Whether you are an ugly duckling or a fully grown, glorious former or present cygnet, fly, don’t swim or walk to go see Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake. There are a few performances left at the Ahmanson in Los Angeles, and I wish I could be at every one.
I love swans. I have had an affinity for them ever since I read that E.B. White novel about the trumpet playing swan, who went to the city and stayed in a hotel. He ordered watercress sandwiches from room service, half with mayonnaise, half without, unsure of what he might like, and always wanting to do the right thing, and every time I have stayed by myself in an overpriced, overwhelming, adult in the grown up sense not the xxx sense hotel room, I feel like him. A swan out of place and out of water yet somehow belonging in the big world. Swans are cool. Not necessarily the reality television kind, as those are another breed altogether.
Matthew Bourne takes the classic Tchaikovsky ballet and turns it into something revolutionary, queer, and thrilling. I don’t know if I am able to enjoy straight up ballet anymore. Too many years of eating disorders have rotted away my appreciation for emaciation. Still, the sheer grace and unbelievable weightlessness of the dance is inspiring, in a ‘that will never be me but oh well at least someone can do it’ way. I wasn’t bothered by the thinness of the dancers in this production, mostly because the male bodies were most on display, and although there is a mighty pressure there for perfection, the emphasis is on muscularity and strength, along with the grace and leanness. The guys don’t look hungry like the girls do.
Anyway, this production features a gorgeous twist on the original, in that all the swans are male, which is a shocking revelation, especially if you are a fan of Swan Lake. Yes, it’s Dick Lake, and how it shines with the full moon above it. The story is about an incredibly rich, but incredibly unhappy prince, who after many disappointments goes to commit suicide by the lake. His life is saved by the swans. One swan in particular really takes an interest and they dance a beautiful, moving pas de deux, the massive swan taking the young prince under his wing, nudging him lovingly with his beak, holding him close in the downy soft feathers of his well-muscled swan body. Oh it’s dreamy! And of course I am crying my eyes out in the cheap seats, filling the lenses of my rented binoculars with tears, because it is just so hopeful and fantastic. You don’t have to be an unhappy Prince! Be a gay swan!
Of course, it doesn’t really work out in the end, but it sort of does too, in that delicious way romantic tragedy does us wrong yet right. Bring lots of Kleenex, try not to snort on your neighbor, avoid during pms – but go. It is the best thing I have done all week!