Corybantic Games. The Royal Ballet (2018)

via the ROH streaming platform

I have to admit that I was bewildered by the name of Christopher Wheeldon’s 2018 work Corybantic Games. What did Corybantic actually mean and did it relate (as some reports or reviews suggest) to England’s hosting of the Olympic Games in 2012? Well, some research and a discussion with a colleague with a strong background in Ancient Greek language and history gave me a bit of understanding about the Corybants. As Wikipedia tells us they were ‘mythical, armed, and crested dancers who worshipped the Phrygian goddess Cybele (and often Rhea) with wild, frenzied dancing, drumming, and clashing armor’. My colleague mentioned that there was also a strong sexual element to their activities.

But a YouTube interview with Wheeldon, recorded by the Paris Opera Ballet, casts a Wheeldon-esque light on the name. Wheeldon used Leonard Bernstein’s composition, Serenade, for his Corybantic Games and apparently heard the word used in a symposium in which he heard Bernstein referred to as conducting Serenade with ‘Corybantic ecstasy’. For Wheeldon, the word therefore conjured up the concept of physicality but also the first Olympic Games in Greece. Thinking in that way made gave me a quite different way of looking at the ballet.

With its five sections, Corybantic Games follows the five movement structure of Serenade. Choreographically the sections are quite different with some danced by the full cast of 21 dancers but with others using different groupings. The Royal Ballet dancers performed Wheeldon’s detailed choreography with exceptional skill and emotional input, and there were many moments when I greatly admired the sense of fluidity Wheeldon created with his movement. But I thoroughly disliked the twists and turns of the hands and the frequency with which a foot was flexed upwards. These sharp and twisted movements were grating on the eyes and took away the smooth line of the body that was so clear from the major part of the choreography.

Then there were the costumes designed by Erdem Moralioglu, especially those for the female dancers. In the opening scenes the women wore long, delicately pleated skirts in white translucent fabric with a ring of blue/black around the bottom of the skirt. It had the look of a traditional Grecian garment.

Lauren Cuthbertson and Yasmine Naghdi in a moment from *Corybantic Games*. The Royal Ballet, 2018. Photographer not identified

But unfortunately the skirt was removed shortly afterwards and we were forced to look at a white bra and underpants that to my eyes could have come from a department store of the 1950s. These items took away the grace and dignity of the work, even though the 1950s look probably refers to the decade in which Bernstein’s Serenade was composed.

Luckily the set design by Jean-Marc Puissant was elegant in its architectural simplicity and in the admirable way in which it changed slightly throughout the work. In addition the lighting by Peter Mumford added a further elegance.

I’m not sure why Wheeldon used the word ‘Corybantic’ (apart from the reason above relating to the manner in which Bernstein conducted). From my research into the meaning of the word, its use by Wheeldon seemed nothing more than a somewhat pretentious name for a non-narrative ballet. To my mind there was nothing wild and frenzied about it, but there was some beautiful dancing.

Michelle Potter, 15 March 2026

Featured image: Yasmine Naghdi and Beatriz Stix-Brunell in a moment from Corybantic Games. The Royal Ballet, 2018. Photographer not identified

Les Patineurs. The Royal Ballet

via the ROH streaming platform

Frederick Ashton’s 1937 creation, Les Patineurs (The Skaters), was first seen in Australia (as far as I am aware) in 1958 during the Royal Ballet’s tour to Australia and New Zealand. It entered the repertoire of the Australian Ballet in 1970 when it was first seen in Adelaide and then in various Australian venues. Below are two images from the 1958 Royal Ballet production in Australia, taken by Walter Stringer and now part of the collection in the National Library of Australia (NLA), and two from the 1970 Australian Ballet production, again by Walter Stringer in the NLA collection.* LInks to the NLA catalogue are also below.

Above left: https://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-146861023/view; above right: https://catalogue.nla.gov.au/catalog/2213080, Below left: https://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-146891471/view; below right: https://catalogue.nla.gov.au/catalog/2472972

I first saw Les Patineurs in Australia in 1970, a long time ago now, but can’t really remember if I saw it again somewhere. So I was pleased to be able to go to the ROH site to remind myself, not so much of the ‘story’ (which is quite slight and not really the main focus of the work), but of the choreography.

The production on the streaming platform is a filmed version of a Royal Ballet production from 2010 and I was thrilled, to tell the truth, to see who was dancing in that production. The Blue Boy, who takes on some of the most challenging of Ashton’s choreographic input, was Steven McRae, seen in the featured image to this post. I have admired McRae’s dancing for a number of years now. I really didn’t see much of him until around 2016 and onwards so it was interesting to see him in an earlier stage of his career. After a bit of research I discovered he was promoted to principal with the Royal in 2009 and his exceptional technique was well and truly visible in 2010.

His solo as the Blue Boy had some unusual moments. In particular there was a section or two where he performed a series of entrechats when his legs, rather than opening to the side to execute the crossing of the limbs, opened to the front/back. It was surprising to see this variation on the much-performed entrechat.

His technical strength was again exceptionally obvious in the closing moments of the production when he executed a long series of fouettés and grands pirouettes à la seconde, which he was required to continue until the curtain had fallen at the end of the performance.

But not only was McRae technically strong, his characterisation was thoroughly engaging as well.

While perhaps it was McRae who stole the show for me, it was a treat to see other Royal Ballet dancers in relatively early stages of their career development. Sarah Lamb for example was beautiful to watch in the pas de deux with Rupert Pennefather as was Akane Takada, whose work I have also enjoyed over several years. Takada performed as one of the Blue Girls. Then of course there was Liam Scarlett, whose career in Australia and New Zealand gave so many of us so much pleasure. Scarlett danced as one of the ensemble of skaters.

Samantha Raine and Akane Takada as the Blue Girls in Frederick Ashton’s *Les Patineurs*. The Royal Ballet 2010. Photo: The Royal Ballet streaming platform.

While Les Patineurs may not be one of Ashton’s most deeply affecting narrative works, choreographically it shows Ashton’s uncompromising approach to movement and his sense of attack, choreographic attack that is. This 2010 production was a huge pleasure to watch and opened up for me various avenues of research. The streaming also offers three extra short examinations of aspects of the work, including an interview with McRae and one with Lamb and Pennefather on various aspects of Ashton’s approach. Well worth watching.

Les Patineurs, 2010.

Michelle Potter, 28 September 2025

Featured image: Steven McRae as the Blue Boy in Frederick Ashton’s Les Patineurs. The Royal Ballet 2010. Photo: The Royal Ballet streaming platform.

*Only head and shoulder shots from 1970 by Walter Stringer are currently available (or suitable) for reproduction.

Postscript: Putting it mildly, I was surprised to read the following ‘AI overview’ after I entered ‘Liam Scarlett Les Patineurs’ into a search engine:

‘Liam Scarlett choreographed the ballet Les Patineurs for The Royal Ballet, which premiered in 2010. He was a British choreographer who had a successful career, but died by suicide in April 2021 following allegations of sexual misconduct.’

Everything in the first sentence is incorrect and, just to comment further on the wording above, it is a direct copy and paste from what emerged from my online query. AI is a worry that’s for sure!

Ondine (2009). The Royal Ballet

via the ROH streaming platform

While I was quite aware that Frederick Ashton had created Ondine back in 1958 specifically to feature Margot Fonteyn, before watching the recently released stream of a 2008/2009 production of that work I went to David Vaughan’s book, Frederick Ashton and his ballets, to see what Vaughan had written about it. Vaughan, in his usual informative and very readable manner, gives an explanation of how the work evolved and, in particular, the role of composer Hans Werne Henze. But despite the discussion by Vaughan, along with various other writings about the work, I found it very hard to watch to the end of what is a three act ballet of (to my mind) dubious quality.

Ashton chose to base his work on the novel Undine by Friedrich de la Motte Fouqué, with a few changes including to the names of the leading characters: Undine the water sprite became Ondine; Hullbrand the gentleman who falls in love with Ondine became Palemon; Bertalda the woman whom Palemon eventually married (despite earlier being married by a hermit to Ondine) became Berta; and the Lord of the Mediterranean Sea was changed from Uncle Kuhleborn to Tirrenio. Basically the ballet tells of the fate, death to be specific, that awaits Palemon when he declares that his true love is for Ondine rather than Berta.1

In the streamed production Miyako Yoshida danced the role of Ondine and seemed smilingly dispassionate, perhaps rather unsubtle; Genesia Rosato was a somewhat haughty Berta; Tirrenio was danced with conviction by Ricardo Cervera; and the Hermit who presided over the marriage of Palemon and Ondine, was strongly and memorably performed by Gary Avis, even though it was quite a small role.

But the standout performance came from Edward Watson as Palemon. Especially remarkable was his solo in Act III when he sees a vision of Ondine prior to being involved in the fateful kiss that brings his life to an end. Watson’s acting and dancing was exceptional throughout but the last solo was absolutely engrossing. What was thrilling to watch was not simply the steps, which were beautifully formed and placed, but the way in which Watson’s entire body was involved at every moment. It was a perfect physical engagement.

But the narrative was far from perfect. Who exactly was Palemon? Why did he live in a castle? And similarly who was Berta, who also apparently lived in a castle? Perhaps I needed to have read the book first? Then as we moved to Act II, why did Ondine and Palemon board a ship. Where were they going? Then as Act III began there were similarities with certain acts of well-known ballets, Sleeping Beauty for example, as Berta and Palemon sat to watch divertissements in celebration of their marriage. But somehow Hans Werner Henze’s score seemed too ‘modernist’ for this kind of activity.

I guess I was disappointed with so much of the production including, in addition to my remarks above, some of the choreography such as that line of dancers (sailors on board that ship going somewhere) swaying back and forth to represent the waves. It was just too superficial. Such a disappointment from Ashton really.

Michelle Potter, 25 July 2025

1. David Vaughan gives a useful outline of the story in Frederick Ashton and his ballets, pp. 444-445

Featured image: Detail (full image below) of Miyako Yoshida in a moment from Act I of Ondine. (Image from the ROH website—a still from the film?)

The Weathering. The Royal Ballet

Via the ROH streaming platform

My attention was first drawn to Kyle Abraham, choreographer of The Weathering (a Royal Ballet commission from 2022), while working in New York from 2006 to 2008, although I didn’t ever manage to see any of his choreography then. Almost two decades later, The Weathering, made on eleven dancers (two female and nine male of various ethnicities) is the first of his works that I have seen.

Media notes tell us that The Weathering ‘explores notions of love, loss and acceptance’ although it is not always easy to see that exploration appear in the choreography. I thought Abraham’s movement was quite repetitious—lots of pirouettes and other turning steps and a particular emphasis on waving arms. There was the occasional czardas-type movement and a few other interesting steps but nothing took away from the feeling I had that the choreography was somewhat repetitious.

The most watchable sections for me were those that featured Fumi Kaneko whether in her solo sections or in pas de deux with William Bracewell. Kaneko’s beautifully flexible body, and the fluidity with which she uses that aspect of her dancing, along with her ability to inject emotion into her performance made watching her a real pleasure.

Fumi Kaneko in *The Weathering*. The Royal Ballet, 2022. Photo: © ROH/Andrej Uspenski

A pas de deux between Calvin Richardson and Joseph Sissens also was satisfying to watch. It was a moment when the attraction between two people was strong.

Calvin Richardson and Joseph Sissens in *The Weathering*. The Royal Ballet, 2022. Photo: © ROH/Andrej Uspenski

The lighting design by Dan Scully consisted of lights enclosed in small rectangular-shaped containers. They were movable items that appeared at times on the floor and at others in various positions across the upper space of the performing area. Their placing and movements were something to watch, although it wasn’t clear if there was, or was not a relationship between them and the expressed themes of love, loss and acceptance.

In the end this review became a very short comment largely because I just kept wondering whether Abraham was simply making an effort to create a work that could be seen as politically or culturally correct given the diversity of the cast he chose and the way that cast members interacted in terms of gender and ethnicity. I am looking forward to seeing some more of Abraham’s work. It might clarify his approach (for me at least).

Michelle Potter, 5 July 2025

Featured image: Joshua Junker in The Weathering. The Royal Ballet 2022. Photo: © ROH/Andrej Uspenski

Requiem. The Royal Ballet (2024)

Via the ROH streaming platform

After watching, and being blown away by the film Cranko, I was inspired to look further in an effort to expand my understanding of the background to John Cranko’s career with Stuttgart Ballet. I found on the Royal Opera House streaming platform a 2024 production of Requiem, a ballet created for Stuttgart Ballet in 1976 as ‘a portrait of a ballet company coming to terms with the loss of its beloved leader’. That leader was, of course, John Cranko and the work, which first reached the stage three years after Cranko’s death in 1973, was choreographed by Kenneth MacMillan and set to Gabriel Fauré’s choral work Requiem.

The work has an interesting early history. MacMillan intended it for the Royal Ballet but his choice of music was vetoed by the Royal Opera House board of governors. Some board members did not approve of the use of the Fauré’s music, There was a feeling that its use might offend the religious sensibilities of some patrons. Marcia Haydée, then artistic director of Stuttgart Ballet, had no issues with MacMillan’s choice of music and the work was created in Stuttgart. It eventually entered the repertoire of the Royal Ballet in 1983.

I was incredibly moved by the opening moments when the cast entered from upstage, Prompt side, as a tightly knit group, moving with tiny steps while clenching their hands in what appeared to be frustration then opening their hands and arms expansively, while at the same time opening their mouths as if screaming. There before us was a group represented as one but with each and every person uttering their sorrow.

Then followed several separate sections according to the various movements of the Fauré composition, which Fauré himself described (apparently) as ‘dominated from beginning to end by a very human feeling of faith in eternal rest’. The choral input to the production came from the Royal Opera Extra Chorus. Other creative input included design from Yolanda Sonnabend (with later input from Peter Farley) and lighting by John B. Read.

Groupings of dancers featured throughout and, media tells us, many of the images created were inspired by the art work of William Blake.

An image from the sixth movement of *Requiem*. Image from the ROH stream page. Photographer not identified (a still?)

But beyond the stunning group work there were sections where the soloists on this occasion— Sarah Lamb, Melissa Hamilton, William Bracewell, Josef Sissens and Lukas Brændsrød—performed alone or together in pas de deux and other small combinations. Exceptionally enthralling was a solo by a sparingly costumed William Bracewell in the second movement. It was pretty much a perfect display both of his amazing technical skill and his ability to project emotion through that technique. It also showed just beautifully MacMillan’s choreographic emphasis on filling the space around the body.

William Bracewell in *Requiem*. From a Facebook page.

Sarah Lamb and Melissa Hamilton had some engrossing solos in the fourth and fifth movements and it was moving to watch the choreography so often changing from tightly held, almost crumpled poses to expansive movements. Thus did MacMillan’s choreography show changing emotions from despair to acceptance. The finale was yet another moving part of the work with the stage space showing a circle of light mid stage with the dancers moving into the light and showing some kind of acceptance, perhaps of a new stage in their and Cranko’s existence.

A masterly production from Macmillan and so beautifully performed by the Royal Ballet.

Michelle Potter, 10 June 2025

Featured image: An image from the ROH stream webpage for Requiem. Photographer not identified (a still?)

Limen. The Royal Ballet

Via the ROH streaming platform

Wayne McGregor made Limen as an exploration of the concept of liminality. The word liminality is not all that easy to define, and to tell the truth I spent a bit of time looking at how it is defined in different settings, including as an anthropological concept. In the end I settled for the fact that the word ‘limen’ in Latin means ‘threshold’ and I watched the ballet with that in my mind.

The ballet as streamed is from 2009, the year of its premiere. It opens in a darkish-blue environment with set and video design by Tatsuo Miyajima, along with a lighting design by Lucy Carter.

A moment from the opening of *Limen*. The Royal Ballet, 2011. Photo: © Tristram Kenton

In this environment dancers come and go as numbers and letters flash into the space and then, like the dancers, disappear. As we watch we can’t help but notice the astonishing manner in which McGregor pushes his choreographic movements into scarcely believable shapes, poses and connections without destroying completely the intrinsic characteristics of ballet. There are some intriguing moments between Steven McRae and Leanne Benjamin before she moves off leaving him alone.

Leanne Benjamin and Steven McRae in *Limen*. The Royal Ballet, 2011. Photo: © Tristram Kenton

The environment then changes with brighter lighting and with lines of coloured light creating a rectangular shape, or later stripes in parallel lines, on the stage floor on which the dancers continue their performance. McRae shines again, in particular with his triple pirouettes. But every dancer, dressed mostly in brightly coloured tops over mostly light, flesh coloured briefs, attacked McGregor’s demanding choreography with gusto.

But without a doubt the highlight of the work was an absolutely stunning pas de deux coming towards the end of the work and danced by Sarah Lamb (on pointe) and Eric Underwood. Lamb scarcely looked into the eyes of Underwood but the connection between them was intense. The fluidity as they moved together was engrossing and they seemed like just one person. Breathtaking!

As the pas de deux came to its end the stage blackened and the performing space lit up with tiny blue dots, numbers in various sizes, and letters all positioned seemingly randomly. Shadowy dancers appeared wearing simple costumes in skin coloured fabric. They danced together before Lamb and Underwood returned. But they too slipped away and were followed by a single dancer. But he too disappeared, as did the blue dots leaving nothing but a blackened space as the finale.

Limen is danced to a cello concerto by Finnish composer Kaija Saariaho, Notes on Light, which, as the Wayne McGregor website notes, was inspired by the idea of a solar eclipse. Although there were many moments that seemed to show the dancers on the threshold of beginning (or ending) a connection with others—thus reflecting the notion of liminality—Limen seemed to me to be more rewardingly seen as an abstract ballet demonstrating McGregor’s choreographic style. Like all of McGregor’s ballets, Limen is a masterly collaboration that leaves us both emotionally drained and filled with thoughts.

Michelle Potter, 26 April 2025

Featured image: Sarah Lamb and Eric Underwood in a pas de deux from Limen. Photo: © Bill Cooper

Enigma Variations. The Royal Ballet (2019)

Via the ROH streaming platform

Frederick Ashton choreographed his ballet, Enigma Variations, to the similarly named score by Edward Elgar: Royal Ballet publicity describes the ballet as an ‘ode to the composer Edward Elgar’. The ballet depicts several of Elgar’s friends and family who are seen at Elgar’s home as he ponders the outcome of a request to conductor Hans Richter regarding input into the premiere performance of the Enigma score. Richter eventually sends a telegram to Elgar agreeing to the request to conduct, and Elgar and his friends gather as one to share Elgar’s pleasure (and relief?).

I had never previously seen the ballet, which received its premiere from the Royal Ballet in 1968, and I came to the streaming with pretty much no knowledge of what was happening, not even why the mysterious envelope that arrived at the end of the work caused the thrill that it did for the cast. But even without this knowledge it was a fascinating work choreographically and for the way the collection of people who danced the various and diverse roles were so strong in their characterisations. It is also exceptionally designed as a period piece by Julia Trevalyan Oman. After watching it this first time, my curiosity sent me on a research trip via the internet and via David Vaughan’s engrossing book Frederick Ashton and his Ballets. I watched the stream again.

Christopher Saunders performed the role of Elgar and did so with a strength that drew attention instantly and constantly. The opening moments in which Elgar’s wife, danced by Laura Morera, offered her support for her husband as he struggled to remain unworried by his situation set the scene beautifully. It looked calm and simple in many respects but it was choreographically quite complex especially in relation to the various lifts included.

Christopher Saunders as Elgar and Laura Morera as Elgar’s wife, with Bennet Gartside as music editor A. J. Jaeger, in *Enigma Variation*s. The Royal Ballet. Photo: © ROH/Tristram Kenton

Francesca Hayward gave a memorable performance as Dorabella, a young friend of Elgar. Dorabella suffers from a speech impediment and this aspect of her persona was recognised with fast moving and constantly changing choreography—including fast runs and little hops on pointe. But, in addition to this somewhat remarkable choreographic inclusion, Hayward projected a winning, unforgettable youthfulness.

Francesca Hayward as Dorabella in *Enigma Variation*s. The Royal Ballet. Photo: © ROH/Tristram Kenton

Another standout character was Arthur Troyte Griffith, an architect and a close male friend of Elgar, danced dramatically and exuberantly by Matthew Ball. But the entire cast performed with such skill and dramatic input that it is hard to single out individual performances. One aspect of the choreography that stood out for me was Ashton’s skill in creating movement that never looked as though it was specific to particular parts of the body. Movement just coursed through the entire body.

Matthew Ball as Troyte in *Enigma Variation*s. The Royal Ballet. Photo: © ROH/Tristram Kenton

The ballet is episodic in structure and crosses time. But it is just beautifully structured and performed and will stay in my mind for a long time to come.

Michelle Potter, 20 February 2025

Featured image: Artists of the Royal Ballet in the closing moments of Enigma Variations. The Royal Ballet. Photo: © ROH/Tristram Kenton

Voices of Spring. The Royal Ballet

Via the ROH streaming platform

Frederick Ashton was a choreographer who used classical ballet as his medium, which today it is not such a common method of producing a new work, not even within a ballet company (at least not in my mind). This is not a criticism of ballet today and I clearly recall my former ballet teacher, Valrene Tweedie, saying ‘ballet absorbs everything’! To its credit ballet has moved on and continues to do so. But Ashton was a choreographer whose work is thrilling to watch for the manner in which he uses movement that encompasses aspects of ballet that no longer appear to the same extent in today’s choreography.

A recent addition to the ROH streaming platform has been Ashton’s six-or-so minute pas de deux Voices of Spring. Ashton originally made the work, then called Frulingsstimmen, in 1977 for a New Year’s Eve performance of Die Fledermaus as performed by the Royal Opera. It appeared in a ball scene in Act II of the production along with another Ashton inclusion, Explosions-Polka.

Frulingsstimmen was first performed as a dance piece, independent of the opera, in September 1978 under the name Voices of Spring, the English translation of its German title, Frühlingsstimmen. Since then the pas de deux has been part of the Royal Ballet’s repertoire (although it seems to have been performed somewhat infrequently).

The version the company has added to its streaming platform is a performance from 2013 danced by Yuhui Choe and Alexander Campbell. Technically they make Ashton’s demanding choreography look just breathtaking (including his ‘signature’ walking through the air moments). Impressive from both dancers is the line of the body, the fluidity of the arms and indeed the fluidity of the entire body throughout the piece, along with the use of a beautifully stretched neck, especially from Choe, with the head balanced so impressively at the top of the spine.

But more than technical matters, the connection between the two dancers had been exceptionally thought through. Campbell presented Choe to the audience in true balletic tradition, while never forgetting that he was an individual as well. Then there was the absolute joy that coursed through the pas de deux and that reflected so beautifully the music, the Frulingsstimmen waltz from Johann Strauss II.

This pas de deux has been danced by others over the years, all well-known artists. But, from the excerpts available on YouTube,* no one else seems to have captured the nature of the work as Choe and Campbell have done, especially the exceptional fluidity and the inherent joy seen throughout the performance. I was blown away.

Michelle Potter, 9 February 2025

* The YouTube footage available does not include the Choe/Campbell performance, which is only available online via the ROH streaming platform

Featured image: Yuhui Choe and Alexander Campbell in Voices of Spring. The Royal Ballet, 2013. Photo: © Tristram Kenton

Yugen. The Royal Ballet

Via the ROH streaming platform

I was really surprised to discover (belatedly) that the Royal Ballet’s repertoire included a work called Yugen, choreographed by Wayne McGregor and presented in 2018. Australians of a certain age will remember Robert Helpmann’s narrative ballet Yugen, which he created for the Australian Ballet in 1965. Helpmann’s Yugen was freely adapted from the Japanese Noh play Hageromo. It told the story of Tsukiyomo the Moon Goddess and, in essence, focused on the outcome of an event one night when Tsukiyomo came down to earth to bathe in a lagoon but had her wings stolen by a local fisherman, Hakuryo, who believed they were rare shells.

Alan Alder as Hakuyro the Fisherman in Robert Helpmann’s *Yugen*. The Australian Ballet, 1965. Photo: © National Library of Australia/Walter Stringer

‘Yugen’ is a Zen Buddhist term and was defined by Helpmann in program notes to his ballet as ‘the most gracefully refined expression of beauty; beauty which is felt—as the shadow of a cloud momentarily before the moon’.

McGregor’s Yugen couldn’t be more different. His interpretation of the word ‘yugen’ is of course similar to that of Helpmann. In an ‘extra’ to the ROH stream, McGregor says the word means ‘mysterious or profound grace, something that has a mercurial beauty’. But there is no specific narrative line in McGregor’s production, although when watching it one is tempted to create a story in one’s mind as the work progresses. This is especially so with the relationship that seems to evolve between and beyond the leading dancers, Calvin Richardson, Sarah Lamb and Federico Bonelli, along with Joseph Sissens who takes a significant role as the work moves to an end. And also in that ‘extra’ to the stream, McGregor mentions that in his Yugen there is no obvious storyline, but goes on to say that he believes there is no such thing as a non-narrative ballet as audiences tend to imagine their own story (as indeed I did).

Choreographically, whether we see/imagine a narrative or not, McGregor’s work for eleven dancers is quite stunning. Danced to Leonard Bernstein’s Chichester Psalms and presented as part of Bernstein’s centenary celebrations, the work begins dramatically in front of Edmund de Waal’s set of rectangular structures of different heights and depths.

Scene from *Yugen* showing Edmund de Waal’s set. Photo: © ROH/Andrej Uspenski

From there the work proceeds through duets, solos and other combinations of dancers. A highlight is a solo from Richardson in which he seems to puzzle over his existence or state of being. Sarah Lamb performs McGregor’s demanding movements calmly and with amazing skill and it is such a pleasure seeing her look into the face of Bonelli who partners her through the work. They are clearly connected, emotionally or otherwise.

McGregor’s choreography is filled with exceptionally lyrical movements of the arms and upper body. And, as ever, he uses the space of the stage in unusual and thought-provoking ways. Watching is a moving and often surprising experience. It’s a waiting game too as one waits to see what will happen next in terms of how the body can move. Costumes by Shirin Guild allow McGregor’s diverse and fluid movements to be seen at their best

But perhaps the most deeply involving moments come as the work concludes. In a duet, with no one else on stage, and with the lighting (from Lucy Carter) progressively darkening, Sissens leads Richardson into the blackness. Is it to his death?

Calvin Richardson and Joseph Sissens in a moment from *Yugen*. Photo: © ROH/Andrej Uspenski

I probably need to relate the choreography of McGregor’s work more closely to the various psalms that are sung during the work. Perhaps another viewing? On this first viewing I am simply enjoying the fascination of two productions called Yugen—both so different in approach to the word, or aesthetic concept, that gave birth to them. And of course I enjoyed the spectacular dancing of the eleven Royal Ballet dancers who performed this second (for me) Yugen.

Michelle Potter, 5 January 2025

Postscript: McGregor’s Yugen was a co-production with the Dutch National Ballet.

From New Zealand: Dance in 2024

by Jennifer Shennan

It’s always a pleasure to mark the end of the year with a rear vision reminder of the dance highlights we saw. 2024 had the best of the old and the new, with RNZB delivering a triumphant trio of seasons. After some important readjustments into new directions in management, the Company’s year opened with Tutus on Tour’s national itinerary of small venues that Poul Gnatt established back in 1950s. In May, Russell Kerr’s pedigree production of Swan Lake was memorably staged with respect and sensitivity by Turid Revfeim.

Their mid-year triple bill included Wayne MacGregor’s Infra, which I found deeply humane and appreciated very much. Sarah Sproull’s spirited To Hold, and Alice Topp’s High Tide had striking choreography and design, and each proved very popular with audiences.

The Company’s end-of-year season—a return of Liam Scarlett’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream—showed yet again what a brilliant concept the 29-year-old choreographer brought to this company back in 2015. His loss will reverberate for years, but this production, shared with Queensland Ballet, and Tracy Grant Lord’s stunning design, ensures that we hold him tight.

New Zealand School of Dance continued to display high performance standards in both Liminal, mid-year, and end of year seasons, when students from both classical and contemporary streams gave committed programs. The highlight for me remains NZSD alumnus Taane Mete’s All Eyes Open.

Dancers Aylin Atalay, Trinity Maydon, Anya Down and Lila Brackley in *A/EFFECT*. Choreography by Audrey Stuck. New Zealand School of Dance Choreographic Season 2024. Photo: © Stephen A’Court.

In Homemade Jam the ever enterprising Turid Revfeim combined her Ballet Collective Aotearoa with the local Tawa College dance group to energised effect.

Visiting companies to Wellington for the International Arts Festival included a dramatically different Hatupatu, a fusion of Maori legend into a contemporary love story from Tānemahuta Gray. Malia Johnston’s Belle offered striking airborne beauty combining aerialists and dancers. From afar Akram Khan’s company gave a sophisticated The Jungle Book which astonished many first-time dance-goers.

Later in March, Neil Ieremia of Black Grace staged a production of striking dramatic effect and design, under the title Paradise Rumour. It referenced missionary presence in the early settlement of the Pacific.

Jan Bolwell’s impresssive season of Crow’s Feet, Woman, Life, Freedom, to Gorecki, was a moving witness to the struggles of women in Iranian and migrant communities.

2024 was a special year for Vivek Kinra’s Indian dance company Mudra, beginning with an arangetram (astonishingly, by a mature age Pākeha woman of Irish descent. The world can live as one if we want it enough).

In a later season Vivek choreographed a poetic and colourful Vismaya, the seven emotions of nanikas, with a quartet of stunning visiting musicians, in a national tour under the auspices of Chamber Music New Zealand. We could hope for more seasons of music and dance from these adventurous entrepreneurs.

My subscription to Sky Arts channel is always good value—and this year’s film of Dona Nobis Pacem, Neuemeier’s farewell to Hamburg Ballet, was an exquisitely poignant piece in a combination of J S Bach and John Lennon that I will never forget. It was a masterstroke to also screen the documentary of Neumeier’s dancing life in the same week.

Another very striking film was the Royal Ballet production of Christopher Wheeldon’s Like Water for Chocolate. I have family connection to Mexico and it is always welcome to encounter art from that extraordinary country.

This year’s Russell Kerr Lecture in Ballet & Related Arts was a tribute to the late and much lamented Sir Jon Trimmer, following an earlier memorial for him staged by Turid Revfeim in the Opera House. Rowena Jackson’s death was another sad event, but an opportunity to recognise her outstanding personal qualities alongside her celebrated performance and teaching career. I join Michelle Potter in lamenting the passing of Joan Acocella, dance writer of highest calibre, and my valued mentor. Edith Campbell, a stalwart arts and community leader, will be much missed in Wellington, and it was an honour to perform French and English baroque dances at her Memorial Service. Edith would have appreciated the Auld Alliance between Scotland and France that these referenced, as she had an admirable knack of contextualising all art events. She taught Scottish Country Dance for 75 years, up until the fortnight before her passing. Requiescant in pace.

I found myself involved in another performance (who says you’re too old to dance? certainly not Eileen Kramer…) in a piece composed by Alison Isadora for The First Smile Indonesian gamelan, and included on the album we have just recorded to mark 50 years of gamelan in Aotearoa New Zealand. (See Rattle Records website). Keep up the good dancing everyone—and you’ll certainly have a Happy New Year.

Jennifer Shennan, 30 December

Featured image: Katherine Minor and Kihiri Kusukami in an excerpt from Swan Lake. Tutus on Tour, Royal New Zealand Ballet, 2024. Photo: © Stephen A’Court