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The centenary of the Ballets Russes has provided ballet companies with the opportunity to revive great works, many of them routinely achieving what eludes most creations today: an alchemy born not only of choreography, but also of music and design. The credits for the Paris Opera Ballet's latest triple bill form a Who's Who of ballet in the 1910s: Nijinsky, Fokine, Massine, Picasso, Bakst, Benois, Stravinsky, not to mention the dancers that once shared the stage with them. Where the works stand, however, today's performers don't always relate to the character flavor of the choreography, despite the glittering array of Principals on display for the filmed performances of the run.
Le Spectre de la Rose is an important work, perhaps the first manifestation of a woman's desire in classical dance, but it is also the one piece on the program that seemed in serious need of a new design. The girl's bonnet is now faded, old-fashioned in an intrusive way, while the Rose's pale unitard and its pink petals only serve to make the feminine lines of today's performers more obvious. Or is it just that we have lost something essential – the rich metaphor once conveyed by Nijinsky and Tamara Karsavina? On the basis of this performance, it is quite likely. Matthias Heymann turns the Rose into a jumping exercise - his eyes tend to go dead, and while he has clearly worked on his ports de bras, a certain stiffness remains. His partnering is also remarkably pedestrian – when the girl reaches out for him, he is happy to catch his breath for a minute behind her. His Rose is devoid of any perfume, but then – why throw him into a filmed performance so young, when comparisons will be made? Isabelle Ciaravola, now 37, but made an Etoile the same night as Heymann, gives a sensitive performance. Delicate and shy when she enters, she looks stunningly young as the young girl dreaming about her rose. There's a hint of French 19th-century romanticism about her, and although she works her unnaturally arched feet to the point of distortion, her sense of wonder brings some meaning to a pale Spectre.
Isabelle Ciaravola and Mathias Heymann in Le Spectre de la Rose
© Sebastien Mathe
While Afternoon of a Faun is almost an ode to Nijinsky by Nijinsky, Debussy's Prélude and Leon Bakst's fascinating sets, reducing the stage to a bas relief, retain their evocative mystery. The nymphs look slightly odd (and Ida Rubinstein refused to dance Nijinsky's choreography, saying that she would have “dislocated” her body), but it is quite a vehicle for raw charisma on the side of the Faun. The work had its premiere at the Paris Opera Ballet in 1978 with Charles Jude, who has kept on dancing the role to this day, and Nicolas Le Riche is no small reason to revive the production this season. His Bolero has proved overwhelmingly sensual, and yet his take on the Faun is surprisingly different – he is the myth, and the animal looms under the surface until the last minute. The strength and shape of his body lend him a brutal grace that easily overpowers the main Nymph (Emilie Cozette). The quest for thin, flexible male dancers has left dancers of Le Riche's build slightly behind at the Paris Opera Ballet, but his powerful stage presence still has the edge.
Nicolas Le Riche and Emilie Cozette in L'Apres-midi d'un faune
© Sebastien Mathe
Le Tricorne has probably never been as popular as the shorter Spectre and Faun, but the sets and costumes designed by Pablo Picasso haven't aged a day – bright and amusing, they set a tone that the dancers almost have trouble keeping up with. There are delicious bits of comedy in the choreography, when the poor Corregidor (an excellent Fabrice Bourgeois) is rejected by the Meunière or is thrown from the imaginative bridge into imaginary water, but most of the choreography is character-based and heavily influenced by Spanish dance. This is a piece tailor-made for the Bolshoi, and the corps de ballet in Paris can only try to look natural and disguise their lack of character dance training.
Jose Martinez in Le Tricorne
© Sebastien Mathe
Sadly, the principals also struggle with the style, and none more so than Marie-Agnès Gillot, too light on her feet, rather out of place. Clapping to the music is apparently troublesome enough – using her torso when Spanish pride is called for was out of question. José Martinez logically has a hard time relating to his Meunière (the Miller's Wife), and while his Spanish origins make him a natural for the main part, his long, lithe body doesn't respond immediately to the weight of the choreography. The impulse of the movement doesn't come from the floor, and his line starts out very soft, despite stunning footwork. He comes back fighting in the Miller's main variation, finally at ease, and truly commands the irony of the ballet – what he lacks in compactness and explosive power he makes up for in sheer wit and musicality. I hear Maria Alexandrova, in a recent Gala, spurred him to new heights in this Tricorne, which relies so much on the performers' charisma.
Clairemarie Osta, Yann Bridard and Benjamin Pech in Petrouchka
© Sebastien Mathe
After a much-needed interval, Petrouchka was perhaps the greatest surprise of the evening. This Fokine ballet has always seemed to me cramped and slightly odd on film, but it truly came to life in live performance – bright, busy yet clearly presented, full of theatrical savvy. The arresting sets designed by Alexandre Benois create a stage within a stage within a stage, whose curtain is as disturbing as the tale – black figures flying, deformed, bleeding. Two street dancers entertain the crowd, as proud and ready for a fight as Imperial ballerinas. Sara Kora Dayanova and Simon Valastro are among the leaders of a valiant, joyous corps de ballet.
Benjamin Pech in Petrouchka
© Sebastien Mathe
The main roles are cast to perfection for the film, with a wicked Stéphane Phavorin as the Charlatan, Benjamin Pech as Petrouchka, Clairemarie Osta in the “Ballerina”-doll part and Yann Bridard as the Moor. Pech is at his best in the title role, supple and touching, a rag doll whose pathetic face slowly reach the heart. He has a natural relationship with Osta, and her pointe work is so delicate, so silent, that she seems to be held by invisible strings. Yann Bridard is excellent as the Moor, unrecognizable, and the whole story unfolds like a disturbing charm – all the way to the apparition of the "dead" Petrouchka over the theatre. The surrealism and uncomfortable sadness of this Carnival make brilliant use of Stravinsky – artistic collaborations simply don't get any better, and this one wasn't chasing the spirit of anyone.
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