A Spellbinding 'Manon' with Osipova and Acosta

I steadfastly believe that the reason I persevere with the performing arts, why I rush through hours of coursework and reading just so I can head down to Covent Garden or the Southbank or the Barbican at all hours of the evening, is my faith in the magic that accompanies moments of sheer nirvana. 'Magic' is surely the only true word to describe the unassailable sensation that accompanies such a moment - where all senses are overcome in a tidal wave. And magic is what we got today, in the ecstatic dying embrace of Manon and her des Grieux.

I was in attendance, three weeks ago, for Osipova's role rebut as a magnetically flawed girl-woman. There, her genius soared gaily, but its flight was marred by some incongruently heavy factors - her lack of chemistry with Acosta being the main detractor. I feel it would be a gross disservice to both wonderful artistes if that was the last written evidence of my opinion against them. For this second final performance was completely and utterly transfigured.

If one saw Osipova and Acosta tonight, they would think it unbelievable that the same two had come under severe criticisms of unattachment mere weeks before. She retained all the wondrous qualities of her stupendous characterisation from the first evening - from loveliness personified, to the sensuous, to the macabre, all interlinked into one fiercely burning spark. But this time, her head was turned to her des Grieux and her narcism offset by longing. Whereas before, this life-loving Manon plunged off the precipice to embrace hedonism, tonight's incarnation brought us a Manon genuinely torn and worn ragged by love and greed, redeemed by the unbreakable thread that holds her to des Grieux.

From the very first of the three hugely impressive pas des deux, everything was tighter, fast and with heightened tension. It had the sensation of blossoming, a hushed adoration that was beguiling in its believability. They canvassed the stage as if buoyed by nothing but the purest exhilaration, luxuriating in stolen moments - an lingering glance here, a tremulous touch there - so much so that the audience almost felt invasive. Manon's growth from young girl to wanton courtesan no longer feels like an internal transformation to which des Grieux is nothing but an accessory. Now, we believe in the steadfastness of their love, which survives the harshest of conditions. Importantly however, Osipova did not forsake intensity for delicacy. Her Manon still retains its gritty, overly-vivacious edge that makes her so comprehensively believable. Their love is strong, not pure - even the first pas de deux is tinged with hints of sexual power, which later blooms and drives the bedroom pas de deux with an urgency unparalleled. Osipova, who once could be accused to dancing to the maxim 'bigger is better', has evolved. Everything she does remains impressive in theatricality and electric in intensity - but now, the big and wonderful in accompanied by heart. And tonight, she gave hers to des Grieux completely. There were points in the second pas des deux where she seemed giddy, reckless and overcome with sheer bliss.

Indeed, Acosta made perhaps the biggest transformation. He is, and always has been, a fantastically powerful dancer and able actor, although his powers have been said to wane with age. Tonight was something of a renaissance. His opening solo adagio was softer and crafted with a languid gentility conspicuously absent from the first night. Moreover, his partnership with Osipova was perfect in its synchronisation. There was never an unreciprocated touch, nor a glance that did not elicit a reaction, be it joy, lust or, as the ballet wore on, uneasiness and despair. Though he has not the puppyish physique that makes the role of des Grieux come as naturally as it does to younger dancers, he turns his strength to his advantage to find a more authoritative Chevalier that suits Osipova's decadent Manon. In the Act II, when he is distraught by Manon's fickleness, his steps were punctuated not with virile frustration, and his anger towards her when she refuses to discard of the bracelet and her weakness for wealth is formidable. Together, Acosta and Osipova create a more virile and fervent pairing, both adopting a no-holds-barred approach. The end result assaults the senses mercilessly - they attack their roles with rabid rapaciousness, riding the highs of Massenet's soaring score without being afraid of the depths of the falls. Where Lamb and Muntagirov were gentle and Nunez and Bonelli were tender, Osipova and Muntagirov were reckless and in this gruesome tale, recklessness is infinitely more rewarding.

The depths they reached were encompassed entirely in the final Act, where our hapless pair seemed weighed down with exhaustion (perhaps not acted, given their complete immersion in the acts prior). She, already trembling in death's grasp, could hardly turn her head to face him - yet, her entire body gravitated towards him. When they step onto the dock, to be harassed by Avis' fascinatingly ghoulish gaoler, they lean on each other - she for strength, and he for sanity. When they are forcibly separated by Avis, we see her vulnerable and preyed upon, so graphically it is upsetting (although, once again, Avis is a real gem). Yet, even when she is thus violated and this helpless Manon grasps blindly for the jewels, it is a more wrenching moment than ever before - it is this greed and consumption that has torn her so convincingly apart.

The final pas de deux was a moment of suspended of wonder. I have spoken admiringly before of Osipova's courage in embracing the gruesome and angular sides of death. Here, it was augmented by true regret. We feel that she wants desperately to live and that she is clinging onto des Grieux in fear - when she runs to him for the devilish throws, there is no sense of bracing herself for the technical demand. Instead, she seems to open her body and completely launch herself into his arms without reserve, trusting and willing him to carry her on. And every move of his is tormented - he is rough, he grasps her fiercely, and he seems to shake with convulsive sorrow. At the close, when he throws her one final time and she plunges straight into his arms, all fight seems to leave both bodies. It is an emotionally destructive performance; they scale heights far too immense to leave room for anything but utter devastation. The end result is quite magnificent.

The entire cast, thankfully, seemed to rise to the occasion with relish. Special mention must go to Thiago Soares, who seemed to improve on his already excellent Lescaut. He performs the part with such security now, and he has a naturally roguish charm which makes the role doubly compelling. Every character in Manon has a flaw - his, most prominently, is cowardice and when the dashing mien peels away to reveal the scrambling, frightened and pitifully pleading Lescaut at the end, it is a disarming contrast. Of all the Lescauts of this run, Soares is the only one that truly commands the role with the swagger and ease that brings it life. Moreover, I was once again struck by the complexity and scale of the Manon production, which truly showcases what able actors the Royal Ballet are. Each harlot has their own personality, each gentleman customer at the brothel has his own taste. This depth of personality makes the entire production echo with poignancy, particularly at the end when, while Manon is lying in delirium in the wasteland, these phantoms of an condemning past flit behind her - telling of her short life.

All in all, it was the type of evening that simply resonates hours and hours after the curtain has dropped. The Royal Opera House's extended Manon run is quickly coming to an end. With only one couple left (the nuanced Zenaida Yanowsky and international hunk Roberto Bolle), I defy them to produce anything close to the magic of this night.

Lamb & Muntagirov in MacMillan's Manon at the Royal Opera House

The view from Amphitheatre C:80, seated

It seems that since my move to London one year ago, the story of Manon Lescaut has imprinted itself firmly upon my being. Massenet's opera was the first production I saw at Covent Garden, Puccini's the closing chapter of my first season and now, in this new season, the Royal Ballet's extended run of Manon has been eating up my schedule considerably. Add onto that the recent purchase of the original novel, you have something akin to overexposure.

Thus, over the past few performances (with Nunez/Bonelli & Osipova/Acosta) I fancied myself immune to the harrowing effects of the sorrowful story. I thought back to the strength of feelings I had experienced upon my first encounter with the story, and felt rather regretful.

Yet, on this evening, a beautifully poignant and earnest performance by Sarah Lamb and Vadim Muntagirov moved me, as if it was my first time encountering this tale of great woe and passion.

I have already spoken at length about the long-awaited role debut of Natalia Osipova a few days ago, in which I gave high praise to her believable, self-aware and gregarious portrayal of the complex role. Yet, something lacked that evening, outside of her superlative skill. This was the general consensus; as aptly put by Judith Mackrell's Guardian review: "we feel it's life she can't bear to leave, not des Grieux." The more I reflected upon this, the more I felt disappointed that the heart of both production and story had been considerably diminished; for what is Manon Lescaut without the helpless and impassioned ardor that exists between the two lovers?

Part of this problem stems from the difficulty of the role of des Grieux. A technically demanding part, from the subtlety to his Act 1 solo to the multitude of lifts, it is also hampered by having none of Manon's obvious vulnerabilities in which the dancer may build character. Thus, it has been unfortunate but understandable that most of its canvassers this season have faltered in the emotional aspect of their portrayal.
Not so for Muntagirov. Aesthetically, he is different; he exudes natural youthfulness (being only twenty-four), with his pale and pinched face and almost coltish legs. Yet, he commands the stage wholesomely and with easy grace. He is at perhaps the perfect age and maturity for this role. His des Grieux has a sweetly cloying, aching gentility. Somehow, in his Act 1 solo, he seemed to have half a second more time than the others, time to elongate his incredibly long limbs in a way that exuded nobility - while the spritely candour of his steps betrayed the tremulous first dawn of romance. There is a Russian lilt to his hands still (he himself says he is a product of both the English and Russian schools) and he exudes a lyricism that is both refreshing and captivating. It was one of those moments where the whole house seemed to sigh a little whenever that graceful line appeared.

He and Lamb, though an unexpected partnership, make a devastatingly earnest couple. Both exude youth and awe - their love in the first pas de deux is uncomplicated and ardent, as if neither can scarcely believe the new sensations awash within them. The lifts were performed as if she weighed nothing at all; so fluid and languidly they moved across the stage, entranced by their own spell. Even more delicious was their bedroom pas de deux - more than anything else, they radiated joy and candid sensuality. They moved entirely as one, with Muntagirov's sensitive partnering complimenting Lamb's sweetness.

With such a languidly beautiful Act 1, perfect in its incredulity and trance-like dreaminess, there were fears amongst the audience that such a portrayal could not be sustained, and the momentum would burn out before the final act. Thankfully, it was not to be thus, most predominantly thanks to Vadim Muntagirov. Never before have I seen des Grieux so convincing as the spurned lover. When he entreats Manon to return to him at the party, he is frantic and messy in his pleas. His solo passage when she retreats from him has a faintly wild edge, an outpouring of youthful anguish and frustration. In their pas de deux in his lodgings, his anger as he looks at her bracelet with remorseful eyes is virile. Muntagirov was, in every respect, the heart of this Manon production. Much like des Grieux's resolve in following Manon "to the ends of the earth", Muntagirov would not be swayed. His immersion (in what has, in this run, been an one-dimensional character) was total - and ultimately, heartbreaking. Even in the famous final pas de deux, he shone another light. Like all other interpreters before him, he is willing Manon to live; but the tenderness shines through - his arms cradle her even more gently and every step of his is laced not with desperation but true sorrow.

Lamb's Manon is a good girl; perhaps too good, some might argue. It is hard to reconcile the warmth flowing from the gentle arms in the Act 1 to the brazen courtesan she became, and even less so the the violated woman of the final Act. It is difficult to imagine that such a prudent Manon would ever take to the gambling table, let alone succumb to material trappings. But the gentleness of Lamb's Manon is also significant and it goes some way to explain the gulf in emotional connection between tonight's performance and its predecessors. It held us understand why she invokes such sincerity and passion from des Grieux. She has to be more than a fickle, vain creature - for a des Grieux to have adored her to the extent that Muntagirov's did, he must have responded to something more than her sensuality. In this respect, we, the audience, fell deeply for their tragedy.

Here is where the true triumph of the night lay. Where Muntagirov and Lamb are at their most magical is in the true depth of feeling between them. They have reminded us what we never should have forgot - that Manon, in any incarnation, is first and foremost above love, love that blooms and survives even under the most sordid of conditions. Lamb and Muntagirov embraced this in its entirety, and thus they soared soared. No lift seemed to trouble them, no manoeuvre broke the flow of movement between two bodies in complete understanding. At the ending, where Muntagirov's des Grieux looks down upon his beloved's dead body, his shoulders seemed to heave with not the exaggerated torment we have come to expect, but a true outpouring of anguish.

Lamb & Muntagirov receiving their rapturous applause

This ballet showcases, like no other, what a fine body of actors the corps de ballet are. Many of the scenes are crammed full of bodies and like a great, intricate tapestry, there is always something new to discover. Each prostitute under the Madame's charge has their own individual flair and charms; even the beggars at the dockside quarrel heatedly, regardless of the solos being performed in their midst. This kind of headily immersive acting was embodied by Gary Avis and Thomas Whitehead in their unsavoury roles as Monsieur GM and the Gaoler respectively, which they seemed to dispatch with real relish.

Yuhui Choe, a perennial crowd favourite, (and bizarrely, not yet a principal dancer) was superb once more as Lescaut's mistress, a role in which she only recently made her debut. She gave the role appropriate complexity and importantly, beneath all the flirtations and boisterous behaviour of the character, she doesn't forget to remain beautiful, with excellent willowy arms that I could watch forever. She and Zucchetti seemed to have formed a rather delightful understanding, both radiating a natural lyricism that they aren't afraid to manipulate in search of wanton pleasure.

But in this ballet that is only as strong as its central pairing, all eyes must go to the heartfelt des Grieux and his accommodating Manon.

Lamb & Muntagirov

Osipova in MacMillan's Manon at the Royal Opera House

Such was the impact that Natalia Osipova made during her first season at Covent Garden that the ticket sales for her first performance of the second, as Manon in MacMillan's ballet, resembled a war zone. Sold out within hours of opening to the general public, I finally managed to procure a day ticket online on the day of the performance. Having pretty much missed Osipova in a full-length ballet all last season (having a poor seat for Giselle and her being injured for both scheduled performances of Sleeping Beauty) I was determined to be there to see the dancer I had so long admired.

The view from C:20 - balcony level

Manon is not, however, a ballet that seems immediately suited for Osipova. Her greatest feature has long since been her remarkable technique - those airy, ecstatic leaps! Those dizzying spins! MacMillan's choreography is rather bereft of these showpiece passages. In its stead are enormous lifts, devilish in their apparent ease, and a sordid tale accompanied by unapologetic choreography. Professedly Russian (and with a tendency to be 'Bolshoi'), I myself had doubts about Osipova's approach to this English ballet. The past season saw her blow such misconceptions out the water with a mesmerisingly haunted Giselle - could she possibly do it again?

Full House

The answer is yes - ostensibly. The moment she first stepped onto the stage, it was clear - there are few actresses of Osipova's calibre at the Royal Ballet. She embodied Manon with every fibre of her being. Such is her entrance; fluttering forth from the carriage, she does not outstretch her arms to luxuriate in the warm reception - both on and off stage - instead, her dark eyes are already sparkling with mirth and mischief, darting around in search of pleasure. Her characterisation surprised many; it was so unapologetically narcissistic, but never cruel. This is the true conception that Prevost wished to portray in his original novel. His Manon was never a wide-eyed ingenue - to play her thus would be an insult to the virile defence of love that characterises the entire novel. Nor is she ever malicious or cruel; des Grieux remarks that he never doubts that her love is as true as his, but it is eclipsed, not obliterated, by her voracity for pleasure. In this respect, Osipova was superb. She danced with every ounce of loveliness befitting a beautiful young girl, her head turned at every compliment. Through it all, there was the odd sense of premonition that had also pervaded her Giselle - the feeling of a candle  burning too fiercely bright, of a rapaciousness that hastens the inevitable end. Her Manon's love of pleasure was not incidental but determined - determined to sample all the fruits of life for fear of them spoiling. The first pas de deux between her and Acosta's des Grieux (in which they fall in love) emanated that feeling. This tenacious Manon was not in awe of this new flurry of emotions; instead, she revelled in her sexual awakening with peculiar curiosity. When she spun in his arms, she opened her body completely to him; and in the climatic lift, she froze while aloft in the air, as if fearful of disrupting these awakened sensibilities before her eyes shut in ecstasy and she tumbled down into her lover's arms. 

Remarkable as it seems, this was only the first out of four manifestations of Osipova's Manon. In the latter half of the bedroom pas des deux, we met yet another girl, with a veracious appetite for sex and blooming confidence in her own desirability. Her gaze was still playful, but yet more predatory. Each movement, each caress of her gown or step across the stage was hyper-aware. When she stopped to kiss her love, it wasn't a mere confirmation of affection, but a sudden need to feel the sensation of skin upon skin. Whatever this Manon felt, she felt keenly - it was this kind of heady pursuit of pleasure that made her downfall all the more believable. 

The last vision of Manon is one that is more broken than others. Just as Osipova's Act 2 Giselle last year took on a hauntingly macabre chill, her Manon has angular and disjointed; she isn't afraid to forsake what she feels embodies realism for the sake of aesthetic pleasure. As it is, it suits both her and her Manon - both of them aim higher, burn more fiercely, immerse themselves more recklessly that there must be an adverse reaction. The higher their euphoria soars, the more maiming the downfall. When Manon appearing in Act 3, she seemed barely conscious. Her feet moved, but her gaze was blank - she had already left. The final pas de deux displayed this post powerfully - from the beginning where des Griex held her weak body aloft, he was willing her to live. And Manon - she wants to live more than any other, but were beauty has fled there is now only tenacity. So she gathers her energy to leap into his arms over and over - only to lose her energy, becoming dangerously limp until he is dancing with a corpse. 

Most remarkably, however, all facets of Osipova's Manon were flawlessly interlinked. Through all the guises of mischievous girl, young lover, ambitious courtesan and demeaned prostitute, there remains the same spirit in them all - a mere twitch on the thread can bring them all back to the beginning. Hers is not the first Manon I have seen this season, but it is the most comprehensive, by some distance.

Osipova! Osipova! Osipova!

However, some lingering doubts remain over the wisdom of her partnership with Acosta. As of now, the Royal Ballet is more stacked in their male principals than females. With a wealth of talent including my personal favourite Edward Watson, Steven McCrae and the new Vadim Muntagirov, it is surprising that they persist in billing Osipova alongside Acosta who will be retiring at the end of next season. His arabesques are not so free now, his steps not quite as springy. Although he doesn't appear laboured by any means, his portrayal of des Grieux as a devoted youth failed to conjure much chemistry with Osipova's decadent Manon. While she had sensuality in spadefuls, it did not seem particularly directed at him. Inevitably, Acosta has not the fire and alacrity he had in his youth, and as it is, they lacked in dynamism. 

Nevertheless, many of the other aspects of the performance seemed elevated too, in her presence. Thiago Soares' return as Lescaut was a fantastically welcome addition - he and Calvert were true gems. While Soares' finishing still left something to be desired, his drunk adagio was superb, and his acting as good as always. Calvert matched her partner's heights with equally masterful comic timing. Together they coaxed rapturously loud applause. For the first time this season, the orchestra seemed to play in perfect tandem with the dancing - none of the pas de deus sequences seemed dragged out, as was the case on the previous two occasions I was at Covent Garden. 

Overall, it was certainly a memorable evening - I came back from Covent Garden will all my objectives thoroughly satisfied. For the first time in this run, I believed in Manon and lived her short life with her - bravo Osipova!

Jonathan Kent's Manon Lescaut

The view from B-68 

Stepping out of the Royal Opera House, my fellow opera-goers seemed to heave a great sigh - some out of satisfaction, some more bemused and others completely irate. For a performance graced with such powerful and unadulterated vocal talent, very little of the discussion focussed on that aspect (although everyone had to find at least a few superlatives for Jonas Kaufmann). Rather, the crowd making their way to the tube station seemed increasingly occupied in trying to find some sort of common consensus for Jonathan Kent's ambitious production. With the Covent Garden crowd having a reputation for being something of traditionalists, the dramatically brassy sets caused a stir - the most obvious problem being Act II, in which instead of dancing a Minuet, Kent's Manon preens through some form of lap dance, most of which is done spread-legged on a mountain of hot pink cushions, while being filmed. The description alone sounds like something out of Katie Price's many variety shows, and the overall effect did little to dispel that conception. Placed in an odd glass/plastic box, Opolais was the very image of the next season of TOWIE. It was unapologetically garish, vulgar in a way that would send feminists into prolonged fits of apoplectic rage - but it certainly did a good job of unsettling the audience. By styling Manon as a courtesan of this age, modelled on nearly every WAG that has 'written' an expose of an autobiography, Kent raised some uncomfortable questions. Grumbles of misogyny and tastelessness could be readily heard during the interval - but even the original Puccini production intended Act II to be chauvinistic and discriminative. It enacts a certain power play between man and woman.  Manon, in any of her operatic or balletic incarnations, was never intended to be an innocent, wide-eyed ingenue. She is also playing the game for compliments, jewels, her pretty glass house. A traditional production puts the courtesan in a situation we have come to lushly romanticise - but Kent's production throws the courtesan into a discomfortingly modern prospective. She is a woman, who if walking down the street today, most of the Covent Garden crowd would shun, a woman whose constant parade of outfits would be eagerly documented by the DailyMail. It was an interesting approach which I seemed to stomach better than most, even in all its Malibu Barbie hyper-sexualised soft-porn male fantasy glory. 

However, it must be stressed that much of the success of the night has to be attributed to the sheer prowess of Kaufmann, Opolais and Pappano. The garishness of Act II I can rationalise, but had it not been Kaufmann, so vocally rich and persuasive, and Opolais, so completely immersed in the role that she radiated real convincing beauty even beneath the frankly ridiculous outfit, the entire act might have fallen completely flat. In terms of orchestration and libretto, I will always favour the reconciliation scene between Manon and Des Grieux in Massenet's opera, which truly emotes torment, seduction and lust most potently. But Kaufmann, most convincingly melding a sense of being wronged with longing, stepped forward with such earnestness that the frenzied emotion seized the audience. He sings helplessly, indignantly, pathetically, about having descended down the rungs of shame for her, leaving prudence and principles behind. His rich, earthy tone caresses every syllable with sincerity yet his high notes that expel with real purity and blossom with Puccini's swelling strings provoked a great sigh of exhilaration from the audience at every turn. With Kaufmann's Des Grieux, his voice is enough to transport. From his first appearance, there was a great sense of continuously falling from a precipice - Des Grieux's reverent awe upon his first meeting Manon, to an abandoned lover's conflict, to a broken man, it was an immersive experience. Opolais partnered him wonderfully. Her Manon was carefully studied and never verged on a rapaciousness that was unlikeable. It was only in the final act, however, that Opolais truly seemed to sing without restraint, atop the broken road, facing death. Both singers were greatly supported by a wealth of talent. Benjamin Hulett as the carefree Edmondo was a real highlight, as was Pappono and the entire ROH orchestra. The played with sensitivity, passion and a drive I have not sensed from them since the Die Frau Ohne Schatten production in March. The cumulative effect truly paid tribute to Puccini's original conception of unfettered, dramatic Italianate passion.

Nevertheless, there were several outstanding flaws in the production. The sets while sometimes novel, just got wilder. The deportation in Act III became terribly unclear - what precisely was intended by having the miscreants disappear through a ripped poster I cannot say (although I was missing that bottom right hand corner of the stage stage from my seat which perhaps accounts for some, but not all, of the confusion). Act I was disrupted by the unnecessary appearance of the car which just seemed painfully awkward. The breathlessness of Manon and Des Grieux's first encounter was unfortunately detracted by the casino in the background - there was no sense of two souls recognising each other, a sense of a tremulously momentous occasion. In this, the production perhaps forgets that Manon Lescaut is inherently above great love and romance, which was left to the singers to portray (excellently). My greatest complaint though concerns the set of Act IV which seemed to replicate a scene out of Godzilla - why precisely has such a road been ripped brutally in half? Why is Manon despairing about a desert when she is clearly lying on Tarmac, and thus presumably not too far from civilisation? The latter half of the opera, while musically even more wondrous, became near on unfathomable through the production. While the concept Kent chose was perhaps inspired, quite a few things seemed lost in translation. HOWEVER, I do not believe that the production staff warranted the boos they received. Besides some sightline problems which will inevitably frustrate some, particularly those who have paid for top tier tickets, there was nothing inflammatory enough to have provoked such a show of disrespect. It is art, interpretation of a roles and characters and such dogmatism left an unfortunate mark on what was otherwise a truly enjoyable evening. Tomorrow, I leave London after completing the first year of my degree at university. After a year during which I spent more hours in ROH than in tutorials, I depart on a high note.

**Small note on sight lines
My usual seat of choice (standing at the back of the Stalls Circle, affording an unhindered view of the stage horizontally) was unavailable. Instead, I chose a standing seat on the balcony level, which very provided a surprisingly clear view of the stage, barring the bottom right hand corner. This seat was greatly fortuitous for two vastly important reasons - much of the singing in Act I especially was carried out on the left hand side. Moreover, much of Acts I and IV placed the singers on sets suspended high in the air (from my vantage point, it looked very much like Kaufmann and Opolais were plastered against the ceiling). Thus, had I taken my usual seat which has no elevation, I would have missed near half of the acting, which would have been distressing to say the least.