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Flash Analysis, 5-22: Giselle 2001
A Dance Odyssey, ABT-style
By Alicia Mosier
Copyright 2001 Alicia Mosier
Absurd, incoherent, misogynistic,
hopelessly outdated: thus do many dance lovers of today describe the story of
"Giselle," written by Vernoy de Saint-Georges, Theophile Gautier, and Jean Coralli,
and choreographed in 1841 by Coralli and Jules Perrot. You know how it goes. Act
I: Young girl with a love of dancing and a weak heart (or, in the opinion of some
dance historians, a bun in the oven) falls for a count disguised as a peasant,
who falls for her too but turns out to be engaged to a high-falutin' prince's
daughter, which revelation sends girl to a frenzied demise. Act II: slightly creepy
"ballet blanc" idealization of ghostly virgins, who dance their former fiancees
to death in revenge for the fact that they (the virgins) have died before their
wedding day. (Or something.) And here's the worst of it: the girl actually spends
the whole second act defending the guy who deceived her and ends up saving him
from death-by-exhaustion. Almost every newcomer to dance whom I've taken to see
"Giselle" has no patience for Act I -- all that pantomime! -- but the chilling
purity of Act II (in which, in today's productions, there's very little story
left) always leaves them breathless. Is it possible for viewers today -- especially,
perhaps, for feminist young women -- to appreciate "Giselle" as a whole?
That's really a question about how
we look at art. We generally expect art to reflect our political and ethical values,
or at least to express the artist's individual, uncompromising point of view.
This approach makes an artifact like "Giselle" very hard to swallow (although,
ironically, this approach is just as much a part of our inheritance from the Romantic
movement as this ballet is). It may seem an obvious and somewhat banal suggestion,
but I'd propose that "Giselle" be taken as the artifact it is -- that is, as the
embodiment of Romantic values in a fully integrated dance-drama. Taken that way,
the ballet can still have two different effects on an audience. It can excite
only the most antiquarian sentiments, as American Ballet Theatre's Ashley Tuttle
and Angel Corella showed in their performance last Tuesday at the Metropolitan
Opera House. Or, as Julie Kent and Jose Manuel Carreno showed on Thursday, it
can shoot us deep into the enduring mysteries of drama, dance, and life on earth.
Tuttle's "Giselle" was a confused
girl-child from the start, a little thing whose lack of personality made it easy
to see how she could be so taken in by Albrecht. In the Mad Scene at the end of
Act I she became an overwrought 12-year-old with quivering arms, grabbing her
head and shuddering on the floor. (Much of "Giselle," it's true, is ridiculous.
Arlene Croce once described the Mad Scene as "an extended absurdity that an incurably
cultish sentimentality has elevated to the status of a touchstone.") For all the
meltingly sweet balances and brisk hops on point Tuttle executed in the famous
Act I solo, I couldn't see that this Giselle had anything in her -- any fire --
that would make her go crazy from betrayal. She projected a sort of mild blankness
and nodded her head in the same dumb way every time someone asked her a question.
Albrecht would really have been a lout to take in a child like her -- except if,
as in the case of Corella, he was just as much a kid. When Corella came on at
the beginning of Act II with a cape two sizes too big, stepping around "aristocratically"
with toes so pointed he could hardly get one foot in front of the other, it was
the perfect image of his undercooked interpretation.
With Kent's Giselle, Albrecht faced
a more complex situation. Act I can only make sense if Giselle is a fully fleshed
out woman. From the beginning Kent had a mind of her own, a distinctive private
life. We saw her imaginary world (centered on the hunter's cottage, out of which
she daydreamed a handsome gentleman emerging); her self-regard and smart self-protectiveness
at the advances of the manly, magnetic Carreno; and most of all her sense that
love was almost too beautiful for her to bear. In this performance it was Giselle's
love, and her loving nature, that defined her. She took love so seriously that
it could literally kill her. In Kent's lush Act I solo, it was as if love was
coming out through her toes. (Love and dancing -- and the love of dancing -- are
magically knotted together in this ballet; it's a 19th-century instance of meta-narrative.)
Carreno wanted to come into this
Giselle's light; here the high and low of castle and village was transformed.
When Kent invited him to join in a little peasant dance, it took him a moment
to learn the dance (he's used to doing the allemande, at court), but he picked
it up quickly and thus entered into the heart of Giselle's world. Kent's Mad Scene
continued the modern sensibility that marked her whole performance. She began
to yank the petals from her invisible flower as if bitterly remembering Albrecht's
first deception, when he secretly pulled off the petal that would have said "he
loves me not." You could almost hear her clenching her teeth and saying, damn
him, damn him, I love him and he dares to play games with love! Her death is his
indictment.
Giselle's defense of Albrecht in
Act II, then, is two things at once: mercy for the sinner (with a little heaping
of ashes on his head), and justice for the true love who was true of heart too
late. Kent does not interpret Giselle simply. In Act I she is both wily and easily
moved, generous and covetous, trusting and proud. Her entrance in Act II is terrifying.
Whereas Tuttle appeared to be spun around by the wind in that whirling opening
dance, and only took off around the time of her traveling entrechat quatres (making
up for her limitations in the meantime with bizarrely elongated phrasing), Kent
was wild and wraithlike, spinning out a continued perplexity that might never
be resolved.
A big part of that perplexity is
caused by the presence of Myrtha, Queen of the Wilis, danced by Michele Wiles
on Tuesday and Gillian Murphy on Thursday. Wiles's Myrtha was chillier (those
wide, bone-white shoulders, that forthright presentation, those tall arabesques),
Murphy's more authoritative and more exciting. Murphy brought to the part the
dramatic power that is crucial for a coherent Act II. When Kent covered the deeply
pensive Carreno at the grave, we saw Murphy trumped for a moment; she bowed slightly
as she turned away to come up with another plan to get Albrecht out in the open.
Murphy's Wilis had absolutely no love left (behind her, they had personalities,
whereas Wiles's crew were mere shades). In front of them, Kent's Giselle stood
out all the more. There were a few shaky moments in her deft-as-a-spiderweb solos,
but I didn't care. I was listening, with Carreno, to her otherwordly, very present
voice.
A few words about the ballet's supporting
characters. The role of Berthe, Giselle's mother, centers on one bit of pantomime
in which she tells about the Wilis: they get awful little wings, she says, and
spend eternity tormenting men who get lost in the woods. Erica Fischbach did her
duty by this moment on Thursday, but Karin Ellis-Wentz made my skin crawl Tuesday
night as she sank into her terrible reverie, made more terrible by the knowledge
that it could happen to her own daughter. As Hilarion, John Gardner was good and
bitter, Ethan Brown more sturdy and more mocking in his scenes with Albrecht.
I liked Xiomara Reyes better on Tuesday as Moyna, Myrtha's first deputy, than
in the Peasant Pas de Deux she performed with Joaquin de Luz on Thursday. Although
her natural love of risk worked splendidly in the pas de deux (a big difference
from the floating, serenely classical interpretation of Ekaterina Shelkanova and
Gennadi Saveliev), her love of rubato brought a surprising richness to the part
of Moyna. Carmen Corella, with her perfectly straight pointes and thoughtful port
de bras, did the same for Zulma (Deputy Wili No. 2) on Thursday.
For sheer high excitement, almost
nothing in classical ballet can match the dance of the Wilis at the beginning
of Act II. The audience always applauds the long sequence of traveling chugs in
arabesque, partly because it's famous, but mostly because of the way it builds
and builds as more Wilis take the stage and the music's tension rises. I always
wish there were about eight more dancers in the pack, and that it would go on
about two minutes longer than it does. It's a dance of death -- as all of "Giselle"
is, in a way -- which Giselle turns into a dance of life-sustaining love. Giselle
and Albrecht dance all night; they dance *through* death; and the love that remains
in the morning of this ballet is as charged and haunted as any you or I have ever
known.
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