Swan Lake. - television program reviews

Dance Magazine, June, 1998 by Rose Anne Thom

Revivals of Swan Lake have increasingly invested Prince Siegfried with a full range of psychological maladies--oedipal complexes, depression, neuroses. Directors have tried earnestly to make him contemporary and accessible, never minding the matter of his dalliance with a swan. Outdoing them all is British choreographer Matthew Bourne's 1995 version for his Adventures in Motion Pictures company. Reinventing the ballet, he situates this hapless prince in an all-too-familiar dysfunctional monarchy. To top things off, the Swan and its retihue are danced by men. Anyone who missed this Swan Lake in London or Los Angeles may now see it on Great Performances on many PBS stations this month.

As a television event, the ballet works well. Lez Brotherston's stark black-and-white set and costume designs, which are evocative and spare, lend themselves to the small screen. The opening scene establishes both the inner and exterior lives of this troubled Young Prince (Andrew Walkinshaw); he dreams of a protective Swan, and he deals with an unresponsive Queen (Fiona Chadwick). The blatantly cynical tone of the work is underscored by a corps of mechanistic palace servants manipulated by the evil Press Secretary (Barry Atkinson). Rigid formality asserts itself in the servants' linear progressions and right-angled turns around the Prince's enormous bed, their hands clasped sanctimoniously in front of their waists. Vintage 1950s dress establishes this repressive era.

In subsequent scenes, more mimed than danced, an adult Prince Siegfried (Scott Ambler) becomes increasingly disenchanted with his duty-bound life. When the Prince attends the ballet with his mother and less-than- virtuous girlfriend, Bourne's ballet-within-a-ballet is a drag send-up of the Romantic era. Were it danced better, it might be funnier.

When Siegfried, in suicidal desperation, prepares to fling himself into the lake, Bourne's imagination truly takes flight. At the entrance of the swans, with shaved heads, bare chests, and feathery pedal pushers, the ballet transcends the chic burlesque of the preceding scenes. In the enchanted territory of Tchaikovsky's music and the structural stays of Ivanov's choreography, these creatures are very familiar. But in the bold physicality of their dancing, with haunting images of swimming as well as flying in their eloquently expressive arms, they are unique, powerful creatures. Adam Cooper's Swan is a potent enchanter rather than a timorous victim. Here close-ups effectively capture the men's faces, on which streaks of black from mid-forehead down the nose accentuate their swan features.

Bourne does not follow the traditional progression of the music, which can be jarring, but at his best he finds and responds to its dramatic impetus. Unfortunately, the ballroom scene, which in traditional versions incorporates a variety of dance styles before the seductive Black Swan Pas de Deux, becomes monotonous in its emphasis on kinky sexual behavior. Perhaps in the theater, where the audience can scan the stage, the various interactions have some diversity. Not so on television, where again, facial expression as much as dance conveys the message. Although Cooper's sultry entrance in black leather provides the glamour one expects of the imposter, it loses some of its impact. Everyone has been pawing everyone else for quite a while before he arrives to seduce both the Prince and the queen mother.

The ballet climaxes with the corps of swans viciously destroying both the Swan and the Prince, leaving the Queen bereft. The apotheosis reveals the Young Prince sheltered in the Swan's arms. In depicting the callousness of a society at once sexually repressed and obsessed, Bourne's vision can often be prosaic, but his choreography for the swans is positively poetic.

Those who missed the PBS series Yo-Yo Ma: Inspired by Bach will be pleased to know that these six programs are available on individual videos from Sony Classical. For J. S. Bach's Cello Suite No. 3, choreographer Mark Morris created a lush visualization of the music entitled Falling Down Stairs [see Moving Image, Dance Magazine, March 1997, page 981. Both the dance and the convivial, respectful dialogue between Ma and Morris are exquisitely filmed by Barbara Willis Sweete. For each of the other five cello suites, Ma collaborated with different artists, including a Kabuki actor and a garden designer. Skating aficionados will want to see Six Gestures to Cello Suite No. 6, in which Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean appear. For further information, check with your local video-music store or access the Sony Web site at www.sonyclassical.com.

Dance on Camera: A Guide to Dance Films and Videos ($65), the most comprehensive volume on the subject, has been updated by Scarecrow Press, Inc. Many of the glitches of the previous edition have been corrected, with the result that this guide is not only up to date but easier to use. Editor Louise Spain, who is president of the board of directors of Dance Films Association, credits "the magic of computer technology" with helping cross-reference the guide's many entries.