Peter and the Wolf. - Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, London, England - dance reviews

Dance Magazine, Sept, 1996 by Margaret Willis

Twenty-four-year-old Matthew Hart, a graduate of the Royal Ballet School and a soloist with the Royal Ballet, is steadily growing as a choreographer. For the upcoming 1996-97 season he has decided to take a break from dancemaking to concentrate on dancing, which provides the opportunity to pause and take a look at what he's accomplished thus far. Last season four different institutions (the Royal Ballet, English National Ballet, London City Ballet, and the Royal Ballet School) commissioned works from him. Their very different subject matter shows that Hart has much to say choreographically.

Peter and the Wolf, created for the junior students at the Royal Ballet School, makes an ideal introduction for children to classical music and ballet. Hart has cleverly augmented the handful of roles in the musical score by creating groups of dancers to represent the abstract elements of "Forest," "Meadow," "Wall," and "Pond," the last with a bevy of bathing beauties. The hit of the show, however, were the Huntsmen--a solemn miniarmy of bespectacled little lads with comic precision--and the Wolf (Martin Harvey), who crept about with low and leering extensions sinister enough to cause the children in front of me to shrink into the backs of their seats. Anthony Dowell, artistic director of the Royal Ballet, enacted the roles of the Narrator and the Grandfather, and, when not speaking or performing slow, encircling arabesques supported by his walking stick, sat on a tree stump, enjoying the antics onstage. The short ballet flowed easily, with Hart capturing the moods of Prokofiev's music well. Its young dancers performed enthusiastically and pleased the equally young audience.

More good family fare was to be found in Hart's take on Cinderella created for London City Ballet, Britain's popular touring company (which has since suspended operations). Here, Hart faced diverse challenges: of creating his first evening-length work; of spicing with new flavor a work already beloved in an existing version (a British gem created by master craftsman Frederick Ashton, and a ballet in which Hart himself had danced); and of fitting his choreography around existing sets and costumes from an earlier LCB production. Hart overcame these obstacles and created a Cinderella with freshness and a style that showed the company off well--and that, importantly, proved extremely successful at the box office.

Hart demonstrates a good grasp of the classical language in Cinderella by creating many charming solos, especially those for the Fairy Godmother and the fairies personifying the seasons. He has given his heroine steps that show her development from fireside dreamer to radiant beauty, Kim Miller in the title role was, as usual, a fine interpreter, convincing in her acting and light and fragile in her dancing. Her Prince, Marius Els, had his moments too, to show high leaps, nimble footwork, and careful partnering.

With only thirty-three dancers in LCB, Hart had to rethink scenes that normally require more dancers. In the ballroom he creates an impression of crowds with his intelligent manipulation of just a few elegant couples, while in the transformation scene he offers a tableau with dragonflies and grasshoppers to inject needed fairy-tale feeling.

Hart's offering for the Royal Ballet was no fairy tale, however, but somber reality dealing with the subject of AIDS and its consequences. Dances with Death is a battle between white and red, between good and evil. The staging is stark and simple, with clinically white draperies and a central solid block that suggests a couple's bed, a sacrificial altar, or a hospital operating table. The work, danced to Benjamin Britten's Violin Concerto, Opus 15, opens as two men (Jonathan Cope and Adam Cooper, as a carrier of HIV) separate from a sexual liaison. The anguished and conscience-stricken Cope then meets his female love (Belinda Hatley), who offers tender solace.

But a battle with death has already begun. Hart uses the corps de ballet to depict body cells that, like the principal trio, start pure white but gradually turn blood-red as the virus spreads. These cells are led by the scarlet figure of Death (danced by Darcey Bussell), who pursues the couple with high, sharp extensions, malevolent contortions, and staccato stabbings of her pointes in her demands for total surrender.

Hart treats the subject with great seriousness. He has created clear, definitive moments for his principal dancers (Halley, especially, excelled in her portrayal of the faithful partner, dancing with confident precision) and moves the corps easily around the stage in effective groupings and patterns. Eventually, the cells lay claim to the man and, as the ballet closes, to the young woman, whose body now shows the red telltale taint of permeating infection.

Hart's choreographic inspiration begins to lose impact toward the end; he's unable to sustain the lengthy musical momentum. But he's still very young, and there's plenty of time for artistic development. Hart has made a fine, brave beginning and has brought us hope for a budding choreographer.