Last night, a dance show. Ballet Zurich, to to precise. Part of the EIF programme.
The first piece was nice. Very nice. Although they should have put a warning up at the entrance to the theatre on account of lighting of significant duration which could easily have inspired an epileptic fit. If you made it through that, the costumes covered modesty, the movement was wonderful and the music was wonderful Max's Four Seasons.
The next piece.Oh ho.
A lady of restricted growth stood on a low raised platform in knickerbockers and spoke in French. Spoke excellently, to be fair. With wit, wry observation, irony and scorn in spadeloads. But as she just seemed to be going on - and on - (before I knew!) about relationships and ladies scorning her, I was left unmoved. Captions projected onto the back cloth provided a translation of what I subsequently understood to be Shakespeare's sonnets.
A woman in a long burgundy dress wriggled around at the other side of the stage, taunting the poet.
It was all moodily lit. A sorrowful looking young man gazed at us from a loads of shades of grey backcloth. There was distant ominous discordant music that sometimes almost sounded like something you recognised. Sometimes a dog barked.
Some dancers hurried on. The men in pants and short jewel coloured jackets. The women had lovely structured jewel coloured leotards. I wished I could have the jade green one - though I don't suppose I'd get much use out of it on a daily basis.
A series of low platforms were lying around and the dancers picked these up and dragged them about the stage with them. The knickerbocker lady and the burgundy dress (which seemed to get longer and longer as the show went on) lady ran about inbetween them.
Everyone ran about.
The girls came back on in beautiful black tutus. I coveted them.
They ran around some more. All of them. The dancers. The burgundy dress. The knickerbockers. The sonnet pronouncer continued to pronounce. The dancers continued to run.
It stopped.
Everyone clapped a lot.
The lights relit the auditorium. "My goodness, I thought that was wonderful," said BS. "It really moved me."
The heathen savage with cotton wool for a brain and a heart that beat courtesy of electricity rather than deeply felt surging human emotion and BS left the theatre and went home.
The first piece was nice. Very nice. Although they should have put a warning up at the entrance to the theatre on account of lighting of significant duration which could easily have inspired an epileptic fit. If you made it through that, the costumes covered modesty, the movement was wonderful and the music was wonderful Max's Four Seasons.
The next piece.Oh ho.
A lady of restricted growth stood on a low raised platform in knickerbockers and spoke in French. Spoke excellently, to be fair. With wit, wry observation, irony and scorn in spadeloads. But as she just seemed to be going on - and on - (before I knew!) about relationships and ladies scorning her, I was left unmoved. Captions projected onto the back cloth provided a translation of what I subsequently understood to be Shakespeare's sonnets.
A woman in a long burgundy dress wriggled around at the other side of the stage, taunting the poet.
It was all moodily lit. A sorrowful looking young man gazed at us from a loads of shades of grey backcloth. There was distant ominous discordant music that sometimes almost sounded like something you recognised. Sometimes a dog barked.
Some dancers hurried on. The men in pants and short jewel coloured jackets. The women had lovely structured jewel coloured leotards. I wished I could have the jade green one - though I don't suppose I'd get much use out of it on a daily basis.
Everyone ran about.
The girls came back on in beautiful black tutus. I coveted them.
They ran around some more. All of them. The dancers. The burgundy dress. The knickerbockers. The sonnet pronouncer continued to pronounce. The dancers continued to run.
It stopped.
Everyone clapped a lot.
The lights relit the auditorium. "My goodness, I thought that was wonderful," said BS. "It really moved me."
The heathen savage with cotton wool for a brain and a heart that beat courtesy of electricity rather than deeply felt surging human emotion and BS left the theatre and went home.
posted by Claire at 8:46 am
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