Matthew Bourne's Swan Lake

The opening scenes of Matthew Bourne's Swan Lake are fairly tame, with most dancers doing little more than extending a foot or flicking a wrist. You have to wonder: is there an actual focus on dancing here? Or is the entire production going to be played for light amusement?

These concerns are immediately allayed when we see the swans themselves: a row of male dancers ranged spectacularly before us - maybe a little sultry in the way they dangle off the line, but not provocative, and certainly not camp. When the young prince (Simon Williams) comes upon a group of swans at night, he finds them engaged in a mysterious courtly ritual. These are animals with their own wilful, inexplicable systems of movement: large-eyed and knowing, like creatures out of a Miyazaki film.

The prince ends up dancing with the most regal of the swans (Alan Vincent), but he can never be sure of the response that this impersonal, autonomous creature is giving him. As the swan lifts him into the air, it seems to be doing no more than obeying an impulse; when it extends its wing protectively around him, it mimics an ideal lover, but it's unclear how much of this is simply instinctive. When the swan bobs before vanishing offstage, it's less of a parting shot than the automatic movement of an animal: a bird's head twitching as it ducks and signals to the group. Even in the swooningly beautiful pas de deux, a seemingly passionate gesture is followed by a moment where the swan unthinkingly nods and flaps its arm.

It's this quality which makes an all-male Swan Lake seem like an utterly logical premise, rather than a gimmick or "twist" on the text. When danced by a woman, Odette can often be a fey and fading character - one seldom thinks of her as an actual creature. It may be difficult for me to watch a female Odette in future, without recalling the power of this interpretation. A row of white-saucered girls doesn't bring animal associations to mind: only the formal aspects of the arrangement. By contrast, Alan Vincent's version of Odette genuinely resembles a creature fixated on the nuances of its actions: like a young boy purely absorbed in his own swimming motion. The wavering of his arm signifies a water ripple as well as a wading movement. This swan can only be admired for his strength and independence - although these are the qualities that make his attention so elusive, and later, dangerous.

When the prince stands at the periphery of the lake, he is caught by an image of flying grace and beauty. For Bourne, any attraction starts from a moment of simple curiosity: it's the experience of watching another creature in its own habitat, with awe, before any thought of romantic involvement. The swans' dance isn't a "twilight" world of prancing males, but a clear vision of freedom and movement. Williams conveys the mood of the isolated dreamer, who happens upon something so powerful yet completely foreign that it's nearly impossible to articulate. Perhaps he has fantasized that this magical creature has the ability to heal his own insecurities - like a dream lover - or maybe the swan is really responding to something in him. Either way, his eye has alighted upon something so strange that he must express it in some form, or lose contact with reality.

Bourne's staging is less developed during the crowd and party scenes; it's clear that he cares primarily for the swans. At best, the jiving of a dancer with an Afro to Tchaikovsky's score suggests the style of film director Jacques Demy: a modern scene being choreographed to a pre-existing beat. However, the contrast in intensity works: for instance, Bourne allows the orchestration to soar during moments of stillness, so that contact with the "other" is seen to emerge out of a period of profound loneliness.

The atmosphere changes again when Vincent re-appears as the "black swan": a moody stranger at a function. No longer the angelic lover, he looks hot and annoyed, and soon reveals himself to be a smouldering sadist, who attracts women with his "take it or leave it" gestures. (The women in this show are generally petty starlets, or assorted hussies - no offence taken.) This man courts party girls for status, although he also seemingly does it to taunt and hurt the young prince - or is that the prince's own illusion? I like this reading of the good/bad swan theme, where the protagonist is driven mad by his lover's duality: whether it's a man who's closeted, or someone who won't acknowledge their hidden aspect - or whether the stranger is, in fact, another person altogether. Bourne's highly suggestive interpretation encourages us to question the rudiments of choreography: for instance, what it "means" when one dancer lifts another into the air. When the "bad" swan raises a woman off the ground, he appears to be momentarily indulging her self-image; when the "good" swan lifts the prince, he seems to be facilitating the young man's vision, but is only partially focused on him.

I haven't felt this kind of emotional involvement with a tutu ballet; yet another possible reading the show invites is related to dreams, since the male swans bear a striking resemblance to Hypnos, the Greek god of sleep - a huge, silent youth with beating wings. In this Swan Lake, madness and dreams are part of the process of being transformed by something unfamiliar.

Matthew Bourne's Swan Lake
Regent Theatre
11-29 April 2007

Review by Lesley Chow