When I learned that the intention of choreographer Johan Inger in reimagining Carmen was to shine a light on male violence, I was instantly on guard. A bit like Carmen herself, I was already coiled for a fight. Having confessed this to my guest over pre-show dinner, she and I discussed our plan of attack. “I’m always on the look-out for an undercurrent of feminist themes, but this time I’ll be on high alert,” she assured me. “Likewise,” – high five! And so, appropriately briefed, we entered the theatre.
Depending on your narrator, and your audience, Carmen tells the story of: a good man brought to ruin by a manipulative harlot with no sexual boundaries and a penchant for destruction; a feisty, empowered heroine who’s entirely in control of her sexuality and refuses to submit to the men who attempt to dominate her (making her even more irresistible); a victim who’s playing the only card she can, and weaponizing the only power she has, in a system that’s violent, all-consuming, and stacked against her; or, a truth somewhere in the middle of all of those options.
It seems, from the pre-performance speech of The Australian Ballet’s Director David Hallberg, it’s this potential middle ground that Inger wants to explore. Hallberg tells us that, earlier that day, as the dancers finished their final rehearsal, Inger told them “In between ugliness and beauty is humanness; find the humanness tonight.”
The question, though, is whose humanness are we finding? Because one of the fundamentals of patriarchy is not everyone gets to be equally human, and traditionally it’s Don José who gets the disproportionately large slice of that pie.
At this point, it’s important to scan through the credits for this ballet, as set out in the program. Choreographer: man. Dramaturg: man. Then three assistant choreographers: all men. Then four composers: all men. Lighting design: man. Chief conductor, guest conductor and conducting fellow: all men. I did the maths. Out of the 17 creatives in the program for Carmen, only two of them are women: one for set design and one costume design associate.
The thing about this contemporary ballet, though, I still couldn’t help but love it. It was gritty, dark, sensual and emotionally and physically intense. It had an austere, film noir vibe, with silhouetted figures, a moody minimalist set, and chiaroscuro lighting. It had the soaring, percussive, industrial Marc Álvarez adaption to the inimical George Bizet score.
And the leads are fierce. The Australian Ballet struck gold in Jill Ogai as Carmen, who is phenomenal: fluid, sassy and sensual. She’s not your classic ectomorph ballerina – you know the ones, with that cool, ethereal, detached elegance – which makes her perfect for the hot, fiery, salty and aggressive Carmen. Not to say that she isn’t lithe and elegant and all the ballet things, but Ogai is also an exceptionally earthy, spicy dancer, who fully inhabits her body, and isn’t afraid to make weird, anti-balletic, punk shapes.
The lead men are also compelling. Callum Linnane, as Don José, is moody, brutal, commanding, broken. As Torero, Marcus Morelli is appropriately flashy and narcissistic. One of my favourite scenes was Torero, shirtless, peacocking to a wall of mirrors, while Carmen runs a bizarre chicken-dance around him.
In fitting with the film noir theme, Don José spends most of his performance in the plain clothed uniform of a 1940s detective: black pants, white shirt and a tie. The black and white binary holds huge significance in this piece. It is Carmen, in her blood red dress, frills, and bursts of Spanish colour, who refuses to fit this binary. In the first act she is all there: barefoot and shirtfronting the other women at the tobacco factory; running her hands up Don José’s body; opening and shutting her legs as she pleases. But, in the second act, we lose her. And I don’t mean in the obvious way, to foreshadow the ending. We lose Carmen as a human, with fire and agency, and get the outline of Don José’s projection.
Speaking of Don José, again, and all his glaring control and attachment issues, it’s fitting that he kills his love rival, first, with a gun, man to man. A gun is a weapon that can be discharged from a detached distance, which is how it’s done by our Don José: five feet away in a bladed stance. For his lover, Carmen, the killing is up close and personal. The ballet ends with Don José slumped against a single, lit doorway, his inner child sobbing in the corner: see what you made me do.
For all its talk of reinvention, Don José is still at the centre of this self-serving narrative. While the performance is worth seeing for its gritty intensity, unique choreography and committed leads, unfortunately this Carmen remains another fictional woman written and created by a round table of men.
