Mock Tudor
BALLET CLEMENT CRISP
Looking backwards is a besetting sin with British ballet, reflecting a deep-rooted con- servatism in public taste; at Covent Garden last week the Royal Ballet acquired Antony Tudor's Lilac Garden, and the problems inherent in this whole hot syndrome movement have never loomed larger. Thirty-two years ago, Lilac Gar- den was created on the tiny stage of the Mer- cury Theatre by the Ballet Rambert; it was recognised then—and remains today—one of the most influential ballets of our time, a work insisting on the psychological motivation of its characters and on an interplay between their emotions quite as important as the interplay be- tween their bodies.
But every ballet reflects the personalities of its original interpreters—ballets are photographs of artists' temperament and physique—and the original cast (Maud Lloyd, Peggy van Praagh, Hugh Laing. and Tudor himself) were all superb dance-actdrs. Later productions by Rambert have caught much—though, I suspect, not all— of that first urgency and passion and of a per- formance manner that conveyed searing un- happiness under the mask of conventional be- haviour. In previous productions seen at the Opera House, by Ballet Theatre and New York City Ballet, the greater area of both stage and auditorium dissipated something of this tense immediacy, and the same comment is sadly true on first viewing of the Royal Ballet's pre- sentation, mounted by the choreographer last week.
The most interesting criticism on the revival was afforded by its juxtaposition in the same programme with Tudor's Shadowplay, which he created for the Royal Ballet last year. Here is a ballet perfectly shaped for both the company and the stage; its dramatic and dynamic points are wonderfully sure, it extends and enhances the dancers, and by contrast, Lilac Garden looked as remote and ineffectual as any don attacking Chesterton. What has gone wrong? Partly it has to do with the central interpre- tations, which found Beriosova dutiful and totally unmoving, and MacLeary passionless as her lover (Georgina Parkinson and Desmond Doyle were better attuned to the style which allows social masks to be dropped only for a brief and agonising second); partly with the stage picture which preserved the dull original costumes and offered a new, dull setting; and partly with the musical accompaniment which missed all the art nouveau ardours of Chausson's Po?tne. When the cast learns to con- vey the despair that underlies Tudor's decep- tively simple choreography, perhaps we shall catch the scent of lilac, for in this ballet of farewells, sensitivity to every breath of feeling is all. But, as S/:adowplay and Enigma Varia- tions have shown this season, the Royal Ballet's sensitivities are best aroused in works that have been made for them.
To end on a happier note—the Deutsche Oper's Ballet Festival at the beginning of this month. Kenneth MacMillan's company put on eleven consecutive performances to show just how much our man in Berlin has achieved in his two years there. To judge by the pro- grammes I saw, a great deal has been done; the company looked fine, and MacMillan's creation for the balletwoche was a stunning version of Cain and Abel. This is a fiercely revelatory study of anger, passion and sorrow, seen through the personality of Cain himself (superbly
danced by Frank Frey who has an amazing talent); its dance images are unforgettable; and so was the presence, as guest from the Stuttgart
Ballet, of Marcia Hayclee who is, undoubtedly, the most beautiful classical dancer now to be seen outside a Russian company. Her gifts seem even more thrilling than when she appeared in Song of the Earth at Covent Garden; she is a great ballerina.
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