Giannandrea Poesio's Weblog

Editorial - November 2004

Hello and apologies for the long, long silence. Many have constantly written prompting me to write more on these pages. Yet life is often problematic, and I got literally stuck in one of those periods in which time seems to never be enough… But I am back, as you can see, with new stuff and new ideas, as I originally promised our beloved Editor, Bruce Marriott.

Interestingly, my new bit of writing stems from my …anger! As an ex practitioner turned researcher, I have reached that point in life when I find irritatingly unbearable to discover how those who are responsible for what we call “ballet culture” are not delivering the goods as they should. Only one year ago I had to sit through a conference in which Italian 19th-century ballet was being analysed though a comparison with… French Romantic ballet! Pity that the two choreographic cultures, the French and the Italian, had little in common in the 19th century and that European national forms of choreography differed quite considerably at that time.

But what irritates me more than anything else is the way my own students are often let down by scholars and authors who provide them with glaringly inaccurate facts or readings of what they believe to be “the facts”. Their puzzled eyes and even more puzzled responses are painfully heart-sinking, for it is always difficult to make one understand that what s/he might have found in eminent books is not necessarily “true” or reliable…. As you will read below, the problem is mostly ballet specific. Music and Drama studies have long freed themselves from the morass of superficial equations mentioned on this page. Why can’t so-called dance studies do the same?

Following a number of requests, I have also started discussing some of the commercially available DVDs. I am only sorry that, given my living in the United Kingdom, I will be able to address only sources available in this country and refer to them by the codes with which they are sold in this part of the world. Please note that my suggestions on how to build a DVD ballet library are purely subjective, even though they encompass an analytical evaluation of technical aspects (camera angles, quality of sound, extra features, editing) as well as critical evaluation of the filmed production and the dancing itself.

Enjoy,

Giannandrea.

“If it ain’t French it ain’t Romantic ballet…”

Let’s face it. Ballet culture suffers more than any other art-related culture from a truly blinkered knowledge of the art itself.  The fact that the few still preformed 19th-century classics are not, historically speaking, representative of what went regularly on in the dance world between 1832 and 1898, is generally overlooked or totally ignored. And I am not talking from the layperson’s point of view. Scholars, critics and dance writers have long indulged in what is a culturally vitiated and historically incomplete vision of ballet history.

If one was to believe them, Romantic ballet was almost exclusively French in the first part of the 19th-century and Russian in the second half. Indeed, La Sylphide and Giselle were created in France, in 1832 and 1841 respectively, and the famous “ballet of the nuns” from Giacomo Meyerbeer’s opera Robert Le Diable – first seen at the Paris Opéra in 1831 – was arguably one of the first instance, if not the very first, in which diaphanous clothing and pointe shoes were used as effective theatrical devices. Yet there were “other” forms of Romantic ballet, for Romanticism developed all over Europe in different ways.

The international rediscovery of the splendid repertoire by Auguste Bournonville, the father of Danish ballet, is indeed a fairly recent phenomenon, whereas little has been done to explore and/or revive what Romantic theatre dance was like in Austria or Italy or, for what matters, in Russia before the advent of Marius Petipa. Each European country preserved carefully its own choreographic modes on top of the imported ones, as demonstrated by a number of collections of playbills, librettos and programmes relating to dance works only few have ever heard about. And in some instances, the choreographic discrepancies and stylistic dissimilarities between those “other” ballets and the ones that survived as, more or less erroneously, representative of that epoch, are truly amazing.

The fact the majority of  those “other” ballets did not survive, is fairly irrelevant; what matters, at the end of the day, is to have an in-depth knowledge of the artistic – as well as the social, political and cultural – contexts that surrounded, informed and underscored the creation of the 10/11 surviving masterwork we still see today (namely La Sylphide, Giselle, Pas de Quatre, Paquita, Le Corsair, Don Quixote, La Bayadere, Sleeping Beauty, The Nutcracker, Swan Lake, Raymonda). Only then, it is possible to appreciate in full the greatness of the works that managed to survive by being such outstanding exceptions. It is through an advanced understanding of those contexts, moreover, that it is possible to find the means to keep those classics alive. Yet some of the most eminent dance writers keep overlooking or ignoring these facts, and prefer, for reasons that is better to ignore, to rely on a conveniently flawed view of dance history.

Luckily, there are those brave enough to oppose the trends of such a superficial culture. Fed up with nonsensical theories on ballet stemming from partial and historically flawed notion of history, a number of scholars have started to react against what an eminent colleague and friend of mine has aptly referred to as “ignorance-induced mental masturbation”. If male dancers were scarce in France as from 1860, they were certainly not scarce in Italy, in Denmark, in Russia and in other seldom studied parts of Europe. Nor were they relegated to lesser roles. Think of the celebrated Enrico Cecchetti and the myriad – literally – of predecessors and followers who populate the Italian stages. This is not, alas, the sort of information one finds in conveniently packed dance history manuals which often filter any knowledge of ballet’s past through the contemporary perception of what ballet is – namely that repertory of no more than 11 titles. While the flawed content of those manuals is somewhat excusable – the aim of most of them is only to provide a general overview – the laziness and ignorance of scholars who approach romantic ballet, 19th-century male dancers and female ones is hardly justifiable. The world provides today all the possible means to interact with different materials and archives, and the duty of a serious scholar is to leave no stone unturned. Yet one still finds glaringly flawed statements.

Just pick any of the new feminist based analyses of ballet and you will discover that they have all been written by people who naively think there were only two forms of Romantic ballet: the French and the Russian. Needless to say their theses and conclusions thus stem from a bunch of absolutely untenable and historically laughable generalisation.  Or take those eminent practitioners of the teaching profession who, in order to bestow significance and lustre to their art and, expound all sorts of superficial equation of the kind “Blasis taught Lepri, Lepri taught Cecchetti, hence Cecchetti’s teachings contain Blasis’legacy”. Lovely, but totally untrue, as a number of independent scholars  have recently proved.

But why are these voices are seldom heard? Music history and musicology in general is a constant battlefield in which new readings contradict existing ones all the time, thus feeding in to a constantly vibrant and lively debate. In the ballet world this does not happen. A flawed cultural “status quo” seems to be what is wanted by the majority of those responsible for ballet culture, probably for fear of seeing old, moth-ball scented beliefs crumble with dire consequences for a well-protected, cocooned establishment. Do not be fooled… react. Question whatever you are told and do some research on your own ( do, in other words, what those writers and scholars do not seem to have time or the will to do). You will be surprised of what you can find even without having to gain access to the most famous and somewhat impenetrable ballet archives of the world. Let’s the revolution begin…

Ballet on your screen: building a DVDs library

The Sleeping Beauty
Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsy
Het Nationale Ballet
Choreoography: Marius Petipa, Sir Peter Wright
DVD © Opus Arte 2004
OA 0904D (two discs)

Although there is a number of  Sleeping Beauty DVDs and videos available on the market, a truly satisfactory one has yet to be seen around. Do not get me wrong, what is available is good stuff, but no filmed production reaches the “ideal” level.  The Kirov ballet, for instance, lacks some of the grandeur the ballet calls for, and has some performing weaknesses, particularly as some of the secondary roles are concerned. Similarly, the Royal Ballet one suffers from uneven dancing, a Prince that expresses his feelings by pulling the most incredible faces and indulging in all sorts of silent movie acting, and, above all, a rather debatable production, in which ridiculously designed sets and costumes get constantly in the way, distracting the viewer from appreciating the ever so splendid traditional choreography. An excessively coloured or over the top production is indeed a recurring problem. Those who have found the Australian Ballet video or DVD of the classic, might agree that some solutions in the filmed production are a tad too garish, and the whole thing suffers indeed from proverbial “chocolate box”, and somewhat cartoonish, designs.

The latest Sleeping Beauty DVD that landed on my desk, is not an ideal one either, but stands out from the rest for a number of reasons. This Opus Arte DVD is a cleverly filmed performance of Sir Peter Wright’s sumptuous version, danced here by the Het Nationale Ballet.  Excellent sound and vivid images contribute greatly to the success of this DVD, even though the camera flirts too much with the extras and all those who frame the dance action, forgetting the dancing itself. Sofiane Sylve is a splendid Aurora, even tough a slightly cold one at times. Her sense of style is impeccable and so is her technique (when was the last time you saw someone “descend” from her pointes with the same smooth control?). One wishes her Prince Florimund (please note this is a British based version, hence the historically incorrect name of the male protagonist, originally called Desiré) was a suitable match. Although Gaël Lambiotte has all the qualities a danseur noble ought to have, his acting looks totally over the top and , at times,  out of context. Pity, for his technical rendition is fine, and his handsome presence, when he is not trying to convey any feeling, is an added bonus.

The rest of the cast is good too, wit a superbly mimed Crabosse, Enrichetta Cavallotti and a truly “aerial” Bluebird, Sefton Clarke. Philip Prowse’s designs are, arguably, among the best ever designed in the second half of the 20th-century. The production is lavish and sumptuous, but the lighting used for the filming flattens the baroque richness of the colours, with often dire results. The contrasting use of colours such as black, pink and gold – not normally associated with the ballet, and ingeniously used by Prowse - does not thus come fully across.

The sound is exceptionally good, thanks also to Ermanno Florio’s thoughtful and sparkling conducting. The tempi are only occasional too fast, but the overall effect is inebriating. The actual glory of the DVD set is, however, the number of informative and thought-provoking extra features that accompany the ballet. Two in particular make the whole set a must-have:  “The story is in their hands” and “A crystal-cut diamond”, both starring Sir Peter Wright. The former focuses on ballet mime and is, arguably, one of the best filmed documents on the topic. The latter allows the viewer to appreciate in full Wright’s vision and understanding of the 1890 work. If you want a good Beauty on your shelves, go for this one, even though the accompanying printed notes are not as informative as one would like them to be and the full cast is only available as an extra feature on the first of the two discs.

(if you want to submit a DVD, a CD or  a book  for review, please contact Giannandrea Poesio at: giannandrea_reviews@yahoo.co.uk )

There are Wilis in the Kingdom of Denmark

What do music critics do when they want to slag some musical composition that is not of their liking? They call it “ballet music”. This is what at least three eminent writers called the score of Ambroise Thomas’ 1868 opera Hamlet, performed not so long at the Royal Opera House Covent Garden in London. And I cannot help feeling sorry for them, given that at that at beginning of the twenty-first century they have still to recur to such obsoletes clichés, synonymous of mental fossilization as well as bad writing practice. Ok, Thomas’ oom-pah-pah French operatic adaptation of the sacred Shakespearean text is not as musically shattering as Wagner’s Parsifal or Tristan, but is no more “horrid” than other and historically revered compositions from the same time, in which medieval warriors fought to the tune of a silly quadrille, consumptive heroines spat blood to a catchy waltz and villainous conspirators plotted their deeds to light-hearted ballroom music.

Yet, this is not a defence of Thomas’ music, for what I am taking exception to here is the parallel to “ballet music” to indicate the lesser quality of any musical compositions. Like 19th-century opera, 19th-century ballet had good and bad music; the generalisations my eminent music colleagues like to indulge in, therefore, betray a rather embarrassing ignorance of what there are talking about. First of all, which “ballet music” are they referring to? Certainly not that composed by true innovators such as Adolphe Adam, who was among the first French composers to rely on the use of the Romantic leitmotiv in his 1841 score for the ballet Giselle, and whose compositional qualities for dance have been recently and deservedly re-assessed by some eminent musicologist in the light of a less blinkered approach to “ballet music”. Certainly not the ballet music composed by any of Ambroise Thomas’ illustrious contemporaries, such as Léo Delibes, whose name appears fairly regularly in music history manuals, where he is referred to as an “ingenious and innovative” composer. Probably, they are referring to the catchy tunes composed by some of their much loved opera composers, forced to insert a “ballet” in their creation to abide by the rules of a debatable performance tradition. Still, would anyone call the music of the Tyrolienne from Gioacchino Rossini’s William Tell, or that of any of Giuseppe Verdi’s ballets – the subject of a recent and much acclaimed academic study - “cheap” music? Musicologists certainly don’t, in the same way as they never dare to slag the ballet music found in operas by Charles Gounod, Jules Massenet or Camille Saint-Saens. So why use the term “ballet music” as synonymous of circus-like stuff?

Moreover, what they also seem to ignore is how much does opera owe to ballet. Had those eminent writers done a bit of homework and ventured into dance history - which they never do for fear of contamination – they would have probably discovered that the composers they revered so much did not quibble that much about establishing parallels and links with ballet. On the contrary, they were all too keen to create connections with that tremendously popular – that is, in the 19th century – art form. Take for instance what happens in Thomas’ Hamlet.

Dazzled by the vocal virtuosity of splendid soprano Natalie Dessay, arguably one of the most exiting singers one can listen to these days, none of the eminent music colleagues seems to have noticed the literary/dramatic oddity on which relies Ophelia’s mad scene in Act IV of Thomas’ opera. In her vocally virtuosistic ballad, Ophelia invokes what, according to the English surtitles of the Royal Opera House is a "nymph", but in the original French libretto is a “Willis au regard de feu” or a “Wilis with fiery eyes” who “dort sous l’eau profonde” ( literally “sleeps beneath the deep waters”). There, always according to the growingly insane heroine, not-so-faithful husbands are lured to death. Does it sound familiar? Well of course it is straight out of the Giselle, the quintessential Romantic ballet, is it not? But how did un-dead bloodthirsty virgins from the Rhine Valley end up near the Danish castle of Elsinore? The answer is simple. By 1868, the year the opera in question was premiered, Giselle was still a popular title in France and at the Paris Opéra, more in particular - even though it is said that after that year the ballet disappeared from every Western European stage. It is not surprising, therefore, that Thomas’ librettists Jules Barbier and Michel Carré decided to create a mythological reference that, though geographically wrong – the legend of the Wilis originate from the Slavonic regions - would have sounded pleasantly familiar to various members of the audience. Indeed, opera and ballet relied greatly on this sort of familiar references, for a “familiar” content was regarded as a key factor in granting accessibility to the performed work and, consequently, in securing its success. What is more fascinating, is that Ophelia’s mad scene – and I am intentionally steering away from the topic of mad scenes in ballet and operas, a topic that could fill volumes – is preceded in Thomas’ Hamlet by a Danse Villageoise which is terribly similar to the “peasant dances” found in the first act of Giselle. It is a pity that in the recent Royal Opera House production the ballet was removed altogether, for it would have provided the blinkered anti-ballet colleagues of mine with another chance to utter their discontent and to embark on some other ill-informed generalisation.

The sad thing, however, is that the interaction between opera and ballet will always be overlooked as far as opera houses will accept, more or less tacitly, the alleged superiority of opera over ballet. And yet, the case discussed above is but one of the many examples of how opera and ballet must be considered together if we really want to appreciate the numerous nuances of a constantly surprising and rich epoch of theatre history.

© Giannandrea Poesio, 2003