Ballet
One alone
Robin Young
At the turn of the year the ballet critic is likely to succumb to fits of jealousy against his colleagues in other departments. It is especially galling to see the film critics annually trotting out their personal lists of the year's ten best new films, gaily adding that they would have included this, that and the other had space only permitted. Of course it is not a practice one should do anything to encourage— its only usefulness is in giving the reader who has seen many of the year's films a handy guide to the particular critic's quirks and fancies. But if I were to attempt a list of the year's best new ballets it would include only one name. Jerome Robbins's In the Night is the only work newly seen in Britain which stands out in memory and stimulates any urgent desire to see it again.
This is about as sad as it would be to say that Fist of Fury was the best new film. of 1973 — because In the Night is a slight and minor work, repeating a tried and successful formula, and only among the year's novelties at all because it has been imported from annther country's older vintage.
And now we are at the dead end of the year with a vengeance. The Nutcracker closes in upon us. What can be said to recommend Festival Ballet's production, continuing at the Festival Hall until the 12th, is limited indeed: it is a simpler and more childishly entertaining effort than the Royal's, seen at Covent Garden early in December. Even so, it degenerates further year by weary year.
This time Festival have logged no fewer than nine leading couples in the cast lists. The man is not made who could sit through this production nine more times and maintain any modicum of seasonal goodwill, but now that the Festival company lacks any real stars (Samsova and Prokovsky have not been won back for this, or for the coming season at the New Victoria Theatre) practically everybody has to be given a stab at it. How Noleen Nicol and Adam Luders manage as Snow Fairy and Nutcracker Prince I prefer not to imagine: she has just about got the hang of the Arabian dance, but he was last seen as a tense and ungainly Cavalier thumping about like a stick of rock in the Kingdom of Sweets.
For bravura resolutely uninhibited by technical shortcomings Margot Miklosy and Patrice Bart take pride of place. Maina Gielgud and Dudley von Loggenburg also have style, but she is not comfortable in the part, and his brave smiles cannot hide the heavy landings and trailing legs. I look forward with more hope than optimism to Patricia Ruanne and Kerrison Cooke, two dancers who proved their abilities with the Royal Ballet's touring group — but frankly the whole production needs a thorough overhaul and a tight grip.
The Royal retains its near monopoly of star quality, and fielded it in strength for the return of Natalia Makarova, who is now accorded by Covent Garden audiences the heady response due to Fonteyn's supposed successor. Her trade mark is the marble tombstone teeth, scarcely for a moment concealed, and her greatest virtue an exceptional lightness and agility in the air. For all that, her Don Quixote pas de deux, rather stolidly partnered by the good and honest David Wall, lacked all the oomph that the Australians gave it earlier this year, or that Samsova and Prokovsky achieved in their days with the Festival.
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