swan lake

Photo: Darren C.

Late Friday afternoon I received a phone call from a friend who had complimentary tickets to that evening's performance of Swan Lake by the National Ballet of Canada. Did I want to go?

Of course, of course. Time enough to shower and time enough to get to the Hummingbird Centre for 7:30 p.m. curtain time.

Just time, as we settled into our seats only minutes before the house lights went down. It had been years since I had attended a ballet production, usually seen in Windsor (where the ballet companies toured, often with their second-stringers), and I had seen acts of Swan Lake, but never the complete ballet. As a young girl, I would get so excited after watching a live performance that I would dance in the street on my way home from the bus stop, and try to stand on my toes at home in front of the mirror. Twice I sprained toes badly, not learning until years later in an adult ballet class that real ballerinas use steel-toed pointe shoes.

The magic of the theatre has always captivated me. When it is at the high level of the National Ballet of Canada, it is sorcery. So impractical to spend hours and hours, one's life, to perfect and create illusion, but so necessary to our souls.

And because of the calibre of the musicians, the dancers, the set, costume and lighting designers, not a false note, nor a false step -- only mystery and magic, grace and wonder. The royal purple velvets of the court, thick with luxury, the intricacies of the corps de ballet preening and fluttering, the darkness of the music as the story descends into tragedy, all contributing to a seamless illusion.

Because we arrived too late to read the story synopsis, and were too busy talking during intermission, we were both surprised when the Swan did not die a long, lingering death. We had each seen the Swan die many times in other productions. Apparently there are several versions with several diverse endings. In this one, the Prince fell over after a struggle with the dark ruler of the swan kingdom. Only when the curtain began to come down, did I realize the ballet was over. The Swan did not even have time to grieve.

The magic ended abruptly, not unlike some European films, when one is left wondering what the story is saying. And maybe one is not satisfied with the denouement, perhaps even piqued with it, but the ride and journey are remembered as art at its best.

If you ever get the chance, and have not seen it, find an old film called The Red Shoes. It is full of the frenzy and obsession of dance and the ballet world.