I am not a massive ballet fan, although actually, I have been attending ballet for thirty years, off and on. I have nothing against ballet, but like straight drama, most times I think of going, I think again, knowing that the time, energy and money would be better spent (for me) on an opera or vocal concert. Or orchestral concerts.
Once in a while, though, it's nice to go. Once a year is more than enough for me. Jimmy had never been before, so last night we went to Swan Lake at the Royal Opera House.
Not knowing much about ballet I can't really volunteer much in the form of an opinion. Especially when, only half in jest, I kept wondering when they were going to start singing. I could not help feeling that for a lot of the time the orchestra was "phoning-it in". Or perhaps I am being unfair; I would have preferred the orchestra up on stage, not sunk in the pit. I sensed that the orchestra was not very big - a symphony orchestra would have piled on the strings and rung out lush and rich round the auditorium. I had not heard of the conductor, but I think that's par for the course with ballet. I might be wrong. I also got the impression, quite possibly erroneously, that for many ballet fans, the music is secondary or of even less importance; a good recording or an excellent synthesiser would probably be almost as effective.
Being not a ballet fan, the only name I recognise was Carlos Acosta as Prince Siegfried. I suppose he must be my favourite dancer, on the basis that every time I go to the Royal Ballet, he dances. Odette/Odile was danced by Tamara Rojo. I had not heard of her, but the man sat next to me was a massive fan. Whenever she came on stage he applauded, earlier and longer than anyone else, had his binoculars trained on her. At the start of the second interval he turned to me and gushed "Isn't she marvellous!". I could only agree. At the end of the second interval, he announced that Carlos had risen literally from his death bed, someone had been flown in from Denmark to cover and Tamara might have had to dance with an unrehearsed partner. And, joy of joys, he, my seat-neighbour, had managed to arrange to join Tamara in her dressing room afterwards. Absolutely made his day!
And yeah, I enjoyed it. Some of the music is sublime, and the dancing was wonderful to watch. I couldn't find fault with Tamara and Carlos. I particularly enjoyed the four cygnets at the end of the Act II and the various national dances in Act III, especially the Neapolitan Dance.
It was a good opportunity for people-watching. Quite a different crowd from an opera crowd, even on a Saturday night. Somewhat more female than male. And a larger number of people dressed up. I got the sense that a good many were former, or possibly current amateur, dancers. All these women in cheap fancy dresses unwisely chosen, dresses designed to accentuate bust and cleavage and looking out of place on androgynous bodies. Men in black polo neck jumpers standing in the bar in third position. And the barely articulate excruciatingly posh strangulating their vowels in lieu of anything of substance to stay whilst blocking the corridors and walkways blithely oblivious to the existence of two thousand other people. At the bus stop, two women complained about those in front of them standing for applause. "We couldn't see; it's the problem with modern society, but you know they weren't the usual ballet crowd..."
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