Mayerling: Watson, Osipova, Yanowsky and a cast to end all days

Credit: DanceTabs

Ed Watson is now so synonymous with the role of Crown Prince Rudolf, the making of Macmillan’s mad male masterpiece, that during a recent sojourn to Vienna, I was disappointed to stumble upon a portrait of the Prince in which he wasn’t even redhead. More fool me – but the opening night of the Royal Ballet’s latest run of Mayerling has only cemented this impression more firmly in my mind.

                                                                                                                                      

Some of the quickest impressions of Friday night’s performance before an action-packed bank holiday weekend whizzes me away:

The first cast is perhaps the strongest Mayerling cast ever fielded. Eight principals: Watson’s Rudolf; Osipova as his Mary (role debut); Lamb as Countess Larisch; young starlets Hayward and Campbell as Princess Stephanie and Bratfisch respectively; the soon-departing Yanowsky as the Empress, and; even principals in comparatively marginal roles of Mitzi Kasper (Nunez) and the lead Hungarian soldier (Hirano). For a discipline often stereotyped as intensely political, it is remarkable to see the coherent and united front presented by the highest rank of the company.

Watson as Rudolf – what is left to say? What more can possibly be added? The very build of his body seems ideally suited – lanky, pale, long-limbed, slightly waif-like and tragic. No-one tells a story quite like Ed Watson. Rudolf’s internal monologue throughout is clear and loud; his wavering over the strong-arm opinions of the Hungarian soldiers, his maniacal desperation when left alone. There is vulnerability and insanity in his solo variation upon spying the Empress with her lover, and ferocious negative capability in every pas de deux with Mary. Also exceedingly well acted is the slightly vague nature of his feelings towards his doomed mistress. History dictates that while Rudolf was certainly the great love of Mary’s short life, his affections did not extend quite so deeply. It wasn’t Mary’s “deep, black eyes,” that drove him to seek respite, but a more grandiose obsession with the macabre. This is expressed beautifully and devastatingly in both Act Three pas de deuxs. The first, in Rudolf’s apartments, is disturbingly harrowing to observe. When his Mary approaches to coax him out of catatonic stupor, Rudolf is slow to react but then snatches blindly, ferocious, the very upturned tilt of his palms angular and detached. Too often does the final pas de deux, in the Mayerling lodge, verge upon a great lovetorn farewell. There is nothing to suggest that here; Watson’s Rudolf is lavish with the physical, but mentally depraved and already departed.

If previous experiences with this dancer have taught anything is that you must endeavour to catch his final performance of the run. Such is the gruelling nature of the role that – pragmatically – there may have been a slight tinge of calculation in his Act One portrayal, a need to pace himself early on. Rudolf requires complete, immersive abandon – so, see it on the 11^th and weep.

Now to Mary. I think the moment the casting announcement was made, it was instinctively apparent that Osipova’s Mary was going to be something different. Indeed, it was. Let us ruminate upon the Baroness Vetsera herself. We know that Rudolf comprised her world. While she perhaps lacked the intellectual savant that the Crown Prince valued so highly, her adoration for his person was limitless and fanatical; she both bought into and channelled anew Rudolf’s unhinged world-weariness. On Osipova, this latter aspect was disconcertingly wonderful. She is the first Mary, in a long time, who seems to amplify Rudolf’s intense obsessions and triumphs, not luxuriates, in his physical attentions. She has her own perverse afflictions, separate from his – in the bedroom pas de deux, she seemed to break free of convention and entered a state of frenzied hedonism. Rudolf, weakened and world weary, is almost prone before such a sybarite display. In this interpretation, while Mary was not perhaps the love he chose to take to death, she was the catalyst without whom it never would have materialised.

The other emotional standout of the evening was Yanowsky’s Empress, a complex cool icon. The strength of her gaze alone conveys the unhappiness that seems to overshadow her person. Her Act One pas de deux with Rudolf was heartrendingly uncomfortable to observe; yet, she facilitates the character’s internal conflicts so convincingly with the stolen pas de deux with Gary Avis as her lover a snatched, suspended moment. There is an elegance about Yanowsky few can emulate; she has time, she has reason, under all of which simmers tremendous dramatic capability. I shall miss her something terrible.

It should perhaps suffice to say that all roles, across the board where beautifully conveyed (one nervous moment with a costume mishap in Act One aside), and time is not on my side to lavish sufficient attention on each. Sarah Lamb’s Larisch is grand, coy and authoritative – when she circles Rudolf, together with Mary, there is a marvellous internal gravity underpinning the interchange of the two women. With every shared bouree, Osipova’s Mary seems to be guided from and learn from this much more worldly being. I long to perhaps one day see Ryoichi Hirano’s Rudolf, such is the depth of his style and I believe that dramatically, he has much to give. Most of all, I long to see this cast immortalised to the end of days.

Onegin with the Wiener Staatsballett

Credit: Wiener Staatsoper

On a short break where I spent most of my time tearfully fawning over various classical giants (I like to think that the tears were a by-product of the amount of champagne I consumed daily, but I might just be that uselessly maudlin), I don’t think I would have been able to forgive myself if I went all the way to Vienna without spending at least a few hours rhapsodising at the Wiener Staatsoper. I resolutely refused to see the production of Werther with a baritone Werther (seriously, stop that right now), so my rapturously blonde Viennese friend booked tickets to the ballet and off we went in search of the proud Onegin.

I have seen Cranko’s ballet a worrisome amount of times in London, all with exemplary casts who are amongst the best in the world. Thiago Soares remains the finest Onegin I have encountered and Natalia Osipova’s role debut two years ago as Tatiana was enough to leave goosepimples for a week. I know each solo variation and anguished step of every pas de deux so well that I was probably amongst the toughest critics in the house.

When Cranko’s balletic interpretation of Onegin was finally staged in Russia in 2013, nearly fifty years after its creation, it was met with a general sense of indulgent amusement. Pushkin’s poetic epic is engrained into the national subconscious in ways that we can’t even begin to fathom; Tatiana is a national icon of strength and every Russian schoolchild knows a few stanzas by heart. Cranko, a South African upstart, took liberties with the plot and characterisation and the rather piecemeal Tchaikovsky score inspired mirth in some quarters. Yet, the novel remains at the ballet’s core and every interpreter, regardless of balletic or operatic manifestation, should endeavour to remember Pushkin’s core lessons.

This was not entirely prudently done by the Staatsballett. Here are a few key examples.

First, in Tatiana and Onegin’s first pas de deux in the garden, Onegin should lift Tatiana up in a stationary lift, place her gently down and then look away. It signals his engrained society mannerisms against his underlying indifference, the stark contrast to Lensky’s country exuberance mere minutes ago. The timing of the turn of the head should convey not callousness but danger. Our Onegin on the night (Roman Lazik) turned before Tatiana had touched the ground.

Second, Pushkin’s Lensky is no hot-headed fool. Pushkin writes him as a scholar of German Idealism – not quite Kantian, his heroes are Goethe and Schiller. He pursues his Romantic Ideals not thoughtlessly, but with the joy and languor of youth with purpose and vision. This ardency was absent from Davide Dato’s interpretation of the doomed poet – Dato appeared onstage with such bounding, compact energy, he seemed focussed on technical prowess than gentility. Under his awkward stewardship, Lensky became a caricature of the youth who died for Romanticism – he was sulky, small-minded and impetuous, hardly a foil to Onegin’s Byronic self. When he was felled during the duel, it was with an exasperating sense of happenstence, rather than a boyish defence of the ideals on which he has crafted his entire existence.

Thirdly, the entire core of the story’s conclusion was lost in one single moment, even before the final meeting between our two leads. The curtain rises on Act Three several years after the duel and away from small country society. We are in St Petersburg, amongst grand dames and Princes. In comes Onegin, eyed with scepticism by his peers. His years of travel, a self-imposed exile, have changed him from the easy-going young dandy whose company they once enjoyed. Then enters Tatiana and Prince Gremin, her elderly husband. They dance the gentlest pas de deux, yearning but tempered. Onegin is shaken badly:

``Can it be she?'' Eugene in wonder

     demanded. ``Yes, she looks... And yet...

     from deepest backwood, furthest under...''

     And every minute his lorgnette

     stays fixed and focused on a vision

     which has recalled, without precision,

     forgotten features. ``Can you say,

     prince, who in that dark-red béret,

     just there, is talking to the Spanish

     ambassador?'' In some surprise

     the prince looks at him, and replies:

     ``Wait, I'll present you -- but you banish

     yourself too long from social life.''

     ``But tell me who she is.'' ``My wife.''

    

     ``You're married? No idea whatever...

     Since when is this?'' ``Two years or more.''

     ``To...?'' ``Larina.'' ``Tatyana? never!''

     ``She knows you?'' ``Why, we lived next door.''

     So to his wife for presentation

     the prince bring up his own relation

     and friend Evgeny. The princess

     gazes at him... and nonetheless,

     however much her soul has faltered,

     however strongly she has been

     moved and surprised, she stays serene,

     and nothing in her look is altered:

     her manner is no less contained;

     her bow, as calm and as restrained.

It follows that the whole story is crippled and loses its force if Tatiana run offstage in tears upon meeting her former idol. This profligacy is not Cranko’s, but the dancer’s. Perhaps nothing I see this year will irritate me this much. The reason Tatiana is a Russian icon is for her resilience and strength, for her knowledge of oneself. This single act of fleeing unnerves because it renders the sacrifice she makes completely redundant – Pushkin’s Tatiana ultimately spurns Onegin not so much for society, but also for herself.

----------------------------------

These are, of course, the gripes of someone who has spent too many hours with Pushkin. There was much to admire in the dancing, regardless of such inconsistencies. Yakovleva’s acting as Tatiana was crystalline and projected well throughout – in particular, her Act Two ball variation was wonderfully executed, those great leaps containing all the desperation of a spurned young girl. The nuances she noted with the final pas de deux were superb; for instance, when she lands flat footed from his lifts, it is clear that, in her heart, she has already rejected him. Tcacencoa’s Gremin showed some very able partnering in the Act Three pas de deux, which he paced regally; I would go as far to say that it was the most enjoyable part of the evening Yet, I question the choice of Onegin – Lazik is both physically and emotionally too slight for the role. He struggled immensely with the famous ‘bum lifts’ in the mirror pas de deux and he has none of Onegin’s manifest cruelty. Onegin is not malicious, but he is cold – but when interpreted by Lazik, it is difficult to draw a coherent narrative between the Onegin first arrived at the Larina’s estate, with the tormented suitor at the end. We finish without knowing his story – does Lazik envisage him a cad who learns how to feel too late? Or a dangerously haunted individual? What about a man of true merit that has been marred by societal temptation? The lack of narrative finesse is unfortunate.

I was however hugely impressed with the corps de ballet of the Staatsballett, who do everything with great unison, as most evident in the Act Three polonaise, which is too often scrappy and lethargic. There is a Slavic lilt to the company that manifests pleasingly across this Russian tale. An imbalanced evening it may have been, but one well worth experiencing.

Lamb and Muntagirov Convince with Youthful Lustre in Macmillan's 'Romeo & Juliet'

To see Vadim Muntagirov is reward enough; to have Natalia Osipova as his Juliet is cause for jubilation. In was in this fervour that I too entreated well-placed friends to find me a ticket - and find they did - only to have her injured (a broken foot of sorts, if the grapevine informs correctly) and to have Sarah Lamb to step into the breach.

Audiences may quibble back and forth as to the qualities of the Royal Ballet's principal roster; but having seen the two paired with sublime results in last year's Manon, I embraced the replacement cast with keen anticipation. 

To start with the obvious. Vadim Muntagirov is, unequivocally, a spectacularly convincing Romeo - that long enchanting, long abused character whose foppish and wavering tendencies so oft pose a terrible challenge. Muntagirov's interpretation is deceptively simple; one may think the sheer classicism of his lines, long extolled, can convey all worldly ardour without much concerted effort. From my perch in the stalls circle, close enough to see every facial shift, I witnessed the supreme commitment and inimitable devotion that Muntagirov emitted from every detail. On his refined limbs, Romeo assumed an earthy realism. Muntagirov has the immense and rare ability to emote as a boy; we watched no ballet, no masque, but the progress to love and despair of a very real youth. Act I, for Romeo, is a fiend - yet no exertion was betrayed. Starting from boyish rapport with Mercutio and Benvolio, this Romeo's movements contained a yearning and hope. Both his solo variations were dispatched with the utmost ease - and upon spying Juliet, any awareness of the audience seemed to vanish as love unfurled, his ever attitude declaring: youth eternal - youth triumphant! Upon wandering the Paul Hamlyn hall in search of acquaintances during the first interval, I heard the wonderfully perceptive comment; "The whole audience are dancing with him, aren't they?" Reader, such was the convincing quality of his spell that I felt the statement deeply.

Aesthetically, Lamb is slight and girlish, enabling her to skitter along the stage in her first appearance in a manner most convincing of a young maiden. My past experiences with this dancer has conveyed the importance of her partner; with a natural poise that is sometimes perceived as slightly cold or unemotive, with the right partner, she blooms quite decadently. Muntagirov is such a catalyst, as is to be expected; Lamb is feminine and dreamy, not ardent and impulsive. It is natural that she would respond most becomingly in the arms of a Romeo embodying sincerity above all else. As evident in the stupendous balcony pas de deux, there can be no pairing in this run sweeter and as flush with first love as these two. 'Enraptured' is a term that ought not be used lightly - yet only upon the curtain's descending over the first Act did the audience seem to simultaneously, incandescently, exhale. 

Lamb individually has also grown exponentially. Her rejection of Nicol Edmond's Paris saw her come into her own; assertive, emotive and lined with a piercing quality I had not known her capable of. As she sat on the edge of her childhood bed, open and vulnerable to the world, sailing on the wings of the gritty Tchaikovsky score with an achingly potent combination of newfound steel and timidity that even Osipova cannot exude, we thought wildly of Juliet in that moment - here is a girl on the edge of something tremendous! 

Alas, it was only at the final tableau that the dreaded question that had thereto been impressively suppressed - what would Osipova have done? - bubbled to the fore. Such musings are inevitable in an audience so closely tied to the Russian's interests. The tragedy in the crypt wept for a sudden rush of impetuosity and blind grief that beckons the sacrifice of life. It was not to be. Lamb's outstanding feature is her sweetness and Muntagirov is a creature of day - the peculiar flush of adult sorrow lies further ahead this superlative artist's career, in the same way that he overflows with languid idealism as Lensky but should not yet attempt the complex Onegin. He is a prince amongst fairytales who has still more to learn of the human psychology. Romeo may have died in the tomb, but he died kindly, unobtrusively. It was the first and only sense in the entire performance that they were playing parts; thus, it stood out disconcertingly. Lamb too shunned wild outpourings of grief - but neither was her internalised resolution entirely convincing. That famous scream, when Juliet holds the still warm Romeo in her young arms, became a short broken cry and when she plunged the dagger into her abdomen, it was done with all the politeness of a schoolgirl - you wondered, in that moment, how such a docile creature could have been swept up in a tale of unshakeable passion. With the right nuance, perhaps within their next two performances, it may make for an evocative interpretation built on the same lines of youth - the purity of their enacted end embodying adolescents consumed and defeated by all too adult emotions - and indeed, their potential is bountiful. In spite of imperfections, the lasting impression of Lamb and Muntagirov is crystalline and unadulterated; a beauty so simple it almost appears unadorned but is in fact, in the lasting memory, the most heartfelt and tremendously moving kind. 

Across the company, there were equally engrossing performances. The Royal Ballet were deprived of Valentino Zucchetti's services for a large part of the previous season, and his return as Mercutio made that absence felt. Charming and dapper, thankfully without wandering too far into 'cheeky chappie' territory as most Mercutios are wont to do, he together with Hay were the fleetest and ablest of companions. Nimble and quick-footed, their sly disruptions to the Capulets were delightful to behold. Where Muntagirov excels in languor and finesse, Zucchetti ensures the trio remain tied to the heart of the company within the crowded marketplace scenes and his death at the hands of Tybalt was painful to watch in its excellent execution of human bravado and desperation.

Encompassing it all is the synergy between the company and Macmillan's most lauded creation. Though ostensibly remembered for its star-crossed lovers, Romeo & Juliet, in any medium, conveys profound messages of power and dignity. Upon this, we feasted royally; the haughtiness of the Capulet's masque, Christopher Saunders' prowling walk, Thiago Soares' mercurial Tybalt adding the effrontery so needed as the foil to the lovers' aching tenderness and the harlots' glee all served one purpose. It exemplified where the Royal Ballet most excel - not as mythical dryads, shades or even mindlessly jolly village folk. It is the study of human interaction, principally pride, that lends the production its appropriate gravitas, underscored by a Prokofiev orchestration that abandons lyricism for structure. In this, the company remains unrivalled.

'Woolf Works': The Ultimate Modern Masterpiece

Upon leaving the Royal Opera House, mid-Saturday afternoon, I was immensely and irrevocably

Ferri & Bonelli

moved. Woolf Works is, I mused, quite possibly the bravest and most profound work I've seen the Royal Ballet perform.

Unlike many others, I had no prior qualms about either choreographer or subject. Several amongst my acquaintance had previously waxed lyrical of McGregor's deficiencies - how inept they made him seem. From word alone, Raven Girl seemed dismal failure, and Tetractys a nightmare better forgotten. Yet, I was undeterred - more than once in my short tenure have I discovered that certain tastes lie very traditional indeed. Studies and the terrible May onslaught prevented me from catching what, by all accounts, seemed to be a most triumphant opening night - indeed, it was only for the final performance of the first cast that I found myself, once more, on that well-trodden path down to Soho.

As prudently advised, I had conducted my diligent research before-hand. Woolf I was scarcely familiar with; with a self-proclaimed history of preferring flowery prose, decadent in descriptors, the deconstructed nature of her writing seemed a fresh challenge. Yet, the more I read, the more intrigued I became; I could see it already - the abruptness, almost rudeness of unmitigated, unfettered thought - the flow and cadence of the subconscious - yes, it would suit McGregor very well indeed. There is an everlasting forlornness that dictates her words; a brevity and soliloquy to one's self. What a challenge lay before him! I waited for lights to dim with thinly veiled impatience.

It was a challenge most intimately and supremely met. I do not wish to delve into great depth and intricacies of the abstract tapestries McGregor slowly unfolded. If Woolf is to be taken in her true form, our view should be expansive, not detailed. Scrutiny of microcosms distort and deviate; McGregor presents theory, introspect and instinct as the supplanters of form and narrative. Movement pulses in one sinuous flow, each act bearing its own purpose and weight, but inextricably, undoubtedly bounded together in one heady vision.

Pulsating at the core is the luminous Alessandra Ferri, whom I finally had the pleasure of watching for the first time. I have seen many stars grace the stage; in the presence of many a illustrious artists have I sat, enthralled. Yet, there was no experience quite like this one, no immersion quite so recondite. Words fail to convey her power - the carriage of her shoulders, upon the first rise of the curtain in I Now, I Then; what a curious weight they bore! Every line of that sinuous body seemed erudite, achingly languid. Her gaze alone, watching her effervescent young self (Stix-Brunell) coquet with Sally Seton (Hayward) is terrible in its power, wistful as youth skitters and coltishly play in amongst the wood formations. Equally matched in power and emotional strain was Mrs Dalloway's 'twin' - the war-ridden Septimus Warren, who found a natural home in Edward Watson. How empty and pinched was his countenance; how jerked and paroxysmal his movements! Those long, marble limbs wept with unsaid misery - the plight of so many veterans. The interchange between Watson and Dyer as his departed friend, augmented so wondrously by Richter's score, is surely the single most magnetic modern pas de deux I have witnessed

Orlando moves away once more into more familiar McGregor terrain; sharp, acrobatic with a need for scissor-like accuracy. Yet, it was a necessary respite; the harsh and inhospitable new environment, the barely discernible figures shrouded in lasers and smoke were all deeply evocative of audacious and faintly hysterical world of Woolf's text. And then there was Osipova; so fearsomely, formidably extreme, a body truly made for McGregor choreography. Extreme pliancy, coated in icy metal, she dives and distorts into the most unforgiving positions, moulded by Watson and Mcrae. The passage between Watson and Osipova, right in the centre of the stage was serpentine and vagrant - most powerfully so. Yet, Orlando is without doubt a group creation - each dancer came forth with the same wild conviction and increasingly breathless audacity. The finale, mere shadows of gold and grey flitting through puddles of clear light at breakneck speed was intoxicating in its revelry. If anything, one must applaud McGregor for inspiring utter conviction out of such a wide array of contrasting dancers.

Thursday, however, marked a return to the dual world of Ferri and Woolf - indeed, it is more of a tribute of Woolf herself than Waves. There can be no other muse than Ferri herself; buffeted first by Bonelli, she is never reticent - even in the slowest, stillest movement, she undulates to the hypnotic rhythm of the tides - a trailing finger here, a worldly sigh there. McGregor focuses not on the inevitability of death, but the urgency of life; Lamb leads a bubbling gaggle of children daintily in languid patterns as Ferri looks on in wonder. And then there are the waves, made of the corps, rolling, rhythmic and almost extolling Ferri as she glides and slips from one watery embrace to another, dispersing into the restless depths until finally, she is laid to rest by Bonelli as the onrushing waves retreat.

Let it be known; this is, without peer a modern masterpiece of the most impeccable creation, the likes of which I have never witnessed before, complemented by a cast united with a shared vision. Rest assured. The future of ballet is in safe hands.

Osipova and McRae Sparkle in 'La Fille mal Gardee', but Morera and Muntagirov Steal the Plaudits

Surely, Ashton's sunny, giggly confection of perpetual radiance that is La Fille mal Gardée is the happiest thing in the Royal Ballet's repertory. Filled with comedy galore, yet with an aching wistfulness that detracts any garishness, this gloriously clever eulogy of the old English countryside is as heartening as they come.

Thursday eve saw the Russian firecracker Natalia Osipova's debut in the most quintessentially English of English roles. There was no faulting her pyrotechnic agility - her great leap and frothy bourees filled the compact stage with great bursts of joy. Lise was a role she comfortably grew into as the evening went on; the first pas de deux, being so early, was a little tentative, as the debutant concentrated hard on mastering the ribbons and lifts, but as the evening progressed, she relaxed to embrace the nuanced comedy of the piece and was virtually faultless in the second act. 

Her Colas, Steven McRae, matched her in temperament; cheeky and possessing equally combustible jumping ability, complemented by an array of dazzling spins. Together, they conquered the stage admirably. However, as is my common complaint with McRae, his self-focussed dancing often forgets the heart of the ballet - that of a simple, rose-filled English country life, which glows without need for adornment. While some have, at the start of Osipova's London residency, noted the self-exhibitionist quality of her interpretations (an inevitable trait of a Bolshoi upbringing), she has improved remarkably in this regard, and is visibly integrating into the Royal Ballet culture. For McRae, however, after several years in the company, subtlety is still not a lesson well-learnt. Seemingly with intentions of raising his international profile, he has become increasingly profligate with his astounding technique, but very often fails to reach the point of poignancy.

Technical excellence and sincerity need not be mutually exclusive; one need only look to the opening night cast of the wonderfully Ashtonian Laura Morera and the other Russian debutant, Vadim Muntagirov, for confirmation of that. Muntagirov is surely headed for stardom of the loftiest sort; so eloquent is his arabesque and supple are his extensions that he need not really put on an 'act' - his Colas was as green and tender as the springtime grass, emanating sheer happiness. A strange pairing on paper, this Lise and Colas were ardent, coy and glowed internally, which is infinitely more rewarding. 

Osipova & Golding 'Come-of-Age' with the Royal Ballet's Swan Lake

If one were to take away a single thing from this evening, it must be the maturing of the previously much maligned Osipova/Golding partnership. It is a partnership that started on shaky grounds, but has shown superlative results as of late, with the recent run of 'Onegin' bringing the kind of stalls-shaking, foot-stamping reception that is rarely witnessed at Covent Garden. 

This is a point I wish to express strongly. It has seemed to me, many times over the past year, that the rather aggressive vendetta fought against them by ROH regulars has verged on petty and childish. With such a coveted acquisition as the immensely technically and artistically gifted Osipova, a defector from the Bolshoi and a new breed of ballerina, nepotist hopes were high for a homegrown partnership between one of the Royal's established stars, with McCrae and Watson frequently and hopefully named. Yet, the subsequent acquisition of Golding, impliedly to partner Osipova, left many cold. His name, while well respected in ballet circles, carries far less weight than hers, which has reached starry echelons. Apparently, this was enough to ruin his favour and opinion turned against him before he had even arrived. It became not uncommon to hear in the Covent Garden corridors people recounting their performances with the repeated anecdote "Oh, she was marvellous, of course - all the marks of the Bolshoi - but he, dreadful!"

Yet, I find this early accusation carried little substance. Many of these preconceived notions were vented despite no full-length productions being performed by the pair in the 2013-14 season (Osipova remained injured for the entire 'Sleeping Beauty' run and their only joint performances took place in Ashton's 'The Dream', which, as a thoroughly English fare, was never likely to achieve widespread acclaim for two new principals). Similarly, this season has seen an onstage fall claim Osipova for the entirety of 'Don Quixote', leaving 'Onegin' as their first full-length ballet - and of course, we now know it to be a great success. To qualify the accusations a little, it must be noted that despite not dancing together, audience critics have failed to warm to Golding in any of his earlier performances with other dancers - but I hope I will now hear less of the deplorably condescending remark that; "Well, he's just not on her level, is he?" In all honesty, while Osipova has stunned repeatedly since her arrival, she has yet to lay down any truly remarkable partnerships - tonight is the closest she has come to achieving that euphoria.  

The best artists augment the performance of those around them; and that was evident today, but perhaps not from the quarter that we were expecting. Osipova is physically and emotionally hampered when it comes to Odette. She has the coveted Russian arms, to be sure, those willowy limbs which seem to have two joints more than anyone else. But she is not made in the way of the great Odettes, such as Makhalina and Zakharova, who are lithe and gracefully tall. Their Odette will carry an everlasting air of restraint and tragedy, the very length of their arms cradling all the sorrow in the world. Osipova is not so delicately conditioned. She is athletic and strong, with an impish smile and fiendishly fiery mannerisms. So profound is her technique that it exudes power; this Odette can balance just as well without any prince. Odette, that layered role which has to show reserve, grace, cold beauty and forlornness is challenging for her from the outset.

Thus, it is telling that Osipova's Odette is at its strongest in the presence of Golding's Siegfried. Her first appearance on stage was a little too skitterish, her alarm at his presence a little too abrupt that one wondered how she might contain her mighty energy for the still, marble like beauty of the white pas de deux. Yet, in Golding's grip she was transformed. Gone was the impetuosity and child slight dramatic flair. The white pas de deux passed beautifully and showed real feeling between the two leads, with his steadying presence carrying her through beatifically.

Yet, entirely predictably, Act III was where the electricity really lit the stage. The reason, I believe, that Osipova has difficulties embracing Odette is because she artistically operates best where there is human folly. As shown by her Manon and Tatiana, no one portrays the power of human fallibility better than Natalia Osipova - she is able to canvas perniciousness, longing and regret with the most vivid brush. She immerses herself so entirely in character flaws, that the audience feel that the dancer and the character have completely assimilated and we fail to tell where one ends and the other begins. Odette, in a truly romantic fashion, represents an ideal. She is perfect like a deity, poised and regal. Osipova on stage hungers to feel - she arches her neck all the way back and unfurls powerful swan wings - Odette is a cold creature and ill-met by such fire. 

Odile is much more real in a worldly sense and as her, Osipova becomes breathtaking. She is wicked - unapologetically so - but also dazzlingly unattainable and gloriously sexy. There is a fiercely fiery spark about her Odile, so much so that it is altogether too easy to see why Siegfried falls so helplessly into the trap. And of course, those fouettes - taken at such breakneck, incredible speed, doubled to start with and completely in time with the orchestra who almost sounded like they ran themselves ragged trying to keep up with the dancer on stage. It was virtuosic, powerful and utterly, utterly glorious. Golding's Act III variations were also executed with the marvellous bravado of a foolish young lover - truly wonderful. 

There were several other standout performances in the long cast. The two swans of Hamilton and Medizabal were wonderfully nuanced and added some much needed grace; I should think that Hamilton will have her own Odette opportunity before long. Avis' Rothbart was, as always, an utter joy to watch (although a little girl in my nearby vicinity did refer to his white Act getup as that of 'a big, dirty pigeon'.) Rather than a menace, he was a conniving opponent, most notably when skilfully manipulating the dangerous Odile to his gleeful bidding. Another high point came in the form of the effervescent Naghidi, who recently absolutely burst into Covent Garden's affections with her brilliant Olga, accompanied by Kay, who gave us a cheerfully wonderful rendition of the Neapolitan Dance. The corps in the white acts gave valiant efforts, making the most of a small stage and very fussy costuming.

Whatever grievances remain are completely removed from the dancers, and are all to do with the production which, if rumours are true, will be retired in the near future - and not a moment too soon! There is not enough that can be said against it. Despite the utter zeal of Act III, nothing will forgive the fact that the set resembles Harrods at Christmastime, fairy lights and all. The costumes in the busy Acts I and III are headache inducing, with too many colours and style reverberating off all the gaudy gold slathered ornaments. Despite so many runs, controversy still wages over the lack of 'pancake' tutus for the swans - in the right seats, the feathery effect of the current choice is passable, but from others, it looks like very cheap netting. Besides, it is this viewer's opinion that there is just something so otherworldly fantastical about the white swans in their great white tutus standby sculpturally still, against a dreamy, minimalist backdrop - it is a classical balletic symbol of grace, beauty and mystery. The Royal Ballet production is, in every scene, entirely too cluttered, noisy and simply detracts from the sheer beauty of the artistry at work, from Tchaikovsky's rampaging score to the outlandish but beloved tale. It becomes a showpiece, a gilded ornament as opposed to a living, breathing work of art. 

Such annoyances aside, with two Osipova/Golding dates remaining, one should make every concerted effort to catch what appears to be a enormously exciting trip to the lake.  

A Definitive 'Onegin' with Marianela Nunez and Thiago Soares

Before the opening night of the Royal Ballet's 'Onegin', the assembled audience - largely comprised of Covent Garden regulars - were abuzz for two main reasons; the reunification of husband-wife couple Thiago Soares and Marianela Nunez on stage for the first time this season and for the imperious young talent Vadim Muntagirov's debut as Lensky. Both would go on to reward the crowd handsomely for their interest.

On the face of it, Cranko's adaption of the Russian epic is not immediately gripping. Despite several beautifully flowing pas des deux and a remarkable production replete with whimsical sets and a Slavic grandeur, the lack of choreographed vulnerability to any character but Tatyana has the potential to leave the audience a little cold. Moreover, despite a well-chosen Tchaikovsky score, only the music for the mirror and final pas de deux are truly arresting, with several climatic passages failing to rouse - the unfortunate arrangement of the Lensky's Act 2 solo orchestration remains a point of personal displeasure for me. Thus, much depends on the cast's interpretation of their bare tools, more so than many other ballets. 

What then of our eponymous anti-hero? Thiago Soares has played the mercurial noble many times to much acclaim - it is a role he portrays perhaps better than most, if not all, in the world. His very appearance is striking as that of the brooding figure who captures the young Tatyana's fancy as if straight from the realms of folklore. His look is strong and greatly mysterious and his manner imperious and rather abrupt. Such is his comfort that both of his solos were executed with breathtaking - almost flippant - ease. There is a self-contained poise about his Onegin that truly befits this shadowy character; the original poem contains scarce insight into his character other than what the wide-eyed, breathless Tatyana bequeaths of him. In his Act 1 solo, the exacting and domineering presence he exudes and he spins again and again exactly matches the nervous flutter of Tatyana in the wings, scared to meet his gaze. Indeed, it is not until Act 3, where she has become an elegant and less fanciful young woman that we truly get a glimpse of insight into his character; his utter surprise and pain at her transformation was very real.

Nunez is, in every role, a generously supple and achingly tender dancer - her technique is so secure that it is now very much taken for granted and rarely commented upon. Her Tatyana was crafted from the softest, most silken cloth. With an honest, open face and naturally sunny disposition, it is this kind of role in which she truly soars; as a Manon, she is too kind, as a Kitri, she is too structured. Tatyana, however, fits her like a dream. In Act 1, she shone and quivered as a pale slip of a young girl, only now unfurling to the world. It was truly quite remarkable; she was luminous, intoxicated by newfound desires and dreams. On the whole, it was an extremely naturalistic rendition from Nunez - in a role easily tempted by histrionics, she was acutely beatific. The mirror pas de deux passed by in one languorous simultaneous flow, as silken and trance-like as a real dream, hushed by a young girl's awe. And when she awakens from the secretive dreamworld, no actions are needed by Nunez to express the pivotally profound effect this experience has wrought upon her - all that is needed are her lustrous eyes and flushed skin staring out.

This delectable sense of a reverie that pervaded the first two acts make the third all the more striking. A key point of Pushkin's poem was the unassailable interchange between fiction and life, the boundaries of which are often blurred in Tatyana's dreamy mind. We see this onstage with Onegin's unexplained nature and mystery, with the often dark and indistinct backdrops, the picture-perfect poises of the corps de ballet, who stay perfectly still behind the 'E.O' monogrammed mesh, waiting for a chapter to begin before they whirl into a stately ball waltz. Even the death of Lensky, who falls silently and poetically is somewhat demure. Yet, in Act 3, this is abandoned. Years have passed, and Tatyana has matured. She arrives on the arm of her husband (Ryoichi Hirano as Prince Gremin - so wonderfully stately and the antithesis to Onegin) and is resplendent as the adored princess - yet we see restrain and reserve about her that was so markedly absent in her adolescence. When she spies Onegin, who is profoundly shaken by her transformation, she displays intelligence in maintaining social courtesy and turning away to devote her attention to her husband, who is gracious and has treated her well. Yet, alone, she holds the remnants of the letter her tremulous self once wrote him and is greatly disturbed. Here, Tatyana and Onegin meet for the first time as mental equals. The result is thoroughly breathtaking; the final pas de deux is complex and transforming in the depths of its sorrow and repent. Yet despite the highly charged setting, there is no impetuosity in their movements - rather, Nunez's arms seem to fleetingly cradle Soares to her chest in a burst of unassailable longing before sadly releasing him. Soares' Onegin is desperate and bitterly repentant - he now sees the unmistakable virtue of the girl, but his own actions have removed her forever. Tatyana's youthful dreams of romance have ended and the two must part in the thrust of reality.

Nunez and Soares

As strong as the unbreakable bond and understanding between the two artists is, it is only amplified and augmented by the audience. The Royal Opera House is a peculiar place of tradition and reward; Nunez's services and complete devotion to Covent Garden is a point of pride - she is the prodigal, shining daughter and following the exits of Rojo and Cojocaru, the undisputed sweetheart, the one that embodies the Royal Ballet like no other. It is hard to overstate the depth of their love for Marianela Nunez; even starry additions to the principal roster have not dampened their interest. Where others can stun the audience into a frenzy and inspire awe, the tenderness that Nunez exudes has a poignancy that only the Covent Garden crowd can understand. Such a naturalistic, honest portrayal might not work in other houses, but here, its power is indescribable. The ovation she and Soares received upon their repeated curtain calls was well earned and honestly deserved - a real show of adoration for a remarkable artist.

The other remarkable performance of the night belonged to Muntagirov's Lensky, who made a most successful debut. He seems to come from the school of pure romance - every extension and line of his body has a noble mien, and there is a softness to the great elasticity of his leaps that commands attention. While his Act 1 solo perhaps lacked the charm that comes with experience in the role, his Act 2 passage of sorrow and disillusionment was a thing of pure beauty. His aching long limbs, boyish countenance and transparency provided the perfect foil to Soares' arrogance - he, more than anyone else, played into Cranko's vision of Tatyana's storybook romance.