Last night I attended my first ballet. I didn't really know what to expect but expectations were higher than when I attended my first opera back in December. There were a variety of reasons for this heightened anticipation, the foremost being an obvious difference in "agility" between opera singers and ballerinas. Operatic sopranos are not exactly renowned for there delicate grace. The opera is not over "when the amazingly flexible lady sings".
Chauvinistic comparisons aside, another reason that ballet is superior to opera is the lack of spoken words. Every emotion and plot twist is conveyed through dramatic movement. Yes, it can be a bit difficult to determine sometimes if a sweeping gesture ending in a skyward point means "I'm enraged!" or "I'm a superstar!", but it's much easier than trying to decipher words sung in Italian, and translated into Polish on the reader board.
You can read the synopsis of this production of LA BAYADÈRE here, but I will give you my shortened interpretation:
Scene I: Guy who looks like caveman dances around. Apparently he doesn't have much to do with the story but reminds me of Brendan Fraser in "Encino Man". Poor girl, escorted into the scene by caveman falls in love with rich man. They dance around, he lifts her up over his head in celebration because she only weighs about 90 lbs. and he prefers petite girls. Bald bad guy is standing behind a tree, sees this and points to the heavens to demonstrate his anger.
Scene II: Rich guy has to marry different girl because his father (old guy in huge turban) arranged the marriage. He's not happy because this girl is too big for him (she weighs about 105, which is obese by ballerina standards). Poor girl comes in, dances around at the wedding, and gets poisoned by the vengeful mother-in-law to be who puts a snake in her flower basket. Follicly-challenged villain is crushed because he also likes petite girls.
Scene III: This was the long, drawn-out, drug-induced dream sequence. Rich guy mourns the death of his true love. Trapped in an unhappy marriage, he turns to drugs, taking long drags off a hooka pipe. Has a few too many drags and passes out. Dreams about 27 ballerinas dressed in white tutus. Dances around in the afterlife with poor girl.
Final Act: Guy painted all in gold dances around in loin cloth. All females in the audience (including the one seated next to me) admire how good he looks, errr, I mean dances. The entire cast gets together for one more dramatic dance number, complete with explosions, lightning, and a floating Buddha. The temple is destroyed. Everyone dies. Rich guy and poor girl are reunited in heaven, which is apparently really smoky. The end.
My final observation about ballet is that all males should be required to wear a codpiece. I was fortunate enough to be sitting in the third row where it was possible to appreciate every subtle nuance of this production. This was both good and bad as I certainly enjoyed the exquisite beauty of the performers but was also subject to a close-up view of . . . hmmmm, how shall I put this? . . . the revealing nature of spandex.
Which leads me to this question. How does one become interested in being a male ballerina? I'm certain that a healthy share of these guys are straight. After all, wasn't the great Russian dancer, Mikhail Baryshnikov, a suitor of Sarah Jessica Parker's on Sex in the City? (I don't really know these things off the top of my head. We have a great research department at the Chronicle.) I think this video may explain a few things. Thanks for reading . . . have a good weekend!
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