Flawed reading
Giannandrea Poesio
Dance Theatre of Harlem Sadler's Wells Theatre
Arthur Mitchell is known worldwide as the founder and artistic director of Dance Theatre of Harlem, the company with which he proved that ballet has no racial boundaries. Mitchell was also one of New York City Ballet's finest dancers and an acclaimed interpreter of George Balanchine's choreography. One would thus expect him to pass on to his dancers his deep, first-hand knowledge of Balanchine's art. Pity that what I saw last week shattered any such expectations.
A seriously flawed reading of some of the most representative works of Balanchine's vast production was particularly evident in the second of the three programmes that the Dance Theatre of Harlem is currently presenting at Sadler's Wells. Of the three works presented within the 'all Balanchine' evening, only the middle one. the 1929 Prodigal Son, looked fairly in line with the principles of what is commonly perceived as Balanchine's style, even though this narrative ballet suffered considerably from a colourless interpretative approach. Duncan Cooper, as the eponymous character, failed to convey the varied palette of feelings and emotions that the Prodigal goes through within the 32 minutes of danced action. Nor did his seductress, Caroline Rocher as the Siren, manage to project the refined neo-classical sensuality the part calls for. Their 'lovemaking' duet thus became one of the most erotically challenged expressions of sex on
stage that I have seen in more than 35 years as a dance-goer.
Curiously, an unnecessarily over-the-top interpretation characterised the other two items on the programme, Apollo and Agon, with dire results. Created in 1928 for Diaghilev's legendary Ballets Russes — and not for the Ballets Russes de Montecarlo as written in the cast sheet — what was once Apollon Musagete is a choreographic tribute to ballet's neo-classical aesthetics. As such, the work draws upon a streamlined allegorical narrative expressed by carefully conceived balletic ideas and a discreet use of expressive movements and gestures. Apollo, in other words, does not require any additional acting, for all there is to express is already in the choreographic text. It's a shame that the Dance Theatre of Harlem dancers did not seem to have any knowledge of that and felt free to add a few 'interpretative' touches. Rasta Thomas might have the looks for the part of the god of masculine beauty, but he has little else. His fairly untidy technical rendition of the part was made worse by a totally out-of-place subjective reading of the part. Although I have seen many debatable Apollos in my life, I had yet to see anyone who was so un'Apollinean'. In Thomas's reading the newly born god becomes a jolly street kid who swings jazzily here and there, regardless of the required purity of Balanchine's geometrical symmetries; he also pulls all sorts of Broadway musical-like faces.
He was not helped by the three muses who introduce him to the arts they represent. I wish someone had told Andrea Long, who portrayed Calliope, muse of poetry, that the gesture indicating lyrical verses coming out of the mouth, a gesture Balanchine derived from an old conventional ballet mime movement, needs to be performed with poise and elegance, and is not intended to become a parody of MGM's roaring lion. Similarly, the raised right-hand index finger that characterises Polyhymnia's solo dance stands for silence, given that the muse represents the wordless art of mime. And, as such, the finger in question should be kept on or very near the lips, and not any higher — as it did in Kellye A. Saunders's interpretation, thus prompting different and even gross readings. As for Tai Jimenez's Terpsichore, the muse Apollo favours over the other two, her dancing was anything but the poised, classically refined solo it is supposed to be.
A general lack of technical sparkle, combined with an untenably misconceived interpretative approach, also spoiled the third and final item on the programme, Agon, a work created in 1957. The subtle, now ironic, now enigmatic, now metaphorical nuances that underscore this plotless work were thus totally lost in an interpretation that either overlooked those undertones or turned them into debatable antics.
As someone who has long been a fervent admirer of the company, this Balanchine programme came as a terrible blow. I can only hope that they will soon recover to their former glory.
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