “You and I know the secret of my identity, but that poor fool of a prince hasn’t got a clue.” In her seductiveness she reminded me of Gwen Verdon as Lola in Damn Yankees. Of course, Lola’s delightful vulgarity stands in stark contrast to Odile’s exquisite refinement, but both are agents of evil, and they share the same goal: entrap the man at all costs.

I have never been particularly excited by Odile’s 32 fouettés because the whole procedure struck me as nothing more than an athletic display. It recently occurred to me, however, that her spinning like a top can be read not only as the climax of her seduction, but also as an effort to create a hypnotic effect that will put the prince in her power. Needless to say, Ponomarenko’s fouettés were rock-solid, and her intention clearly malicious.
 

This production significantly departed from tradition by offering a happy ending. In Act IV the prince delivered a knock-out blow to von Rothbart, and the final tableau presented the couple clinging to each other, flanked by swan maidens and bathed in light. To me, this makes nonsense of the moment in Act II when the prince is about the kill von Rothbart with his crossbow, and Odette stays his hand. Ponomarenko’s gesture at that point was heart-breaking as, with arms outstretched, she touched the weapon with one hand while letting the other hand slowly descend as if in infinite sorrow. If von Rothbart’s death could have done her any good, surely she would have allowed the prince to kill him in Act II rather than prolong the agony.

The restructured plot line had at least one virtue, however; it made possible a stunning moment in which Odette seemed to be transformed into a human crossbow. The prince lifted her onto his shoulder where she rested on one knee, the other leg outstretched behind her; one arm was extended to her side and with the other she pointed at von Rothbart. Her gesture sealed his doom before the prince ever laid a hand on him. At that moment Ponomarenko, with eyes glaring, was the personification of revenge.

It is worth noting that Ponomarenko never contorts her face to indicate emotion. Her expressions are understated, but perfectly readable. The remainder of her acting is delivered through the body: her flexible back, hyperextended legs, and port de bras that can be supremely delicate or rigid as steel. The combination recalls other great Russian ballerinas, such as Makarova and Plisetskaya in their prime.

Prince Siegfried in this performance was Roman Rykine. Although he has an unfortunately inexpressive face; he was obviously a partner in whom Ponomarenko had complete confidence, and with good reason. The female corps, which has improved quite a bit over the last few years, was precise in its coordination and wonderfully expressive. In the Czardas, Sabi Varga was, as always, a riveting presence. In the Pas de Trois, Melissa Hough’s beautiful phrasing made it clear why she was cast as Odile in some performances.

Under the direction of Jonathan McPhee, the Boston Ballet orchestra not only gave a passionately committed account of Tchaikovsky’s immortal score, but also supported Ponomarenko in every decision she made. The pure thought she projected was realized in partnership with the conductor and musicians in the pit of the Wang Theatre.