Imagine a love so powerful, so all-consuming that it literally incinerates you and your paramour. Now imagine waiting for this love to be consummated for something like two decades. Finally, imagine that this romantic conflagration takes place at the Metropolitan Opera House in front of thousands.
That’s both the ending to American Ballet Theatre’s Like Water for Chocolate (a joint enterprise with The Royal Ballet, which premiered it in 2022) and choreographer Christopher Wheeldon’s biggest job. He must manifest a climactic coupling that’s true to the story while tasteful enough for the deep-pocketed balletomanes funding the venture.
Based on Laura Esquival’s novel of the same name, Like Water for Chocolate transpires in early 20th century Mexico. Strong-willed yet hypocritical Mama Elena refuses her daughter Tita’s wish to marry Pedro. Tradition asserts the youngest daughter must remain to care for her mother. Instead of her hand, he accepts her sister’s, and Tita later becomes engaged to the kind-hearted Dr. John. After multiple fatalities, a gripping episode of matriarchal violence, a scary ghost, and several numbers that appear way too inspired by Agnes de Mille, fate allows the star-crossed lovers to unite.
The plot of death and desire – both thwarted and realized – is a bramble. There are nineteen featured roles, and it takes twelve paragraphs to relate the tale. Which is not enough, I should add. Like, what’s the purpose of the Don Pasqual character? He’s listed ninth, but I couldn’t find him in the synopsis.
While the narrative can prove too convoluted to depict through dance, the will-they-or-won’t-they question propels the story forward. Plus, Tita expresses her emotions through cooking, with sometimes disastrous effects. Beware of the quail with rose petals, lest you end up like Gertrudis, Tita’s sister, humping revolutionary soldier Juan Alexander on a bucking horse. (Although, on second thought, maybe you should indulge since Gertrudis becomes a commander and marries Juan Alexander.)
The twelve vignettes, unspooling over three acts, correspond to the chapters in the book. Each revolves around a recipe that sounds both delicious and unreal, like the wedding cake with its seventeen eggs and lime zest. A rectangular table with cobalt blue legs physically roots the various narrative threads. Its surface accommodates the activities of conventional womanhood: the birthing of a baby, the making of food, and the hosting of family and friends.
The opening presents an unmistakable message: you are not in control. A bevy of brides clutching red flowers faces us before turning around and into black-clad crones. Later, perched on chairs in a straight line, they loom over the action, like a murder of crows. Knitting needles activated, they purl-stitch destiny into existence.
Wheeldon’s choreography eschews the sweep and expanse of classical ballet for gravity-succumbing floor rolls and lots of twirling, swirling and swishy port de bras. Feet pitter-patter in bourrées; they caper in tight, intricate patterns. To show off her quirky spirit, Tita flexes her feet and swings her braids. Until the end, she and Pedro are rarely positioned face to face. Underscoring her illicit feelings, she often backbends away from him or dances with her back to his front.
If the choreography is serviceable rather than memorable, then so are the score and the visual elements. Joby Talbot’s music – whimsical yet insubstantial – ferries us briskly along. Occasional sonic burbles remind us that we’re supposed to be in the Mexico of yore. Bob Crowley’s costumes and scenery get the job done, but he takes few risks, so not much garners a reward. His most outstanding bit is a lacey scrim that does double duty as a dramatic bridal veil.
When everything is just fine rather than spectacular, then why was the audience on their feet at the end?
Two reasons. First, the cast offers a top-notch performance. As Tita, soloist SunMi Park carries the weight of the production. She must stay a likeable human even as she accidentally poisons wedding guests, sneaks around with her sister’s husband, and agitates her mother’s ghost, who gives Pedro a heart attack. Yet, Park charms by maintaining a gossamer smoothness in her execution.
I didn’t buy that she and Daniel Camargo, who plays Pedro, had any kind of grand connection, but Camargo looks like a Ken doll and dances like an angel, minus a lack of finesse in some partnering. Calvin Royal III is well-suited as Dr. John, his inherent steadiness and ramrod posture bringing to life the man who almost marries Tita. (Note to Claire Davison, who played Mama Elena: I believe your aunt sat two seats away from me. She is VERY proud of you, as she should be.)
Secondly, who can resist the spicy side of ballet? Not this girl, and when it comes to the heat level, the PG-13 warning is well-warranted. Wheeldon nails the apotheosis by going in an unexpected direction. Forget blistering crescendos and fervent acrobatics. He presents a quieter, more sophisticated pairing, exactly right for two people who’ve waited over half a lifetime for their union.
In nude undergarments and a sheer chemise for Park, the two slink down, around, and through each other, two ribbons knotting and unknotting themselves. A major overhead lift occurs when Park dreamily arches above Camargo. Yet they are situated toward the back of the stage, behind an invisible wall of privacy.
After a pulley lifts them heavenward, their bodies artfully draped around each other, a digital fire crackles in front of them. Ashes into ashes: they have become one.
