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Review, 7-17: "Giselle" 2003
Paris Opera Ballet: The Real Thing
By Nicole Pope
Copyright 2003 Nicole Pope
PARIS -- Before I explain
anything about what I saw during the Paris Opera Ballet's Friday
evening performance of "Giselle," let me explain myself. Before
this fated night, I was one of those unfortunates who has seen very
little ballet; the reason being that the little ballet I have seen
did not inspire me to return to the theater any time soon. I didn't
understand ... I went to performances by San Francisco Ballet, American
Ballet Theatre, and New York City Ballet; I saw the choreography
of Balanchine and Jerome Robbins among others. This was supposed
to be the "good stuff," and the "good stuff" often looked like a
bunch of blank faces and stiff bodies, performing as if a mirror
had been placed down the center of the stage, so that the right
side performed the right side of the phrase and the left side performed
the left. The performances I saw seemed to be one dimensional, as
did the performers themselves, particularly the corps, because of
their lack of commitment to any given piece. Instead, I often received
a sense of ego from the performers which did not let me enter whatever
world they were supposed to be portraying, whether it was narrative
or not, and ultimately sacrificed the choreography and my experience
of it. Going to Lincoln Center was like going to the Louvre only
to find all its amazing artifacts and treasures covered in dusty
sheets of plastic.
At some point, I thought
maybe I had to begin re-examining my expectations when viewing a
ballet, or even lowering them.
So, as I took my seat
Friday night inside the Palais Garnier, with its velvet covered
seats, marble balconies, and gold guilding, I wondered how I would
ever be able to keep my eyes on the stage when there was a giant
mural painted by Chagall just above my head. While some may have
approached the performance of Jean Coralli and Jules Perrot's "Giselle"
with some reservations about the plot of the ballet, I approached
it with some reservations about ballet.
Luckily, due to the
research I have been doing as of late about Marie Taglioni, I was
prepared for an evening of Romantic ideals inspired by Heinrich
Heine's story of the Wilis, later adapted by Theophile Gautier and
Jules-Henri Vernoy de Saint-Georges. I knew that this work reflected
the sentiments of a certain era and that to hold it up to my girl-power
standards would be less than fair, especially upon my first time
seeing it. But, as the musical composition of Adolphe Adam began
to whisk me away to another land, the curtain rose to reveal the
woodsy set design of Alexandre Benois, and a cast of animated dancers
frolicked into the lights, all of the heady compromises I had been
making with myself in order to enjoy the ballet dissolved away and
I was, for the first time while watching a piece of dance, moved
to tears, because I was finally experiencing the real thing, and
what a wonderful relief it was to discover that a little ex-bunhead
like myself could still love ballet.
Besides the dancing
of the principals, which I spent half the time watching with my
jaw dropped, what made this the real thing was that everyone on
stage believed in what they were doing, including the corps. Even
when the focus was on the peasant duet, the corps was entirely engrossed
in the couple's dancing, nodding to each other in accord over how
beautifully they danced. This ability to believe, to be fully a
part of and fully invested in telling a story does not take mind-boggling
extensions, fancy footwork, or dozens of pirouettes (of course,
it helped that the entire cast was technically the best I have ever
seen); all one needs is the talent of a good imagination, and I
suppose this specific capability lies not only within the hands
of the dancers, but also within the hands of visionary stagers like
Patrice Bart and Eugene Polyakov.
I don't know if the
aforementioned companies are lacking these factors, but if I may
humbly say so myself, as someone who wants to enjoy ballet, they
are doing this classical form a great disservice. Until seeing the
Paris Opera Ballet, I hadn't realized that a ballet's success depends
so heavily on the interpreters rather than the work -- that one
must decide whether to see a work based who is performing it rather
than what's being performed. This is not to say that the Paris Opera
Ballet rendition did not have its shortcomings. Yann Bridard's portrayal
of Hilarion lacked the dedication I speak of above; his revenge
on Albrecht seemed to be motivated by macho competition rather than
love. His miming gestures were half-hearted, and his face only showed
the expression of anger. So, as a first-time viewer, I figured that
if I were Giselle and I had to choose between these two, there would
be no competition. As far as I was concerned, there was no love
triangle.
When Albrecht, performed
by the dashing Jean-Guillaume Bart, rushed onto stage in anticipation
of seeing the woman he loves, boy did I believe it. The intensity
of his eyes and the dedication of his gestures revealed that he
would be much happier in these woods with this woman than he could
ever be up in that castle that we see far off in the scenery. In
Act II, when he is forced to dance nearly to his death, it is the
first time that his ecstatic leaps seem to take any effort.
Agnes Letestu danced
Giselle and for every ounce of expression that ran through the rest
of her body, her eyes were doing the same. They emoted the love,
excitement, naivete, grace, and betrayal of Act I, and the maturity
and forgiveness of Act II. I think Letestu was born for this role,
just in terms of her physicality. Whether sitting on a bench in
Act I, flirting with Albrecht, or crossing the stage in a series
of bourrees, her neck, as long as the necks of Modigliani's women,
softly curves over to one side or the other, humbled by the moment
and oblivious to what is to come. In Act II, her love of dance is
still evident as she crosses the stage in whimsical glissades and
grand jetes, but my heart dropped when she ended the spectadular
sequence with the Wilis' signature arabesque -- wrist limp, fingers
and eyes pointed down.
Of course I have saved
the best for last: the royal role of Myrtha as performed by Marie-Agnes
Gillot. The stage of the Palais Garnier is the largest I've ever
seen, but as a single body on that stage, traveling a straight line
of barely visible bourrees down the center of the stage with arms
crossed in front of her torso, Gillot's presence demands the complete
attention of the audience. She holds the space in eerie suspense,
as she takes us under her spell. She leaps as though she has a partner
thrusting her into the air or suspending her. And oh! I could write
ten pages about the articulation she was able to squeeze out of
her feet alone, while her arms had the breadth and the extension
of birds' wings. Glorious!
Now that I have been
spoiled with what I know now is a rare treat, I have to think about
how this will affect my experiences of seeing ballet in the future,
particularly in the U.S. But for now, I am just glad that hope has
been restored.
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