Peter Martins’ Swan Lake – undone by violent designs and a tiresome jester — invited skepticism about his Sleeping Beauty. Yet Beauty’s more elegant architecture is grounded in judicious cuts to the score, the generous preservation of Petipa-based choreography, and David Mitchell’s affecting set designs.
The ballet races along, clocking in at slightly over two hours. Mitchell’s designs deploy a profusion of painterly projections that zero in on the castle like Google Earth if Google Earth was watercolored. Set amid idyllic countryside, the castle’s stark facade nonetheless looked forbidding, reminding us that monarchy is meant to intimidate. Costumes, however, proved overly fussy – cloaks and other layers obscuring fine handwork – and occasionally illogical: if fairies wear tutus, why not Carabosse? Fairy by rank, she appeared instead in a gown indistinguishable in style from the royals’.
Fussiness resurfaced in the Garland Dance, a Balanchine import for a teeming ensemble. Gridlock undercut the radiant score. Children may sell tickets, but trimming the adult ranks would have been wise. Elsewhere, young students were erratically integrated: the little Fairy gift-bearers ignored by the Fairies – as was the infant princess who was the very pretext for the Fairies’ appearance. By contrast, the tiny School of American Ballet student Taylor Kim commanded the stage as Little Red Riding Hood, boldly defying the Wolf, while the sapling tree-bearers showed precision and aplomb.
A raft of soloist debuts galvanized the proceedings last Thursday. Notable among the fairies: new corps member Maya Milić, bounding effortlessly and vividly speed-writing in the air with her pointes; and Meaghan Dutton-O’Hara, skittering crisply and hilariously on pointe, fingers tracing the trajectory of shooting stars, with lively hip action, a mad twinkle in her eyes, and lines beautifully finished.
The Fairy gatherings were untidy, though – épaulement more of a suggestion than an obligation. Ditto for the regiments of Lilac Fairy Attendants and Cavaliers.
The dancing Jewels at the wedding all made debuts, too, led by Preston Chamblee, distinguished by his elegant lines and impeccable pirouettes. The musical Rommie Tomasini was speedy yet attentive to épaulement; Ruby Lister blazed through their variation with insouciant style; and Naomi Corti with her dramatic backbends exuded the glamor of Hollywood’s Golden Age.
Roman Mejia’s highly anticipated debut as Prince Désiré matched him with veteran Tiler Peck, ideally suited to the singularly demanding role of Princess Aurora. He glowed almost radioactively on his first entrance in the truncated hunting scene, gleaming in gold from head to toe, more appropriate to a disco than a hunt (the deer would have spotted him from the next shire.) Evidently not in a hunting mood, he chose instead to pour out his loneliness to the Lilac Fairy, the refined Emilie Gerrity, who responded with a royal sales pitch: have I got a princess for you.
The Vision scene proved a kind of heavenly disco, populated by serenely prancing nymphs in moonlit silver who formed an animated maze. Peck – having just dispatched the thorny Rose Adage as if it were child’s play – returned as the spirit of Aurora, stunned by Carabosse’s cruel spell. Imaginary tears coursed down her cheeks as she drew beautiful extensions inward through enveloppés, hands delicately mirroring the downward journey of her foot.
The prince doesn’t get much airtime in this ballet but Mejia acquitted himself nobly, jumping ardently without overselling. In the Wedding scene, the pair radiated joy, nailing the spectacular elements of their partnership – notably the pirouettes that unfurled in glorious shapes and heart-stopping fish dives – with innocent wonder. Mejia scaled great heights with his double cabrioles; his tours en l'air resolved in a commanding arabesque. Peck paid scrupulous attention to details and finishes: the articulation of her feet, the shaping of hands, the breath moving through a balance. Her renversés showed less pliancy than in seasons past, but her phenomenal control more than compensated.
A compelling plot is not usually the selling point of a Sleeping Beauty. Yet Martins introduced a modest plot twist with a contemporary resonance. The wedding concludes with a coronation: the king and queen cede their crowns and cloaks to Aurora and Désiré, who ascend their thrones beneath a monumental Art Deco sunburst. This peaceful transition of power to a younger generation, though nepotistic, telegraphs a plausible move toward a more low-key ‘pushbike monarchy’.
The Awakening invites a similar rethinking, one that would temper its silliness. Even Charles Perrault, writing some 250 years before Disney, did not hinge the Awakening on a kiss: his prince, drawn by local gossip, arrived at the appointed 100-year deadline and roused the princess with words of admiration and affection. Why should Aurora accept the first suitor to arrive at her bedside? Balletic bravura would argue the case far more persuasively – this is territory that Mejia commands.
