For a couple of centuries, the art of the ballet was dependent on music that was pretty, decorative, and on the whole fairly anonymous. That pattern shifted decisively in the nineteenth century, and the music became both more symphonic in sound and more closely structured as well. This new trend began with Adolphe Adam's Giselle, which pioneered the use of leitmotifs in dance music. Following on his work came Leo Delibes with Coppelia and Sylvia. Delibes in turn greatly inspired Tchaikovsky, whose three great symphonic ballets are the true cornerstones of today's classic ballet repertoire. Tchaikovsky had more than one successor in Russia, around the turn of the twentieth century -- notable among them Glazunov. There was also Stravinsky, to be sure, but his famous ballet scores have held the stage more decisively in the concert hall than in the dance theatre. Indeed, Stravinsky effectively conceded in later years that The Rite of Spring was much more effective as a concert work than as a ballet.
In the twentieth century the art form shifted decisively again, as did so many art forms. Rawer-edged concepts and sounds intruded. Ballets generally became shorter works, and narrative or story ballet was discarded in favour of the abstract by many artists. More and more ballets used music which had not originally been written for the ballet.
The twentieth century did, however, bring forth one final inheritor of Tchaikovsky's mantle as composer of first-rate symphonic ballet music of real substance which became even more glorious when paired with dance. That man was Sergei Prokofiev.
Prokofiev's two most popular ballets are both mature works. By the time he came to compose Romeo and Juliet (1935), his earlier, more acerbic style had been subsumed into a post-Romantic vocabulary of great flexibility. The acidic modern harmonies are still there, but they are subordinated to the more tonal structure of the music and the dramatic needs of the story to be told.
The other notable shift in emphasis is that the drama dominates the entire score. Unlike all his great predecessors, Prokofiev made no concession to the old tradition of the divertissement, the assortment of pretty dances which stopped the show to entertain audiences with all their favourite dancers getting featured turns. The few lighter moments in this score serve, every one, to set the scene for the next dramatic advance of the story. This is true dance drama, with a vengeance.
The dark quality of the music is created largely by the emphasis on the bass instruments, especially the bassoons, trombones, and tuba. The unique sound of Prokofiev in this ballet is unmistakable.
I'm going into all of this in such great detail, because (like the Tchaikovsky masterworks) Prokofiev's music for Romeo and Juliet needs to be treated by the choreographer as a completely equal partner with his/her ideas and with the actions of the dancers in unfolding the tale.
The classic interpretation in Western Europe and the Americas for many years was John Cranko's 1962 version for the Stuttgart Ballet. The National Ballet of Canada danced this version for many years, to great audience acclaim. In 2011, the National celebrated its sixtieth anniversary with the world premiere of a brand-new version, set on the company by choreographer Alexei Ratmansky.
All of which finally brings me around to this week's staging in Toronto. It's only the second time I've had the opportunity of seeing the Ratmansky version on stage. Ratmansky is considered the leading choreographer working within the classical tradition today, while still making powerful and effective use of modern dance idioms to strengthen and diversify his dance vocabulary. His staging of this eternal love story is much more closely linked to the specific text of the play than Cranko's version, fine as that was in many respects.
The role of Juliet is perhaps the greatest role in the repertoire as a test of the ballerina's abilities as a dance actor. Elena Lobsanova was well-nigh perfect as the childish, playful Juliet of the first scenes. By the end of the story she grew into a commandingly tragic woman, the impish grin on her face replaced with deeply-etched lines and desperate, wildly staring eyes. Throughout the evening, she managed to make Ratmansky's trickiest steps look both easy and natural, no mean achievement.
As Romeo, we had Guillaume Cote. He's in his element in this kind of expressive, emotive role. Cote appeared first as a romantic dreamer, off in a world all his own. His performance in the final scene of Act 2, the duel and death of Tybalt, was stunning -- powerful, hard-edged, the polar opposite of his first appearance.
As a couple, these two were wonderful -- ardent, emotional, moving together in the most natural way that perfectly underlined the rightness of their love, in spite of all obstacles.
Piotr Stanczyk was a magnificent Mercutio -- the mercurial trickster to the life, lightning-quick in all his scenes. His several playful pas de trois with Romeo and Benvolio (Robert Stephen) in the opening scenes were delightful. The choreography for his duel with Tybalt is even reminiscent of the famous comic duelling scene in Danny Kaye's 1950s film The Court Jester. Stanczyk certainly exuded that same level of mocking confidence as he kept egging Tybalt on.
Jonathan Renna performed the role of Tybalt with a level of rage barely kept in check that made him seem like a volcano always on the point of erupting. Face like granite, hard-edged abrupt movements, tension you could always feel defined the man, even when he was standing stock-still upstage during Mercutio's dying dance.
In the play, Juliet's nurse creates a good part of what comedy there is. Lorna Geddes has long specialized in these kinds of comic character roles, and she certainly does the part justice -- as far as I could tell. There's the rub: her costume is Richard Hudson's one serious miscalculation. All in white, it's put together somewhat like a traditional nun's habit but with multiple extra layers, so that she balloons up like the Michelin man. Geddes has a marvellously expressive face and can do fantastically comical things with her arms and legs, but the entire physical aspect of her performance was muffled up in that ridiculous swath of white material. Pity.
Ratmansky pulls no punches about the dark, dangerous, patriarchal society of Verona in the 1400s. The famous Dance of the Knights, which opens the ball scene, appeared in Cranko's production as a ceremonious, courtly dance for the company. Here, Ratmansky takes his cue from the deep, heavily punched brass chords of the music. The dance is handed back to the knights, who strut and turn proudly, flourishing and even clashing their swords. The women, meanwhile, watch from the sidelines until the gentler central interlude appears.
The street battles still use some stylized flourishes with swords, but some honest high-voltage clashes as well. There's a much stronger feeling of actual fighting here than we ever got in Cranko's version.
Lord Capulet was portrayed by Etienne Lavigne as a disagreeably overbearing nobleman, most concerned with reputation and wealth, who treats his daughter and wife as mere counters in his money house. When he flings Juliet to the floor and then strikes her down again in Act 3, we're worlds away from the modern notions of what fatherhood ought to be like. I heard a couple of gasps in the audience at that moment.
Excellent work throughout came from the corps de ballet, in various roles: knights and courtiers, peasants dancing in the streets, commedia dell'arte mimes, bridesmaids, a pair of heavily made-up prostitutes, and so on.
The seal on the whole performance was set by the commanding playing of the National Ballet's own orchestra, under music director David Briskin.
Prokofiev and Shakespeare would both, I think, have been pleased.
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