I consider myself a cultured person. I mean, I majored in theater with a minor in music and art. Y'know, as a back-up. So I'm not sure how I got to be 42 years old without having ever seen Swan Lake. I suppose it's some kind of reverse Modernist snobbery--who wants to watch all that posing and pantomiming when you could watch Pure Dance?
Sure, the dancers in Oregon Ballet Theatre's production make lots of wide, welcoming gestures, as if they were showing off prizes on a game show, as well as frequently tapping each on their shoulders, presumably because you can't say "Hey, you" in a ballet.
But there was also Tchaikowsky's sumptuous score played exquisitely, a prima ballerina who looked like she stepped off a music box (seriously, check out the picture--sheer poetry) and lots of hot men in tights. Principal dancer Ronnie Underwood has an ass like two fused volleyballs.
More importantly, the evening's idyll was the kind of right-brained reverie that gave me some welcome relief from my restless analytical mind. As much as I crave intellectual stimulation, I realize how much I need to give all the thinking a rest. And having studied ballet for six years when I was a teenager, I know just enough to appreciate it and not enough to ruin it.
And did I mention the hot men in tights?
1 comment:
Mr. Underwood sounds rather butch.
I doubt anyone will be splitting those fused volleyballs anytime soon. Unless the lady doth protest too much.
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