Ballet
Royal kung fu
Robin Young
For once I have been to see some ballet outside London. It makes a difference, to stroll the short distance to the Royal Shakespeare Theatre from the comfort of the Stratford Hilton, instead of having the untidy race straight from the office. We would have glided down in a barge, only someone had unkindly pulled the plug out of the canal and temporarily rendered the, vessel known as 'My Lady Hilton immobile. It makes a difference to Ashton The Dream, too, to be seen at Stratford — not becuse of the romance of Bardic associations but, oddly, because the stage is smaller. The unusually intimate and nicely scaled performance was the best I have seen for a long time.
The reason for the visit, though, was the premiere of Shuhumei, with which the Royal Ballet leap energetically if belatedly aboard the hung fu bandwagon. It is billed as a Japanese Tale told in the manner of the Japanese Theatre, which might have meant manY hours of incomprehensible boredom, but in fact Jack Carter, the choreographer, is mercifully terse in telling his story. There is no mercy from Marion Tait, who dons a mini-Joan of Arc outfit to hunt down her husband's assassins. One she strangles, one she stabs, and the last she stylishly garottes. The score, by Stomu Yamash'ta, mixes haunting flutes on tape with exciting percussion, and what goes on on stage is not always verY Japanese but remains highly theatrical. The good citizens of Stratford got the giggles, though, over the 'invisible' black-clad stagehands who come to clear away the dead, not because the device was unfamiliar, but because their black cloths were too short, and the corpses could be seen scurrying away on hands and knees. Japanese theatre was never like this.
It is a pity to spoil such a cracking good show for half a Yarq of cloth. Anyway the lady samurai and ferocious bandits made a gratifying contrast to the limPicl choreographic tittle-tattle of Peter Wright's A rpege, to Boieldieu's inconsequential harp concerto. Back in the capital the London Contemporary Dance Theatre has been larding its Shaw Theatre programmes with premieres t°°'
Most attractive by far was
Bergese's Hinterland, a wistfn exercise in grey-toned nostalgia; The prim sisters, full of meaningfw looks and hidden secrets, hav:1 memories of their childhood an, dreams of a lover, with whom ea,c" has a pas de deux — one to ` jazz, one to Whispering Jack SraitIci mouthing Pretty Little Baby, arl the last to the foot-tappingAlt drews Sisters swinging throng" Rum and Coca Cola.
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