A Classic, Done Classically
The Sleeping Beauty
The Sleeping Beauty, in full from The Royal Ballet.
I discovered the magic of dance comparatively late for a little girl. I first saw The Royal Ballet’s The Sleeping Beauty at 11 years old, and after falling in love with Swan Lake and The Firebird earlier that year, I came prepared to love every second of it. I didn’t like it. There was something about the perfect 1940s British staging or the poised smiling Aurora that didn’t appeal to me.
Six years later, I gave it another chance, on the grounds that everything was worth trying twice, and before the end of the Royal Ballet’s season I had seen four performances in the course of two weeks. Something had changed. I realised that The Sleeping Beauty was not just about the pink tutus and frills, but about a coming of age story.
This classic ballet (available on YouTube until August 6th) is one of many that the Royal Opera House has been streaming online over the past few months, both to regulars who cannot return to the theatre, and to a larger international audience who might be seeing the Royal Ballet for the first time. Its Tchaikovsky score may be mostly known to audiences through Disney’s use of sections of it in his Sleeping Beauty, but Marius Petipa’s choreography is less widely recognised. The Royal Ballet’s production, with Oliver Messel’s original 1946 designs, is the crème de la crème of British ballet. Every set piece and costume remind the audience that they are watching a time-honoured piece, the staple of the Royal Opera House’s repertoire. The storyline similarly sticks very closely to the accepted fairy tale: at Aurora’s christening, when an unexpected fairy guest curses her, she duly pricks her finger on a spindle on her sixteenth birthday and sleeps for a hundred years. The Lilac Fairy—a sort of fairy godmother to Aurora—leads a prince to look for Aurora by showing her to him in a vision, and he frees her from sleep with a kiss. The entire third act is taken up with the celebration of their wedding in classic nineteenth-century ballet style (see Don Quixote’s massive final wedding act). Unlike with their new version of Swan Lake (Liam Scarlett’s 2018 production), the Royal Ballet are not trying to change or modernise their production here; instead, they reinject freshness to the ballet with a succession of young dancers in the lead roles.
The Royal Ballet’s production, with Oliver Messel’s original 1946 designs, is the crème de la crème of British ballet.
This cast has a mix of the old and the new. Fumi Kaneko, who dances Aurora, the ballet’s lead, is relatively young and has not yet been promoted to Principal, the Royal Ballet’s highest accolade. Her partner, the Prince Florimund, is Federico Bonelli, who joined the company as a Principal, eight years before Kaneko. They have a quiet tender chemistry, but the viewer is left with the sense that Aurora and Florimund have been married for several years before this story begins, as they have none of the passion or impetuosity of young lovers. Bonelli is somewhat outshone by his young counterpart. He stiffly makes it through each of his variations, but his rigid acting and low arabesques leave much to be desired. He has nothing of the troubled isolation of Vadim Muntagirov (possibly the best Florimund I have seen) or the ardent youth of Matthew Ball. However, he is a generous partner to Kaneko, and given that this is a ballet where the female lead receives all the attention from the audience, perhaps that is his most important quality.
Petipa’s nineteenth-century choreography, with small alterations from Frederick Ashton, Anthony Dowell and Christopher Wheeldon, is elegant, polished and incredibly difficult. Aurora is a role that requires both stamina and tremendous technical ability. Kaneko seems more than able to contend with this challenge, despite her youth. Her long limbs and graceful épaulement (literally ‘shouldering’, a crucial element in a ballet dancer’s carriage—if it goes wrong the dancer can look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame) are perfectly suited to the role. She takes on the Rose Adagio—the ballet’s most famous variation—with great poise and flawless technique, but she is slightly defeated by the difficulties of becoming Aurora. In Act I, Aurora’s joyous sixteen-year-old energy and innocence are hard to convey, and Kaneko struggles to transport herself completely into the role, beyond a slightly nervous smile.
The viewer is left with the sense that Aurora and Florimund have been married for several years before this story begins, as they have none of the passion or impetuosity of young lovers.
In Act II’s vision scene, where Tchaikovsky’s heart-breaking score and Petipa’s eloquent choreography combine, the Lilac Fairy shows Florimund a vision of Aurora (who is still asleep). This scene is almost a prototype for Tchaikovsky and Petipa’s later collaboration on Swan Lake (1895), as the couple can dance together, but they are simultaneously held apart from real connection by unseen malicious forces. After the bright designs of the Prologue and Act I, Act II’s pared-down set and Aurora’s simple white tutu allow the choreography to really shine. Kaneko embodies the role here more than she did in Act I—her sad face, as she reaches out for Bonelli, blurs the line between Lilac Fairy creation and the real Aurora. Bonelli comfortably dances his way through the act with the appropriate reactions to Aurora’s beauty, but his performance is not exactly a revelation.
The Sleeping Beauty is not just about its principals; one of the chief reasons it has survived so well is its ability to showcase the entire company’s abilities.
The wedding pas de deux in Act III is similarly well executed by both dancers, but it is simply ‘as beautiful as always’. There is very little new or different added to this age-old pairing, and the joy of watching it comes chiefly from the couple’s good technique rather than their acting.
But The Sleeping Beauty is not just about its principals; one of the chief reasons it has survived so well is its ability to showcase the entire company’s abilities. In the Prologue, the company’s soloists have their moment in the spotlight as the fairies attending Aurora’s christening. Claire Calvert’s Fairy of the Woodland Glade and Anna Rose O’Sullivan’s Fairy of the Songbird are especially enticingly performed and cannot help but leave the viewer smiling. O’Sullivan’s solo is a lovely reminder that she herself may well be a fantastic Aurora in a few years’ time. This is a beautiful ballet for young dancers to grow up with; Kaneko herself was the Fairy of the Woodland Glade that I saw as an eleven-year-old.
We also see the company’s talents in the Act III wedding, as Aurora and Florimund’s guests (all from their own fairy tales) each in turn perform a small piece. James Hay does a creditable job as Florestan, and Anna Rose O’Sullivan and Mayara Magri are charming as his sisters. It is O’Sullivan’s obvious enjoyment of the variation that makes her solo especially delightful. However, the real star of the show is the bluebird pas de deux. Yasmine Naghdi and Matthew Ball, two young principals who are to some extent overcast in this tiny piece, absolutely light up the stage with their performance, helped along by Tchaikovsky’s perfectly light score. Naghdi’s elegant fluttering arms really do resemble the wings of a bluebird, and the couple have the perfect synergy. There is no sign of the hard work that goes into this complex pas de deux: they make it look effortless as birds in flight.
This performance may not sweep experienced ballet-goers off their feet, but it is still exquisitely done. This is a gorgeous introduction to a staple of British ballet.