The Red Shoes
Michael Powell’s adaptation of the work of Hans Christian Anderson is arguably the best portrait of dance committed to film. It certainly inspired Matthew Bourne (as he explained in an impromptu chat with the audience afterwards) to enter a world he saw as full of glamour, romance and creativity. While this is not the only time he has looked to the movies for inspiration – Edward Scissorhands for many surpassed the source material – this is a very different beast. A homage, certainly, and perhaps a love letter too. This is, after all, about something very close to his heart, though given that The Red Shoes is a ballet, about a film, about a ballet adaptation of a fairy story, it is remarkable that a coherent and compelling work has emerged from such a Gordian knot.
As if to acknowledge its wheels within wheels structure, the production opens with a dance performed not for us, but for an audience we see at the rear of the stage, peeking through a faux proscenium arch. It’s the first of many astonishing set pieces designed by Bourne’s long-time collaborator, LezBrotherston. The arch embraces much of the action that follows, a lynch pin that glides and swivels on stage, spinning on its axis to place us both front and back of house, as the action demands. Those looking for a foothold in that action for comforting reminders of the movie will struggle – there is little in these opening scenes to connect the two. Not even the music survives from the film (ironically it turns out there wasn’t enough of it). Instead Terry Davies has adapted the scores of Bernard Herrmann, from sources as disparate as Citizen Kane and Fahrenheit 451.
What does resonate, however, is a similar feeling of busyness and commitment, as countless dancers fill the stage, earnestly passionate in their creativity. Although there is an obvious issue in representing through movement a film filled with words, this is a challenge that Bourne appears to find liberating. Free from having to focus on whoever might be pushing forward the narrative, he instead fills the stage, inviting the audience to look everywhere, and make up their own collage of feverish activity. Dancers exercise, designers scribble, composers write, costumiers measure, ballet masters train. It’s all going on and at once – a huge, self-regulating machine of endeavour.
All the more remarkable, then, that Ashley Shaw nevertheless emerges from a crowd of equals – once spotted, it’s hard to take your eyes off her. It was Shaw who took on Victoria Page in the original production, and the ease with which she slips into the role is palpable. With her flame red hair she is spookily reminiscent of Moira Shearer, and brilliantly conveys the same intoxicated mix of confidence and vulnerability. Glenn Graham does his best to complement her, and is certainly a commanding presence as Boris Lermontov, judiciously rationing his dance moves to rare moments of raw emotion. He never quite escapes the long shadow of Anton Walbrook, however, while Marius Goring is equally hard to forget. So while Stephen Murray does nothing wrong as the struggling composer Julian Craster, his underwritten role leaves little impression.
What does make an impression, and a quite extraordinary one, is the centrepiece of The Red Shoes ballet. Fans of the movie will recall how astonishing it was to see a fifteen minute ballet performed in the middle of what was had been quite a staid film. What made it so special was not just the contrast with what had gone before, but that it so quickly expanded way beyond the stage production it purported to convey, opening up onto a canvas that only cinema could provide. Here we had dance following on from dance, and the physical limitations of live theatre, yet those restrictions seem to inspire the production team rather than clip their wings. The transformation of Lez Brotherston’s set, complemented byPaule Constable’s lighting is astonishing. To say more would be to spoil the surprise of the biggest set piece of the night, but suffice to say it was utterly magical.
Micheal Powell’s film falls a little flat after the drama of the central ballet, and Bourne’s commitment to the film’s storyline saddles the second half of his production with the same issue. There is still much to enjoy on stage, and all sorts of invention and fun goes on. A visit to the music hall(complete with chorus girls, a vent act and sand dancers) is a hoot, and the interplay of the love triangle is very nicely done.The feeling remains, however, that the best of the evening is behind us, with little more than plot points to tick off. Those unfamiliar with the film must miss much of what Bourne nods at here, while the final scene, complete with vehicular intrusion, must seem bizarre. It’s a shame that Bourne wasn’t bolder in his reinvention, particularly in these closing moments. Purists may have been looking to see all the loose ends tied up, but I think it a pity that the production could only be fully enjoyed by those that had done their homework.
It’s still a marvellous spectacle if not as strong as the astonishing, ground breaking Swan Lake we saw last year, it only goes to show how high Bourne set the bar, and how early on. I am reminded of the comment made by Joseph Heller, when asked if it bothered him that in all the intervening years he had failed to write a better novel than Catch-22. He replied that it did a bit, but while this may be true, the questioner should bear in mind that neither had anyone else.
