Lamento

Andreas Heise, the only choreographer from outside the Stuttgart Ballet, offered Lamento. In this work he moves the focus inwards and explores the relationship between Ulysses and Penelope, the protagonists in Homer’s eponymous poem. While non-narrative, Lamento is essentially character driven, as Heise ignores the heroics of Ulysses epic voyage to concentrate on the passions that pulse between the two. Their final meeting, rich with subtext, evolves as two mature adults renew their love from a new and different perspective. The final duet, with Hyo-Jung Kang and Marti Fernández Paixà, reaches the depths of the story of longing and loneliness in a final shared moment as they walk forward holding hands before Ulysses turns back, leaving Penelope alone once more.As composer Bjarte Elke draws inspiration from Claudio Monteverdi to write in his new Baroque style, so Heise melds the ancient tale and contemporary ballet to find his personal language. It is fresh and spontaneous, finding a natural expression for emotions in the movement. Ulysses is the archetypal hero and Penelope the faithful strong woman but Heise explores far more subtle interpretations. The emotion flows freely rather then in linear form and different meetings inspire new feelings and heighten passions. A red dress and a red jacket signify the protagonists, and these are shared and discarded as the threads of narrative weave through the work. There are pairings, or tripling of a character to intensify the quality. It is a clever device in a work that is never less than honest to itself.

Dido and Aeneas

Henry Purcells Oper “Dido and Aeneas” mit dem Libretto von Nahum Tate nach einer Episode nach Verglas “Aeneis” wurde 1689 in Chelsea uraufgeführt. In Oslo wurde sie erstmals 1953 gezeigt, und gerade hat Den Norske Opera & Ballett des Stückes erneut angenommen und ein wunderbare Interpretation (Choreografie und Regie Andreas Heise) auf die Nebenbühne “Scene 2” gebracht. Es ist die Geschichte um Dido, Königin von Karthago, die unsterblich in Aeneas verliebt ist. Die Zauberin, die Dido hasst, plant eine Intrige gegen sie: In der Gestalt des Merkur befiehlt sie Aeneas, die Stadt sofort zu verlassen. Aeneas durchschaut die List nicht und folgt dem Befehl des vermeintlichen Gottes. Dido stirbt tief enttäuscht in Einsamkeit. Ehe das Bühnen- Spektakel überhaupt beginnt, wälzen sich Zauberin und Aeneas im Liebesspiel leidenschaftlich auf der fats leeren Bühnen hin und her. Langsam wandert die Lichtsetzung zur Mitte des Raumes und gibt die sieben Barocksolisten, acht Choristen (Chor: Martin Wettges) sechs Tanz- und fünf Gesangssolisten frei. Sie beobachten staunend das spärlich bekleidete Paar, selbst in historische Barock-Kostüme gewandet.

Violinist Bjarte Eike führt seine Musiker nicht nur als musikalischer Leiter durch die Partitur, sondern wirbelt als Teil einer Barockband mit historischen Instrumenten durch das Stück, mit der Frische von Quasi-Improvisationen die Handlung vorantreibend, sie ergänzend, erläuternd. I dieser Funktion ist zusätzlich das Ballett zu erleben. Die Sänger werden durch Tänzer gedoppelt, Aussagen von Handlung und Musik verstärkt. Dido erhielt die Tänzerin Heidi Cecilie Baastad Christensen zur Seite, Aeneas war mit Tänzer Sindre Berntsen gekoppelt. So wurden Handlungsstränge betont, Gefühlsregungen und Unterbewusstes sichtbar gemacht. Die Handlung durchläuft eine Klimax, Leidenschaften laufen fast total aus dem Ruder. Die höfische Kleidung wird fallengelassen. Die vielfältig individuell expressive Tonsprache des Komponisten wirkt überraschend modern. Die betörende musikalische Qualität aller Mitwirkenden lässt keine harmonische und melodische Raffinesse verloren gehen. Herrlich gesungen nicht nur das Lamento “When I am laid” über einem chromatischen Ostinatobass von Astrid Norstad als Dido, die mit feiner, souverän geführter, wohlklingender Sopranstimme und berührender Bühnenpräsenz erfreut. Großartig auch Lydia Hoen Tjore als Belinda, mit leuchtendem Sopran, ebenso hervorragend Eira Sjaastad Huse (die andere Frau). Desirée Baraula gestalt die Rolle der Zauberin mit voluminösem Mezzosopran und sinnlicher Darstellungskraft, verführerisch in jeder Hinsicht, wie es die Rolle verlangt. Die Tenorestimme von Mikkel Skorpen (Aeneas) ist angenehm, noch jung, doch voller Potenzial, das er sicher auch darstellerisch noch entwickeln wird.

Der Bühnenhintergrund (Bühne und Kostüme von Bregje van Balen) wird sehr sparsam durch Videoprojektionen (Jan Martin Vagen, Andres Arenas Zanabria) belebt und lenkt glücklicherweise nie von der Leistung der Darsteller ab. Das Publikum im ausverkauften Saal applaudierte ausgiebig und tobte vor Begeisterung. Übrigens hatte Purcell diese seine erste Oper für eine Aufführung in einem Mädchenpensionat vertont. Man könnte zweifeln, ob sie wirklich geeignet war, die adligen jungen Damen die Gefahren der Liebe warnend zu vermitteln. Auf jeden Fall hätte die Inszenierung der Oper Oslo viel - noch mehr- Neugier bei ihnen geweckt.

by G. Helbig

Dido and Aeneas

Dance is integral to Henry Purcell’s English opera Dido and Aeneas, composed in 1688 and probably performed first at Josias Priest’s girls’ school in London the following year. Until now, however, I have never seen a production that so closely integrates the singers, musicians and dancers as the one unveiled by the Norwegian National Opera and Ballet in Oslo on March 22. Performed in the Opera House’s second auditorium, Scene 2, director and choreographer, Andreas Heise, brings the entire cast and the costumes orchestra together on stage, all of them intermingling actively and adding considerably to this new interpretation of the story of Dido, the Carthaginian queen abandoned by her lover Aeneas, a Trojan prince. So closely integrated is the cast that at the beginning of the opera I initially mistook Désirée Baraula and Mikkel Skorpen, the singers portraying the Sorceress and Aeneas, to be dancers because they performed a short choreographed duet with such wonderful fluency and confidence. It says much for Heise’s direction that all of the singers in this production held their bodies with poise and elegance, with none of the awkward, embarrassing fumbling that can be seen in other stagings of operas when singers attempt to dance. Most of the dancers here act as an ensemble, but two - Heidi Cecilie Baastad Christensen and Shaakir Muhammad - double up with Astrid Norstad and Skorpen in the central roles of Dido and Aeneas. The dancing pair not only perform together in contemporary- style duets, but interact with the singers throughout, often overlapping their movements and phrases to underline particular dramatic moments. For example, whilst Dido and Aeneas sing of their love seated at the side, his head in her lap, the dancers take centre stage in a sweet pas de deux, where Aeneas turns Dido around and lifts her gently over his shoulders. The dancers are young and seemingly innocent, in contrast to the more worldly and voluptuous singers, but later in the opera, when Aeneas resolves to abandon Dido, his dancing double appears to personify Aeneas’ conscience, chiding the singer for his cruel decision. Heise also demonstrates the disintegration of the love affair through the dancing of the ensemble: in the beginning they appear in faux 18th century-style dances whilst wearing heeled shoes and period costume, only later to abandon this carefree, courtly style with expressionistic movements that suggest sadness and emotional torment. It’s a touching production, sumptuously dressed and simply staged by Bregje van Balen, with just a few props and projections. It is also beautifully sung, most particularly by the female members of the cast. Whilst Heise’s choreography does not match the intensity of Mark Morris in his own enthralling dance production of the opera, I was pleased he kept things simple, and elected not to make a solo dance to Dido’s “Lament”, one of the most moving aria of all opera. Magnificently sung, as it was by Norstad, the aria should be heard without any distraction.

by Jonathan Gray

Sandmann

Das neuformierte Ballett der Oper Graz präsentierte einen vielschichten „Sandmann“. Choreograph Andreas Heise erzählte E. T. A. Hoffmanns Werk als eindringliche Leidensgeschichte.

Schummriges Licht beleuchtet einen kleinen Platz im sonst völlig schwarzen Raum. Ein junger Mann liegt in einem Bett, zwei Gestalten bewachen seinen Schlaf, der alles andere als friedlich zu sein scheint. Tauschen möchte man nicht mit Nathanael: geplagt und besessen von der dunklen Figur des Sandmanns, zerrissen in der Beziehung zu seiner Verlobten Clara gelingt es dem Protagonisten der Handlung kaum je als selbstständiger Akteur aufzutreten. Gleich zu Beginn wird der von Enrique Sáez Martínez verkörperte Nathanael von seinen beiden Schatten, dem Vaters und dem Sandmanns, einer Marionette gleich umhergewirbelt. Martínez fesselt mit seinen Bewegungen, die von Passivität, Verletzlichkeit und Besessenheit dominiert sind. Die fragile Menschlichkeit des jungen Mannes wird umso deutlicher im Kontrast zur Härte der beiden bösen Geister der Geschichte. Der klare Habitus von

Paulio Sovari als Sandmann und Bálint Hajdu als Vater steigert durch die Verdopplung noch deren grausame Macht über Nathanael. Wie ein Käfig scheinen sich die beiden zeitweilen lautlos und hinterlistig um ihr Opfer zu schlingen, das seine inneren Kämpfe so auch nach außen projiziert sieht.

Als Verlobte Nathanaels brillierte an diesem Abend Jacqueline Lopez. Die Kanadierin erschloss durch ihren Tanz ein vielschichtiges Mosaik ihrer Figur Clara. Ihre Rolle verkörperte sich durch einen geschmeidigen, emotionsgeladenen Tanz, der sich bis in alle Glieder zog, ihre Mimik und Atmung mitbeeinflusste. Ihre Liebe zu Nathanael und die Furcht vor seinen Dämonen wurde in einem Duett mit Martínez eindringlich von Andreas Heise verdeutlicht, man schien die Liebe und Qualen selbst als Zuschauer zu spüren. Diese wechselnde Dynamik steigerte sich noch in der Dreiecksbeziehung mit Claras Bruder (Frederico Alves de Oliveria): flink und kämpferisch umtanzen sich die drei Akteure einig und doch wieder entzweit.

Bewusst scheint die Setzung des Geschehens die Grenzen zwischen Wirklichkeit und Traum zu verwischen. Licht und Farben sind schlicht und mit verschleierndem Charakter gewählt, was das Verschwimmen der verschiedenen Ebenen der Geschichte noch unterstrich. Auch die extra in Auftrag gegebene Musik des Stücks passt sich in dieses Schema ein. Der englische Komponist Benjamin Rimmer kreiert mit langen, rauschenden Tönen, weiten Motiven und ohne starke Kontraste eine mystische

Stimmung. Nach dreißig Minuten an einen entschleunigten Steve Reich gemahnenden Klängen, dürstet das Ohr dann aber doch nach einem neuen Kolorit.

Im Tanz vollzieht sich dieser Bruch in der dritten Szene mit dem Auftritt idealisierter Versionen von Clara. Die puppenartigen Frauen winden sich wie gewünscht in den Armen ihre Presentatoren und Nathanael kann der Faszination nicht widerstehen. Als er die Idealen aber berühren will, verlieren sie plötzlich all ihren oberflächlichen Liebreiz. Genial lässt der Choreograph seine Puppen hier in einem mechanischen Spitzentanz auftreten. Kurz darf man Hoffnung hegen, dass Nathanael sich befreien kann. Er wirkt gelöster und frei, doch seine Selbstständigkeit ist nur vermeintlich. Langsam, schleichend wird sein letzter Tanz mit Clara immer wilder und drängender. Wie von fremder Hand geleitet zieht er sie, die kaum noch Atem schöpfen kann. Im scheinbar letzten Moment reißt sie sich los, gibt ihn frei. Doch welche Freiheit ist der Tod?

Ein intensiver Abend, der eine verkörperte Geschichte eindringlich, schaurig und doch mit Ästhetik zu erzählen weiß!

Sandmann

It’s an anomaly that the fluffiest of ballets in the classical repertoire, Coppélia, is derived from one of E.T.A. Hoffmann’s darkest tales. His original story of eyes pulled from the sockets of disobedient children and fed to the birds will make your blood run cold.

Andreas Heise had adapted this story for Ballett der Oper Graz and it makes one of the most compelling evenings you are ever likely to spend in a theatre. Heise wisely avoids the blood and gore but finds equally dark material in the nightmarish twists of a disturbed mind. Dispensing with fairy-tales and magic, this production focuses on the human aspects: how men view women, the deceptions of beauty, what we look at and how we shape our vision to suit our personal fantasies. It is also one of the saddest tales, of youthful promise denied.

Played out in a small studio theatre, the impact is extreme and unremitting. The stage is bare except for a few domestic accoutrements: a table and chair, washstand and basin and a bed. The light comes up on the sleeping figure of Nathanael, curled in a foetal ball. After a short blackout, the light comes up to reveal the sinister figure of the Sandmann, (Paulio Sovari) and in the next lighting state he is joined by the Father (Arthur Haas). This is the stuff of nightmares as these adults, gazing intently at the boy, will manipulate his mind and destroy his life.

Oper Graz is a small company of around 16 dancers but fielded an exceptional cast. Heise has developed the character of Clara, played by Lucie Horná, the anchor of reality in a shifting world, and she and Enrique Sáez Martínez as Nathanael are on stage for most of the 70 minutes duration. These are challenging roles for such young dancers and their talent and commitment was hugely impressive. They have a number of demanding duets where the complexity of the choreography is matched by the complexity of the emotions as Nathanael drifts into his dream state and Clara tries to win him back. They inhabit their characters completely, giving

meaning to every glance and touch. The complex play of emotions is extended in the trios: when Clara’s brother, Lothar, (Frederico Alves de Oliveira) joins in the fray or as Clara is brutally manhandled by the Father and Sandmann. And each time Heise finds the choreographic idiom to express the moment.

Clara ultimately loses her desperate and unequal battle against the darkness and Nathanael returns to the Father and Sandmann. The sliding door in the back wall enables a quick reveal and we witness the Sandmann inviting Nathanael to put his head in the noose. Horná has the final minutes alone on stage coming to terms with his death. In a space beyond reason, she tears herself apart, frantically washing at the basin where she first wet the towel to soothe Nathanael’s brow. Coming to her senses, she carefully straightens the bed clothes and numbly climbs the stairs to exit.

Heise’s direction is simple and effective, and his choreography, rich and varied, expressing in movement the emotions that are beyond words. A twisted foot will touch your heart with its vulnerability and the close contact in partner work expresses the many shades of feelings between love and manipulation. The splayed hands of the Sandmann had particularly sinister connotations together with the Father, their four hands weave spells, fingers fluttering like the tentacles of sea anemones, drawing laughter from the audience in a rare moment of relief from the tension.

The ensemble fill Nathanael’s dreams, duplicating the characters or becoming a ballet corps when, given the devilish spyglass, he thinks he sees his divine Olympia come to life. But these women are no more than a ballet pastiche. Fluttering their false eyelashes and wearing pink tulle and pointes, they mock his innocence. Martínez is blind to the deception and the radiance in his face as he gazes on these harpies, is heart-rending. Clara, too, dons a pretty skirt and pointe shoes and tries to become his Olympia but without the spy glass, she is just ordinary imperfect Clara and he rejects her and her loving heart.

No aspect of the performance has been overlooked. Each character was well cast: Sovari and Haas, as Sandmann and Father outwardly quite respectable, their well-dressed exterior disguising their moral corruption were an ever present evil, while De Oliveira, as the hapless Lothar was never in control in this maelstrom of deceit. The economical set and costumes, by Sascha Thomsen, suggest period and place but never overwhelm. Johannes Schadl’s lighting is mostly unobtrusive but fierce in the nightmare scenes. The commissioned music by Benjamin Rimmer, like a great film score, supports the action in sounds and musical phrases that are disquieting, unnerving and relentless.

This is a tremendously impressive production for a small company and has been playing to sold out houses with extra evenings added to cope with the demand. Don’t expect to sleep easy afterwards but kill for a ticket when Sandmann returns.

Death in Venice

As the other singing roles are not enormous, it makes good sense, as director Paul Curran does at Garsington, to treat the dance as an equal element of the show, and here choreographer Andreas Heise has created a spectacle that is both gorgeous and drives the narrative. It helps, of course, that Tadzio is played by Celestin Boutin, who has the looks of Mann’s imagined boy (though he is a few years post-adolescence and a foot or to taller) and whose athletic dancing is the equivalent of Paul Nilon’s singing. There are five other young male dancers, including Jaschiu (Chris Agius Darmanin), Tadzio’s wrestling-on-the-beach friend, and they are all splendid to look at in their one-piece bathing costumes as well as strong, vigorous and lithe. But Boutin is a real marvel, with the high leaps and extension I associate with the young Nureyev, and genuine acting ability. His Tadzio connected with Aschenbach with a kind of electricity that meant that, though they never speak, a current flowed between them, so that you felt that Tadzio was always aware of the writer’s presence, whether he looked in his direction or not.

Death in Venice

Andreas Heise’s choreography was sharp, clean, elegant, avoiding the awkwardness the dancing sometimes generates, with females introduced wherever possible to diffuse the routines’ homo-eroticism. Célestin Boutin, 19, played Tadzio with none of the come-hither provocation that would have been par for the course in 1973. As the libretto demands, he noticed being noticed. But it was all a game, in which he was able (and old enough) to take care of himself.

Death in Venice

The production’s greatest success, however, lies in Kevin Knight’s minimal set (four white curtains and a sea/lagoon backdrop; most of the budget has gone on the exquisite belle époque costumes) interacting with Andreas Heise’s choreography to present the opera’s central conflict in terms of movement. The curtains blur and fade, frustrating and enabling physical contact, while the dance celebrates both the pent-up energy of physical perfection as well as the fragile dynamism of bodies off-balance. All the dancers are superb, but the astounding power and confidence of Celestin Boutin’s stage debut as Tadzio effectively steals the show. His duets with Chris Agius Darmanin’s Jaschiu, when they hurl each other across the stage, are breathtaking, as is his ability to let the merest flicker of a smile escape mid-pirouette.

Death in Venice

Spectacularly choreographed by Andreas Heise, every sequence conveys the innermost feelings of each character, whilst complimenting the libretto by Myfanwry Piper. It’s extraordinary that, whilst using entirely different mediums, Nilon and Boutin tell the story of Aschenbach and Tadzio’s encounter to perfection.

Death in Venice

But rapidly the dance proves so successful, and Heise’s choreographing so electrifying as well as intensely original, that one is swept up in the cavortings. There was an intriguing contrast: while Tadzio was choreographed almost entirely adagio, or a light andante, his boy friend Jaschiu (Chris Agius Darmanin, a Maltese who trained and has worked largely in Britain) was like a human scherzo enveloping him: endless energy, extraordinarily inventive athleticism – Heise seems to give them vital new twists and turns, far from predictable or obvious, which in time begins to pall with Tadzio as his interest in Aschenbach is awakened. ‘Surely the soul of Greece was in that perfection’.

Death in Venice

Paul Curran and choreographer (and assistant director) Andreas Heise really used dance to create an expressive language for Tadzio, his family and the young men on the beach. And they were young men, not boys, all wearing figure hugging period bathing costumes which revealed every inch of their stunning musculature, giving the beach scenes a strong homo-erotic element. But this was visual beauty, and Celesin Boutin's dancing ensured that Tadzio was highly expressive but completely separate from Paul Nilon's Aschenbach.

Death in Venice

There’s a lot of to-ing and fro-ing. Indeed, movement takes centre-stage in this production, in which Curran and his choreographer Andreas Heise prioritise and supplement the opera’s dance episodes. The choreography for the five male dancers blends classical balletic grace with striking muscularity. The powerfully persuasive gestures draw just about everyone into the dance: Tadziu’s mother (Nina Goldman), governess (Georgie Rose Connolly), siblings (Minna Althaus and Poppy Frankel), even the strawberry seller (Emily Vine) are swept up in the athletic arabesques.

 The set-pieces hook our attention but, in their erotic evocations, often go far beyond the allusion and suggestiveness of Myfanwy Piper’s libretto and Britten’s score. Apollo is no longer a disembodied voice, but rather appears in person, attired in golden cloak and laurel crown – both a deity of pure light and a dangerous sun-god – to oversee the Games which bear his name, and which are watched by a chorus of sinister Carnival-goers: harbingers of death, clad in black hooded cloaks and gold-leaf masks. Tom Verney’s countertenor is not a voice of ethereal purity or the honeyed mellifluousness of Elysium, but his unearthly cries certainly emphasise the ‘unnaturalness’ of the god’s pronouncements, sending a chill down the spine if not always complementing the beauty of the beach Games’ vigour. Here, Heise’s gestures drew directly and precisely upon the text: the running race was a frenetic tumult of ‘flashing forms’ and ‘working arms’; the dancers used astonishing elasticity to ‘spring high’ and ‘shoot forward’ in the long jump; ‘swinging up and back’, they swirled hypnotically in the discus. The tightly wound formations of the final game reached the height of erotic tension: ‘forehead to forehead/ fist to fist/ limbs coiled around limbs/ panting with strain’, they youthful competitors lifted Tadziu aloft, to the pervasive reverberations of harp, double bass, pizzicato cello, gong and tom tom.

Death in Venice

For the aging novelist Tadzio is a Greek god: “I might have created him” he sings, while in Andreas Heise’s choreography he is a boisterous lad engaging in horseplay with his mates on the beach. Heise captures effectively the physicality and power that so seduces Aschenbach. Celestin Boutin plays Tadzio to perfection. His mop of blonde curls and frank, direct gaze are disarming while his well-defined musculature brings to life the Apollo of Britten’s imagination. The close of the first act, where the beach transforms in Aschenbach’s mind to epic Greek theatre is given full rein. The chorus in masks and cloaks and a goddess in gold pleats complement the gang of athletic boys: their sporting competition skilfully realised in dance movements.The dance is integrated throughout. For the governess Georgie Rose Connolly, who larks with the young lads, the balletic choreography heightens her rather prissy demeanour while the mother also portrays her anxiety through expressive movements.

Death in Venice

Best of all were the physically uplifting dance sequences, led by Celestin Boutin’s Tadzio and choreographed by Andreas Heise, which turned the Games of Apollo into the high point of the opera. Britten’s controversial decision to bring together opera and dance for once felt vindicated.

Death in Venice

This is Britten's last opera, and it incorporates many of the sound-languages he had developed and explored during his lifetime. For the playfighting boys one hears gamelan perfectly mimicked, a twelve tone backdrop evokes the despair of a creative block, and throughout Sprechgesang-like recitative lends dialogue an unnerving realism. Most striking was the feeling that the poetry of Piper's libretto was just another colour in Britten's orchestral palette, to be blended and contrasted with the other instruments. And it is testament to the excellence of Andreas Heise's choreography for this production that movement became yet another strand of melody-poetry woven in to the whole. In Britten's organic harmonic language, somehow just outside western tonality but not at all alien, leitmotifs become known unconsciously, assimilated rather than learned. The themes become always-already recognised, the storytelling plugged directly into the emotive core.