Digital screening, September–October (filmed on 29 September 2023 during the Melbourne season of Swan Lake)
I am not a huge fan of this latest production of Swan Lake from the Australian Ballet—a version directed by artistic director David Hallberg but based on the 1970s production by Anne Woolliams with dramaturgy and a little extra choreography from Lucas Jervies.
On a positive note, the corps de ballet of 26 swans danced as a group with exceptional precision. Whether they were making and holding a line, a circle, a V-shape as in the opening to Act IV, or any other shape for that matter, their groupings were beautifully precise. And their dancing was in unison to the extent that, for example, they usually managed to lift their legs in arabesque to the same height as each other, and execute other steps with amazing togetherness. The four little swans—Evie Ferris, Jill Ogai, Aya Watanabe and Yuumi Yamada—stood out with regard to this unison and precision. It was pure perfection.
Then there were the costumes by Mara Blumenfeld. They were exceptional in design, colour and cut. I especially admired the costumes for the character dances, and the very elegant black and white striped suit worn by von Rothbart in ACT III, befitting a Baron I thought.
But that’s about all the positivity I can muster.
I found the production quite lacking in emotional content. While in his between-acts spiel on this streaming platform Hallberg made much of the partnership between Benedicte Bemet as Odette/Odile and Joseph Caley as Prince Siegfried, and while technically they danced well both separately and together, I could not feel or see any passion, or even affection, between them. And there was certainly no changing emotion visible as the situation between them changed. Ballet is a wordless art but when there is a narrative, as there definitely is in Swan Lake, the story has to be clear and prominent enough in a physical sense for the audience to see and understand the narrative, even if, as in the case of Swan Lake, so many of us have seen it so many times that we have a clear idea already about the storyline. Clarity of narrative and the changing of emotions can be achieved by a simple movement of the head, a lift of the arm that is different from what went before, or something quite simple. But it has to be a physical change that we as the audience can notice and feel, not just a thought in the dancer’s head.
Then I was taken aback by the character dances in Act III. There were three (one each from Spain, Hungary and Italy) rather than the more usual four and they were danced largely without any of the passion that characterises national dancing. Everything seemed to be angled towards a perfect, balletic technique—mostly with the frame of the body held erect and little expression in a physical sense or even through facial expression. Character dances are full of physical expression and theatricality growing from a pride by the characters (as played by the dancers) in a particular heritage.
Perhaps my dislike of this Swan Lake reflects a remark made by Lucas Jervies when speaking to Hallberg and Nivinia Nixon in the conversations between acts as part of the streaming. Jervies mentioned that Hallberg asked for the production to be ‘boiled down and refined’, and Hallberg confirmed that this was his aim. The ‘boiling down’ just took everything away. A strong (refined?) focus on technique and little else doesn’t make a theatrical production. At least not for me.
I have a subscription ticket to see this Swan Lake in Sydney towards the end of the season there. Perhaps I will feel differently then?
28 September 2023. Lyric Theatre, Queensland Performing Arts Centre, Brisbane
Absolutely stunning!
From the brilliant performances by the dancers—in ballet, tap, ballroom and other forms—to the exciting and emotionally moving sound of the orchestra and singers (all onstage); from the lighting that made the whole look as if being performed within a second proscenium, to the background screen featuring assorted references to the Gershwin era, Strictly Gershwin was probably the most thrillingly presented and spectacularly performed show I have seen this year
Choreographed by Derek Deane in 2008 for English National Ballet and first presented by Queensland Ballet in 2016, Strictly Gershwin pays tribute to brothers George and Ira Gershwin and their contribution to the ‘big band’ era of the 1930s. In his program notes Deane remarks on the pleasure he experienced in being able to create the work: ‘I was free from the restrictions of the purely classical ballets and was able to experiment more choreographically with all the different dance styles in the production.’ And it is partly this diversity of dance styles that makes the production so fascinating.
Deane does, however, admit to including ‘two complete small ballets’ in the total show, one of which, Rhapsody in Blue, provided two highlights for me. Rhapsody in Blue opened part two of the production, ‘Gershwin in Hollywood’. Rhapsody was made for three couples and a corps de ballet and I was especially impressed with the women in the corps whose beautifully held upper bodies, tilted back slightly when they were in a kneeling position, and their ability to dance almost perfectly together, was outstanding. But the absolute standout dancer was the leading male dancer in Rhapsody, Patricio Revé. He partnered Neneka Yoshida and, whether in his partnering or in his solo work, he was absolutely committed to making every move full of meaning and emotion. The variety of his physical and facial expressions throughout was exceptional and it was hard to take my eyes off him.
But of course there were many other highlights. The two tap dancers, Kris Kerr and Bill Simpson, who also appeared with Queensland Ballet in 2016, were as amazing as ever and their performance with Rachael Walsh and ten other dancers in Oh, Lady be Good was another highlight.
I have to mention, too, Lina Kim and Rian Thompson who danced so well together in Someone to Watch Over Me (as they also did in 2016). Their lyricism throughout and the beautiful lifts they performed, unexpectedly different from what we might be used to seeing, made watching them such a pleasure and, with the added singing of Nina Korbe standing at the side of the stage, it was a special collaborative section.
So many other special moments: Mia Heathcote throughout, Georgia Swan and Vito Bernasconi in Shall We Dance?, Yanela Piñera and Camilo Ramos (also from the 2016 cast) in the sexy It Ain’t Necessarily So, and so many others…
The music for Strictly Gershwin was played by Queensland Symphony Orchestra with a solo piano section in Rhapsody in Blue from guest artist Daniel Le. The costumes, every one of which was eye-catching to put it mildly, were by Roberta Guidi di Bagno and Howard Harrison’s original lighting was revived by Cameron Goerg and Ben Hughes. Then there was the conductor, Michael England, who often danced along himself (while still conducting). What a show! How lucky we were to be able to see it again!
20 September 2023. Opera House, Wellington reviewed by Jennifer Shennan
This extraordinary production, (m)Orpheus, by New Zealand Opera & Black Grace, is billed as a re-imagining of Christoph Gluck’s 18th century opera, Orfeo ed Euridice. The program note calls it a dance-opera collision—which it is, but it’s also a great deal more than that.
Indeed, the whole enterprise is a five-point star—visionary and innovative direction and choreography by Neil Ieremia, a totally stunning set and costume design by Tracy Grant-Lord, a skilful re-orchestration of Gluck’s original by composer Gareth Farr played by a chamber ensemble conducted by Marc Taddei, beautiful singing delivered by three fine soloists and a wonderful eight member Chorus, and inspired dancing by members of Black Grace contemporary dance company. They all melded into the spirit life of a production that could only have been realised in Pasifika-Aotearoa New Zealand. Some of the text was sung in English, some in Samoan. For us there were shivers, some tears, some laughter, grief, solace, and an alchemy of life and death, not as opposites but as a spectrum to be celebrated. That’s some achievement for a night at the opera. It was then, it is now, it is us, we are here. Manuia lau malaga (Samoan: ‘Farewell in your journey’).*
Farr made much inventive use of unconventional instruments—including marimba, and saxophone in his scoring. Much pizzicato from violins, together with the softened sounds of marimba, lent a subtle percussive effect as suited the Samoan dimension of the production but also honoured Gluck completely. The guitar, beautifully played by Gunter Herbig, was Orfeo’s lyre come to life.
Samson Setu singing Orpheus was a beautifully steady and centred presence throughout, his rich and resonant voice effortlessly delivered as he avoided any operatic extravagance. Deborah Wai Kapohe was perfectly cast as Euridice and reminded me of korimako/bellbird.
Madison Nonoa as Amor totally relished her role and played it to the max, hilarious and poignant by turns. In these three stellar performers the singers were greatly indebted to Tracy Grant Lord’s staggeringly wonderful set design of this world/underworld, but you’ll get no spoiler alerts from me.
A relatively small chorus of eight singers, Samoan and Maori, nonetheless filled the stage with sounds you didn’t want to end. They did Gluck proud, and also ‘morphed’ into Samoan dances of great grace and joy—siva was there, sasa, fa’a taupati and taualuga were there.
The dancers performed enchanting lyrical and impressively rhythmic sequences in and around the Chorus so the two arts were seamlessly joined. (In the Pacific music and dance were never separated anyway). The choreography throughout was layered—sometimes the dancers joining the moving Chorus, at other times dancing a duo to affirm in exquisite duplication the emotional journey of Orpheus and Euridice.
My only quibble for the evening concerned the printed program-no bios for the performers, and very small but shiny typeface on a black background. Impossible to read in the theatre, and quite a challenge at home too.
This production has already had an Auckland season with a different musical team. Here in Wellington is a three show season over four nights. deserves to be seen far and wide. The large audience was hugely enthusiastic, and I think Gluck would have been too
*As the dirt and flowers are tossed into the grave, sentiments of – ia manuia lau malaga; ‘farewell in your journey‘ – are echoed by mourners as they release their beloved member. Samoan people maintain the essential belief that death is not a final ending.
17 September 2023 (matinee). Canberra Theatre Centre
The Canberra Theatre, the main one, not the smaller Playhouse, was jam-packed for this performance of The Sleeping Beauty. Scarcely a seat was empty and those that were empty were dotted here and there around the auditorium and seemed to have been meant for people who, for some reason, were not able to make it after all. It was an exceptionally popular show and, given that it was a matinee performance, attracted a bevy of little girls and boys and grandparents!
The Sleeping Beauty is a ballet that tells the well-known story of Princess Aurora who eventually marries Prince Desiré—sometimes known as Prince Florimund. The marriage happens only after an eventful and unwanted connection with an Evil Fairy (Carabosse). It is basically a story about the triumph of good over evil and there are of course many different approaches to the ballet, which was first performed in St Petersburg in 1890 with choreography by Marius Petipa. Almost every major company has a Sleeping Beauty in its repertoire. Some productions say that choreography is ‘after Petipa’, others don’t. Some choreographers have presented a ‘re-imagined’ version—Mathew Bourne’s production springs to mind. This website contains reviews of productions from the Royal Ballet, Queensland Ballet, Matthew Bourne’s company, the Australian Ballet and Royal New Zealand Ballet and I couldn’t help wondering where the Royal Czech Ballet’s production would fit.
The first thing to mention is that Royal Czech Ballet’s version is a scaled back production. The Sleeping Beauty usually has a large cast of dancers many of whom take on a lot of small roles in various crowd scenes. But the Royal Czech Ballet is a small company of around 26 dancers so scenes like the 16th birthday of Aurora and her eventual wedding to Prince Desiré looked a little sparse. I was curious about the choreography too. Some looked very much in the ‘Petipa style’ with its structured lines and groupings of dancers. This was especially noticeable in the choreography for and dancing by the corps de ballet in the early scenes. Some sections were quite familiar in both a choreographic and narrative sense—the Rose Adagio, for example, where at her 16th birthday Aurora dances with four suitors; and the Bluebird pas de deux and variations in the wedding scene. Other sections looked very different from what we have seen in other productions.
Technically I was somewhat disappointed in what I saw. Too many of the cast were not focusing on pointed feet, turned out knees, the lyricism that is needed to join one step to another, nor on other similarly basic matters. And that included the principals I saw as Aurora and Prince Desiré. The standout dancer for me was the Lilac Fairy, soloist Ana Oleinic. Her ability to connect with the audience was commendable and, as a result, my eyes were constantly drawn to her. Not many of the other dancers were able to make that connection, despite that they were often smiling.
The costumes (I’m not sure who the designer was) were quite startling. Especially remarkable was the black, gold and sequined outfit worn by Carabosse. In addition, I was taken by the tutus for the Fairies and other female dancers. They were beautifully decorative.
While I think that this production is not one that will suit many diehard ballet goers, the storyline of the Royal Czech Ballet’s Sleeping Beauty is easy to follow and the production is visually striking. The final curtain fell to loud applause and the art of ballet is not just for diehard fans.
David McAllister has through this year, 2023, been Acting Artistic Director of Royal New Zealand Ballet—to oversee the process of appointing a permanent Artistic Director, and to stabilise the management situation after both the previous directors, Executive and Artistic, had departed suddenly from their positions at Company.
It’s therefore been timely to be reading Ballet Confidential, to learn about McAllister’s own long-term career as a dancer, then his even longer term as Artistic Director, with the Australian Ballet. As well there is his earlier and more personal memoir, Soar, written with Amanda Dunn, both books published by Thames & Hudson.
McAllister’s writing is eminently accessible, conversational in tone, addressing the reader directly. He keeps a friendly, light, honest and humorous touch throughout—giving the welcome impression that he takes his art, but not himself, seriously. There is sincere respect for the dancers whose dedication and discipline is the seminal part of any company’s achievements—as well as insights into the management and governance responsibilities involved in directing that river of talent.
McAllister is out to debunk the reputation of ballet as an elite theatre art that entices only its afficionados, and he offers numerous encouragements to those who think ballet is strictly for the birds, who don’t attend performances because they ‘can’t hear the words’ to instead give it a go.
New Zealand readers who have followed the fortunes of our own national company across its 70 years cannot help but compare the scale of company size and resources for dance between the two countries. The Australian Ballet has become a flagship company for its country with a number of high-profile and successful international tours to its credit. Our own company has not toured internationally for a number of years (not a Covid-related phenomenon) but anyone who pays attention to the fortunes and woes of ballet companies worldwide will nonetheless know ours as a stalwart and determined 7 decades-long endeavour that has served drama, joy, vivacity, solace, style and beauty to its home audiences.
Ballet Confidential is not intended as a scholarly history of ballet—but it certainly contains much of interest as McAllister traces some of the seminal figures who have featured in Australia’s dancing life. (In this regard I’d have valued an Index for the book—since Soar does include a very good one, and has photos of very high quality on dedicated paper).
The reader can also recognise telling comparisons with New Zealand in other areas—particularly in the acknowledgment of First Peoples’ prominence in historical, cultural and social identity. There is also the issue of the resources given to sport across its many codes, with all the touring of teams and spectators alike, and the wealth of domestic and international media coverage beyond compare. Ever positive in his thinking, McAllister nonetheless points out the striking progress across the past few years in elite sports training, injury prevention and management that are such a near and present issue for sportsfolk and dancers alike, and that the relevant medical practitioners have been able to share their approaches to the challenges common to both callings.
It is wonderful to be reminded of AB’s major seasons of commissioned full-length choreographies. Graeme Murphy is the shining star in the firmament there—with his extraordinary Nutcracker: The Story of Clara, and the celebrated Swan Lake. (Lucky those of us who crossed the Tasman to see the latter—and top marks to those who made the feature film of Clara, so we have been able to see that too. It’s available for viewing on Vimeo through AB website).
David tells the story of being a young dancer in his first year at the Company, 1983, cast in Le Conservatoire, the Bournonville work staged by Poul Gnatt on Australian Ballet. (He had earlier staged it on the Australian Ballet School during the 1960s). David enjoys the symmetry and longevity of that association through being Interim AD of the company Gnatt founded here in 1953—’so Poul is still giving me the chance to do something worthwhile all these decades later’.
The announcement just last week of the new Artistic Director of RNZBallet, Ty King-Wall, a New Zealander with many years’ experience in Australian Ballet, is most welcome, and my heart skipped a beat of joy (is that what a cardiologist would say?) to read in King-Wall’s profile that he has danced lead roles in Bournonville choreographies over the years, so he understands the technique and style of our company’s original tradition.
There are other names to slip in here of the ballet links between our two countries and two companies—apart from van Praagh and Gnatt, and Borovanksy before them—that includes sharing Bryan Ashbridge, Jon Trimmer, Jacqui Trimmer, Harry Haythorne, Roy Wilson, Susan Elston, Fiona Tonkin, Graeme Murphy, Jane Casson, Martin James, Adrian Burnett, David McAllister, and now Ty King-Wall with his dancing wife, Amber Scott. These are ties that bind.
Jennifer Shennan, 17 September 2023
Featured image: David McAllister, 2019. Photo: Georges Antoni
11 August 2023. Arc Cinema, National Film and Sound Archive, Canberra
Kiku, a film choreographed and directed by Japanese-Australian artist Natsuko Yonezawa of Itazura Co, had its premiere showing on 11 August to a sold-out, very enthusiastic audience at the National Film and Sound Archive’s Arc Cinema. I was taken aback when I realised the theatre was chock-a-block. I have never seen that theatre so crowded!
Kiku was danced by six women aged between 59 and 74—Suzannah Salojarvi, Vilaisan Campbell, Jane Ingall, Anne Embry, Sue Andrews, and Julie (Jules) Rickwood. It set out to examine the notion of ageing and, in particular, the individual journeys of each of the dancers across the decades of their lives. It began with constantly changing groupings of the six dancers in which they linked up with each other in a variety of ways, most often using arms and hands to wrap themselves around each other, or to extend the space each grouping occupied.
Throughout the work, the dancers often held their hands together at the wrist and then, keeping the wrists touching, opened their hands and spread their fingers as if a flower was blooming. The word ‘kiku’ in Japanese means ‘listen’ and/or ‘chrysanthemum’, but perhaps even more relevant in relation to this work is the fact that Yonezawa was inspired not just by the concept of ageing, but by Makoto Azuma, a Japanese flower artist and botanical sculptor. In his work, I discovered, Azuma groups flowers together so that they merge with each other, twisting this way and that. Yonezawa worked in a similar fashion with her dancers.
Following the opening group sections, each dancer had a solo. But following those solos, the dancers began regrouping in various arrangements. I was especially taken by a section that seemed to be in 3D as three groups, each consisting of two dancers, took up positions along a horizontal line in the performing space. The eyes of the audience were able to follow a line to a vanishing point as each group grew smaller along the line. Videographer was Trent Houssenloge and lighting designer was Craig Dear. Both added exceptional effects to the work.
Kiku was danced to a commissioned soundtrack from Rebecca Hilliard sung by members of the ANU Chamber Choir and Luminescence Children’s Choir.
The film was followed by a documentary created in the homes of the six dancers. In this short documentary the dancers explained in words something of their journey through life, and their approach to dance and ageing. The documentary was also beautifully filmed with the occasional look beyond the dancers to items within or outside the homes—two galahs drinking from a birdbath, a close-up of sunflowers, for example. The evening finished with a Q & A session moderated by Marlēné Claudine Radice, a composer and performer who acted as MC throughout the evening.
Despite the documentary and Q & A, which had their interesting moments, it was Kiku the film that was the highlight of the night. It was a stunning creation and one that developed the art of collaboration to an exceptional level.
Miscellaneous matters Itazura means ‘mischief’ in Japanese. According to Yonezawa, Itazura Co is ‘the home of mischievous performance art’.
Kiku is the last work Natsuko Yonezawa will make in Australia for the moment. She is about to head to London where she will undertake a Master’s degree in Performance: Design and Practice at Central Saint Martins, University of the Arts.
There was a lot to admire about Unhinged, the latest production from The Training Ground, a Canberra-based group designed to give advanced contemporary dance students from the region the opportunity to prepare for tertiary and/or pre-professional dance courses. Most obviously, the dancers were absolutely brilliant when dancing together. Great coaching of course but how stunning it was to watch the beautiful manner in which they danced as one when unison was required. Not only that, their hair and make-up were impeccable and gave them such a professional look, and one that fitted well with the characters they represented (dolls in most cases).
The second outstanding production feature was the film that so often took on the role of a background set. Created by Trent Houssenloge and Chris Curran of Cowboy Hat Films, the film component was at times a fluid, abstract image, but at other times it was a 3D creation that seemed to set the dancing in a space beyond the stage. At times the setting was an outdoor venue, at others an inside view of an artist’s studio or factory. A wonderful addition to the production.
Unhinged was inspired by the well-known ballet Coppélia but, as is the way of Bonnie Neate and Suzi Piani who direct The Training Ground, the familiar story was given a new slant. The main characters, Swanhilda (Alice Collins); Franz (Joshua Walsh); Coppélia, a doll who is brought to life (Larina Bagic); and Dr Coppélius, a doll maker (Imogen Addison); remained in the new story, which centred on the fact that Swanhilda was enraged by Franz’s attention to Coppélia. Swanhilda was, apparently, the ‘unhinged’ character. The relationships between the characters developed and changed over the course of the production and the whole ended in a somewhat surprising manner with a destructive fire, although the work continued for several minutes after that.
Unfortunately, I have to say that for me the story did not unfold as strongly as was needed for the rage of Swanhilda (usually Swanilda—no ‘h’ in the spelling of the name in the traditional ballet) to be really noticeable. Nor was it really clear who Franz was in the town in which he lived. In fact, none of the main characters held the stage, that is acted, in a way that gave any real strength to their characters, despite the unison dancing and the make-up and hair styles. So, it was just as well that the work had a powerful visual element to enjoy.
The Training Ground is an excellent initiative, especially given that there is an aim there to keep dancers in Canberra if possible rather than have them go elsewhere to pursue a career. But I wonder if it would not be more advisable to make brand new works rather than aim to give a different slant on a well-known ballet? Romeo and Juliet worked well as the 2022 production but Coppélia is a different ballet, not as widely known as R & J, not so emotionally human perhaps, and maybe therefore one that does not lend itself so well to new slants? Perhaps a dramaturg would have been a useful addition to the production?
27 July, 2023. St. James Theatre, Wellington. reviewed by Jennifer Shennan
The opening work, Serenade, to Tchaikovsky, is an abstraction of femininity, a favoured topic of Balanchine’s. It was created, in 1934, for students at the School of American Ballet that fed his company, so the memory of several productions at New Zealand School of Dance here across the decades, with the aura of fresh innocence of students at the threshold of their careers, has been special. The work has also been performed a number of times by RNZBallet since the 1970s.
My interest in watching Serenade is always to follow the dancers’ eye and facial expression, which styles the production and invites our response to it. Despite the uniformity of torso movement and port de bras required, some dancers in this cast smiled broadly and looked directly at the audience, whereas others looked into the far or the middle distance, raising the question as to what the performers are thinking about, and how Balanchine himself might originally have styled the work. The twirling pirouettes of tulle skirts always works its special poetry, but the use of token male dancers to lift a female dancer aloft in the closing scene has always seemed anachronistic. Having said that I do know that many balletomanes adore this work, even rate it as their favourite, and I respect that. All the dancers performed with aplomb, but Mayu Tanigaito found a way to invest her abstract movements with a spiritual quality that puts her in a class of her own.
(Harry Haythorne, artistic director here 1982–1993, told me that when a member of Metropolitan Ballet in UK he sustained an injury that put him out of performing for some time. He used the rest period to study Laban’s dance notation, and became fluent enough to score Balanchine’s Serenade, the first notator to do so. Although many versions of the score have since been made, Harry’s was the first, so it is poignant to visit the Dance Notation Bureau in New York and sight the initials HH at the footer of each page of his score.)
The second work, Te Ao Mārama. choreographed by Moss Te Ururangi Patterson, opened with the renowned Ariana Tikau playing pūtõrino, that most distinctive of taonga pūoro (Maori traditional instruments). I would have thought this sound would reach acoustically into every corner of the theatre, since these instruments were traditionally played in open air. I must confess that amplification of it, plus the electric guitar and amplification from Shayne Carter on the opposite side of the stage, made for challenging acoustic contrast. The dance itself explored the theme of moving from Te Kore, the darkness, as though searching for fragments of what would in time grow into haka, traditional dance, into the world of light, Te Ao Mārama. This is an interesting notion, for a choreographer to make a dance about dancing, and the final haka was certainly performed with vigour and intent by the all-male cast. I found various lighting effects, including bright white beams that swept into the audience’s eyes several times, as though to dazzle them, both unpleasant and distracting.
I did welcome the reminders of various incorporations of Maori dance influence into the repertoire of RNZB over their seven decades. Poul Gnatt in 1953 choreographed Satan’s Wedding, which a reviewer at the time (DJCM in The Auckland Star) noted reminded him of the power of haka, which was quite a thrill for Poul to hear. In 1990s Matz Skoog’s and Sue Paterson’s project that combined RNZB with Split Enz music, and Te Matārae ī Orehu on the same program, Ihi FreNZy, made very strong impression—especially when, by way of epilogue, both companies of dancers combined in a rousing haka. By the time that tour ended, Shannon Dawson, one of the strongest character dancers the Company has ever known, seemed to have changed his ethnicity. I doubt if another pākehā has ever performed haka so convincingly. My standout memory though, across all the years, is from Gray Veredon’s Tell me a Tale, set in mid 19th century, in which Warren Douglas led a haka of rage against the young colonial boy (played by Kim Broad), his father (played by Jon Trimmer) and mother (played by Kerry-Anne Gilberd). The boy had dared to fall in love with (Warren’s) sister and that provoked a taparahi never to be forgotten. We could all now haka in rage and sorrow that Warren was taken so young, and we lost a phenomenal dance talent when he lost his life.
The third work, Requiem for a Rose, is choreographed by Annabelle Lopez Ochoa, to Schubert’s String Quintet in C major. There is a depth, beauty and mystery in this piece that resonates, not only as a flower of romance, but with what the rose has meant as symbol of life and love, to different peoples and cultures in history, across stories, poems and paintings—originally from Persia, China, India, South America, and then worldwide. Twelve dancers, male and female, wear rich red circular skirts that seem almost fragrant when illuminated by Jon Buswell’s outstanding lighting design. They dance a series of four duets and a quartet, all very well cast, and beautifully set to the music. The 13th dancer, Kirby Selchow, wearing the barest of leotards and no skirt, carrying a red rose in her mouth throughout, powerfully sustains the essence and mystery at the heart of this enigmatic and beautiful work.
The fourth work, Logos, choreographed by Alice Topp, is to a very effective commissioned score by Ludovico Einaudi. The opening duet, by Mayu Tanigaito and Levi Teachout—and the closing duet, by Ana Gallardo Lobaina and Matthew Slattery, are equally exquisite though in very different ways. (In later solo sections Teachout seemed to have found an astonishing quality of torso movement that evokes the likes of choreography we have seen from Douglas Wright dancers—which made him a standout in a cast of already strong dancers.) There are a number of quotations oddly laid out in the program notes, but I guess that matters not as simply following and absorbing the dance as it progresses from a dark and troubled beginning to a clearer lighter place was all the guidance we needed. Topp and Buswell collaborated brilliantly in the design for this work. Its apotheosis is a theatrical coup, and one that will stay with all who see it, even as it suggests what some might see as a disturbing harbinger for the planet. A powerful work of theatre with much to admire.
There is an exhibition in the theatre foyer to mark this as the 70th year of the Company. There are many wonderful images that remind us of a rich and varied repertoire across the decades. A National Film Unit documentary, with footage from 1959–1962 performances, is screening within the exhibition, and is a treasure. My favourite vignette in this film has always been of Jacqui Oswald Trimmer dancing in Do-Wack-a-Do, composed by the legendary Dorothea Franchi. Jacqui would have won a role in The Great Gatsby if she had used this as her audition piece. Gloria Young, Sara Neil, Anne Rowse, Patricia Rianne, Terence James, Carol Draper, Christine Smith, Valerie Whyman, Kirsten Ralov and Fredbjörn Björnsson all make striking cameo appearances in the film, and the alumnae gathering for celebrations will have great fun in following them all.
There is much to savour in the storyboards, but one statement cannot go unchallenged. Friends of the New Zealand Ballet was formed by Poul Gnatt in 1953 (not some decades later as stated). Without those subs from Friends in the 1950s, this company would simply not have made it round the country. Poul used to drive the truck with scenery and costumes from town to town to town—pick up every hitch-hiker he spied, and by the time the hikers climbed down from the truck at the end of the ride they were subscribed members of Friends of the Ballet. Poul used the money to buy petrol to drive the truck to the next town. It’s an important story—because when Poul a decade later returned to his native Denmark he taught colleagues at Royal Danish Ballet that they too should set up a Friends—which they named Ballet Appreciation Club. It has survived to this day with a staggering number of audience education and outreach activities. If they remember that Poul showed them how a Friends outfit can work, we should surely remember that too.
27 July 2023. Talbot Theatre, Thomas Dixon Centre, Brisbane
It would be hard to find a performance more thrilling, more emotionally driven, more technically fascinating than the sixth production from Queensland Ballet under the banner Bespoke. Made up of works from Remi Wörtmeyer, Paul Boyd and Natalie Weir, this program was rightly advertised as ‘compelling, challenging and always thought provoking’.
The evening began with Wörtmeyer’s Miroirs (Mirrors in French) danced by 10 dancers to piano music of the same name by Maurice Ravel. It was played onstage on this occasion by Daniel Le. Choreographically, Miroirs was an interesting combination of classical vocabulary and more contemporary style movement. The classical sections were nicely structured in a spatial sense with dancers creating a range of unexpected groupings. On the whole it was a relatively fast-paced work and often surprising in the strong imagery that emerged from partnering.
The more contemporary movement was often quite grounded and for me these sections didn’t work so well, or at least didn’t blend easily with the more classically-based sections. The work ended with a pas de deux danced by Mia Heathcote and Victor Estévez. It was a quiet ending compared with the speed and action of the first and much longer section and, despite excellent dancing from Heathcote and Estévez, the ending felt somewhat out of place.
Wörtmeyer was responsible for the attractive costumes and set design. His set consisted of nicely arranged strings of light and reminded me of a deconstructed chandelier. His costumes were simple, close-fitting tights and tops but were made elegant with the addition of small, silver decorative elements at the waist and elsewhere on the costumes.
Second on the program was Tartan choreographed by Paul Boyd to an assorted collection of sound, from a rendition of Donald where’s your trousers? to music from the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards! The work tells the story of an elderly Scottish gentleman, played by former Queensland Ballet dancer Graeme Collins, who relives his past and imagines the people he grew up with return to his house and interact once more with him.
Tartan was choreographed in spectacular fashion to combine traditional Scottish steps with ballet and contemporary movement. I especially loved the way Boyd often combined, or intertwined, two varieties of fifth position of the arms, one strictly classical, one with fingers held in a Scottish manner. But here was much more than that, including the bends of the body in a reverence with torso stretched forward and spine parallel to the floor; pointe work for the girls on occasions; lots of pliés in second position; the fast, definitive moves of the feet close to the ankles; and so on. Then there were the surprising moments when the dancers appeared (like ghosts?) from under and inside a box-like table to the hilarious scene, led by Josh Fagan, accompanying Donald where’s your trousers?
The dancers, all from Queensland Ballet’s Jette Parker Young Artist Program, performed with huge commitment and skill. Apart from their actual technique I loved the way they projected their presence out to the audience. It was an absolute joy to watch them and, If their performance is anything to go by, the future of Queensland Ballet is assured.
Natalie Weir’s Four last songs closed the program and, for me at least, it was the highlight. I have long admired Weir’s choreography, on the one hand for the emotive qualities with which her works are always imbued—We who are left made for Queensland Ballet in 2016 (restaged 2022) instantly springs to mind—but also for the way in which she has always used partnering to display choreographic possibilities. Both those qualities were apparent to an exceptional degree in Four last songs.
Weir’s Four last songs used the composition of the same name by Richard Strauss to tell a story about life and death with a strong sense of a life that is lived to the full before, inevitably, death arrives. The work was led by Lucy Green and Patricio Revé and I admired the way Weir had set choreography in the early stages that was joyful—Green’s little skipping-like movements shorty after her first entrance for example—but which gave way to something slower as age progressed. The work concluded with strong movement that was actually beautifully uplifting as the inevitability of the end of life was accepted.
The work of Green and Revé was mirrored by four couples representing, on the surface, four seasons, but those seasons also reflected four stages of life. The dancing of the four couples showed Weir’s long standing interest in partnering and ranged from beautifully swirling lifts to slower, less extravagant but still quite spectacular ones as life progressed. As for the four men, Weir tells us in her notes that they represent ‘one man, a thread of humanity’. There was one stage when the four men held sway with a magnificent series of entrances and exits interspersed with spectacular jumps. It was extraordinary dancing from all the dancers.
I have often wondered how Weir manages to imbue her work with the emotion that we always feel when watching it. It is of course partly the dancers’ ability and the coaching they receive to act out the scenario. But it is also Weir’s choreographic ability to create movement that tells the story. Those little early skipping movements from Green, for example. Then there were those beautiful swirling lifts that told so much about life, including the lifts performed by Callum Mackie and Lina Kim who performed as Autumn or a late stage of life in which more sleep was apparent. Kim’s body was often held parallel to the ground as if her body was still sleeping while being lifted. And more. Four last songs was a stunning work from Weir.
20 July 2023. Canberra Theatre, Canberra Theatre Centre
With Yuldea, Bangarra Dance Theatre’s first production under the artistic directorship of Frances Rings, the company continues to present work that examines the experiences that Australia’s First Nations people have lived through. As Rings has written in the ‘Welcome’ section of the Yuldea program, ‘Yuldea reflects the truth-telling of the Indigenous experience in Australia and reminds us that there are two stories to the making of this country.’ The ‘two stories’ angle has been an outstanding feature of Bangarra productions since its inception and has contributed to the admiration audiences have had for the company over the years.
Yuldea is in four parts, ‘Supernova’, ‘Kapi (Water)’, ‘Empire’ and ‘Ooldea Spirit’. It tells the story of the Aṉangu people of the Great Victorian Desert and the Nunga of the Far West Region of South Australia. It focuses especially on the traditional cultural activities of the people of the regions, on the effects of colonisation including the building of the Trans-Australian Railway, and on the ability of traditional culture to survive. The title of the work, Yuldea, refers to a ‘soak’ or waterhole seen as an ‘epicentre of traditional life’.
Choreographically, Yuldea presented the Bangarra style that has become familiar over the course of the company’s existence—the grounded movement, the turned up feet with legs bent sharply from the knee, tightly structured and strongly held group poses, bodies held upside down or at unusual angles in partnering moves, and so forth. But there were times in Yuldea when I was struck by the existence of moments that seemed based on ballet, both in some less grounded movement and recognisable balletic steps, and in the way the movement was structured in groupings that were less random in appearance and often performed in unison. It seemed a little like another version of the ‘two story’ angle.
Yuldea was beautifully danced by the whole company with a standout performance from Lillian Banks and Kallum Goolagong in an early duet.
Yuldea continued the collaborative style of production that has characterised Bangarra presentations for decades. Jennifer Irwin’s costumes were as stunning as ever. Her use of fabric and layering of material, and the cut of her costumes that allows the costume to move freely (as if performing its own dance) were there in spades, as was her admirable addition of decorative items, including feathers, to various parts of the costume.
In terms of set design, Elizabeth Gadsby gave us something different from what we have seen from former resident designer Jacob Nash, who has now moved on to other activities. For me, Gadsby’s set was akin to a kind of architectural minimalism. It consisted of a semi-circular arrangement of ‘ceiling’ to floor strips of material (not sure what they were actually made from) through which the dancers made entrances and exits, and a semi-circular white item that hung in the air in front of the strips of material. The semi-circular shape of both items perhaps represented the shape of a waterhole? I’m not sure. Perhaps the white structure was the serpent, the ‘Steel Snake’ of the railway? The set, especially the strips of material, might have played a functional role but for me the set as a whole lacked a certain artistic vision and the thrill that such vision gives to audiences.
Music came from Leon Rodgers, the recipient of the 2021 David Page Fellowship, and Electric Fields. Lighting was by Karen Norris and there was in-depth cultural consultation with a range of people and groups.
Like most productions from Bangarra, especially those made over the last decade or so, Yuldea is a complex work and asks us to continue to think about many aspects of Australian life. Bangarra will, I feel sure, continue to be one of Australia’s foremost dance companies as it moves ahead with Frances Rings as its artistic director.
