Ballet
Getting together
Robin Young
It has (long been suspected among the gossips in the amphitheatre that Margot Fonteyn was irreconcilably reluctant to dance with Anthony Dowell. The theory has now firmly been disproved, and the only suspicion that lingers is that Dame Margot's supposed instincts may have been right.
Not that there was anything disastrous, or even unpleasant, about their partnership in Les Sylphides, slightly strained and unfamiliar as it looked in some of the longer lifts. But I doubt whether the partnership is a natural one — as those between Fonteyn and Nureyev and between Dowell and Sibley have become — or will ever show either dancer to maximum advantage. Superb as both are, it is in different ways. Dowell seems a prince, Fonteyn a queen — their marriage, therefore, out of order.
Fonteyn, dancing the prelude and, then going straight into the waltz pas de deux, provided a great and central calm, dancing impeccably with complete assurance and an absolutely unruffled smoothness of movement and line. Dowell, especially in the mazurka, could not quite match her for command and authority, while the other principals — Lesley Collier and Ann Jenner — were brilliant in a rather discordantly sprightly way. Ashley Lawrence's treatment of the music, languid and unhurried, resting on the air, suited Fonteyn more admirably than the supporting cast.
At the end of the programme Fonteyn and Dowell were brought together again, this time in the crackling classical showpiece, Raymonda. Again the supporting variations — especially those of Collier, Connor and Jenner — had most of the sparkle. Fonteyn's slow solo is so haughty in its domination as to deserve the epithet autocratic. Dowell, dancing with the utmost elan, still imparts nothing of the whip and drive which Nureyev gives the finale.
At The Place, off Euston Road, we have had the first opportunity to see Robert Cohan's People as a whole. It has been a 'work in progress' for a long time, and the first half was seen alone last year. This is a series of solos, exploring and exposing private personalities and neuroses, connected by a chorus of uncaring ' children ' who dance through and round it all, shifting the scenery as they go.
The boldest of the solos is that for Noemi Lapzeson, wedded to her wheelchair. The most immediately effective and appealing that of Xenia Hribar, expressing the longing imprisoned in a quirky, eccentric and tragically prim frame.
The second half, though based in group dance, People Together not People Alone, is also episodic, though not disjointedly so. It starts with a touch of the whirling dervishes — included for decorative effect, one feels, rather than with pious intent. Then we have love and eroticism (including a fine duet for Namron and Lapzeson), and games degenerating into combat and warfare. People group to' gether, make .waves, and fall apart. The conclusion, perhaps a little glib and pessimistic, is that people are more alone together than when they are alone.
Bob Downes's score for the work is a tremendous asset, a vital part of the whole creation, and John B. Read's lighting and the highly adaptable sets add considerably to a very real dramatic impact. At one stage Cohan even stakes a claim to be ballet's Sam Peckinpah — with a slow motion fist-and-foot fight of considerable violence and some disquieting comedy. The sight of Namron's cudgelled head ricocheting between his opponent's elbow and thigh had a more cathartic effect on its audience, I would guess, than any number of equally carefully staged all-in wrestling matches.
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