everything is illuminated
Just got home from the ballet, and am that bizarre combination of wired/tired that generally either ends in one of two things. To paraphrase Roddy Piper in They Live, I have come here to do Sudoku and blog. And I'm out of all but the really easy Sudoku in the front of the book.
I went to see the Royal Ballet do Swan Lake with some other people from work tonight. We're doing business with a dance school in South Philly, and they had some extra tickets, so we got them somehow.
The audience seemed to be composed of 60% standard concert-goers and 40% dancers. There were tall, waifish people of all ages and genders all over the place, although most of them were tall, waifish high school girls. I don't think I've ever seen that much collarbone in one place in my life.
So I don't really go to the ballet. I go when I get sweet-ass free tickets from my boss, but 99% of my experience with snotty cultural stuff where you're likely to overhear someone exclaim "Extraordinary!" during intermission is with music, not dance.
So my completely uneducated take on the ballet: Swan Lake was pretty and fun to watch, but if there's an theater form even less natural than opera, it's definitely ballet. I'm sitting there in the audience, the orchestra plays the overture, the red velvet curtain goes up, and instead of people singing, there's preternaturally graceful people dancing. No talking. No singing. Only dancing, and a little miming. It felt weird.
In opera, at least they half-assedly try to make the plot seem like it's not just an excuse to sing showy arias. In ballet, there is absolutely no such pretense. "Not I," says the plot of Swan Lake, giving everyone a big shit-eating grin. "I am an excuse to have women dress like birds and move their arms gracefully. You're just going to have to accept that."
What was even more disconcerting for me was how the dancers broke the fourth wall and took (preternaturally graceful) bows after every. Single. Number. Which was about every three to five minutes. I've never seen so much preternaturally gracious acknowledgement of applause in my life.
And speaking of bows. I didn't think that it was even possible for an artistic subset to be more vain and masturbatory about curtain calls than singers, but I was wrong. Dancers are way, way worse. The Royal Ballet bows lasted, literally, almost as long as a fifth act would have been. They seemed to really want to hit every possible permutation, and they may have.
First it was the whole company.
Then again.
Then again, with the solo groups taking separate bows.
Then again, with the roles taking separate bows.
Then again, with a guy in a tux dragged out on stage.
Then for the orchestra.
Then the roles all together.
Then all the roles again, separately in front of the closed curtain.
Then Siegfried and Odette.
Then just Siegfried.
Then just Odette.
Then just Odile, who actually did warrant her own call; Tamara Rojo, who is the one in the picture above dancing Odette, injured herself during the second act (the "white act," as the announcer called it) and her double danced the third ("black") act with about ten minutes' notice.
Then Siegfried AND Odette AND Odile.
Then the guy in the tux again.
Then... you get the idea.
It took a good five minutes for my palms to stop tingling.
Also speaking of bows: I don't know how or why this happens, but at rock concerts I always end up standing directly behind That Seven Foot Tall Guy. And at classical concerts I always end up sitting very near That Guy Who Shouts BRAVA!
I understand showing appreciation. I appreciate showing appreciation. But That Guy Who Shouts BRAVA! is always the one who was also whispering pedantically at his (usually female) companion throughout the entire performance, and is also usually the one exclaiming "Extraordinary!" at intermission. At least That Seven Foot Tall Guy can't help his genes.
On a really, really excellent note, I came home tonight to find a brand-new air conditioning unit in my bedroom illuminated by the new brand-new fluorescent light bulbs in my drop ceiling. My ceiling is twelve feet off the floor, and since we don't have an appropriately-sized ladder, I've been unable to do anything but look on helplessly as my light bulbs died one by one until the last one went about a month ago. I'd been working with my desk lamp, but it exacerbated the horrifying Philadelphia heat. But now, oh now, my problems are solved.
Well, my immediate "Choose between tripping on stuff after 9pm or waking up drenched in sweat" problems are solved. My "Jesus Christ, what am I even doing, here" problems continue, but I can now think about them in a much more comfortable environment.
I went to see the Royal Ballet do Swan Lake with some other people from work tonight. We're doing business with a dance school in South Philly, and they had some extra tickets, so we got them somehow.
The audience seemed to be composed of 60% standard concert-goers and 40% dancers. There were tall, waifish people of all ages and genders all over the place, although most of them were tall, waifish high school girls. I don't think I've ever seen that much collarbone in one place in my life.
So I don't really go to the ballet. I go when I get sweet-ass free tickets from my boss, but 99% of my experience with snotty cultural stuff where you're likely to overhear someone exclaim "Extraordinary!" during intermission is with music, not dance.
So my completely uneducated take on the ballet: Swan Lake was pretty and fun to watch, but if there's an theater form even less natural than opera, it's definitely ballet. I'm sitting there in the audience, the orchestra plays the overture, the red velvet curtain goes up, and instead of people singing, there's preternaturally graceful people dancing. No talking. No singing. Only dancing, and a little miming. It felt weird.
In opera, at least they half-assedly try to make the plot seem like it's not just an excuse to sing showy arias. In ballet, there is absolutely no such pretense. "Not I," says the plot of Swan Lake, giving everyone a big shit-eating grin. "I am an excuse to have women dress like birds and move their arms gracefully. You're just going to have to accept that."
What was even more disconcerting for me was how the dancers broke the fourth wall and took (preternaturally graceful) bows after every. Single. Number. Which was about every three to five minutes. I've never seen so much preternaturally gracious acknowledgement of applause in my life.
And speaking of bows. I didn't think that it was even possible for an artistic subset to be more vain and masturbatory about curtain calls than singers, but I was wrong. Dancers are way, way worse. The Royal Ballet bows lasted, literally, almost as long as a fifth act would have been. They seemed to really want to hit every possible permutation, and they may have.
First it was the whole company.
Then again.
Then again, with the solo groups taking separate bows.
Then again, with the roles taking separate bows.
Then again, with a guy in a tux dragged out on stage.
Then for the orchestra.
Then the roles all together.
Then all the roles again, separately in front of the closed curtain.
Then Siegfried and Odette.
Then just Siegfried.
Then just Odette.
Then just Odile, who actually did warrant her own call; Tamara Rojo, who is the one in the picture above dancing Odette, injured herself during the second act (the "white act," as the announcer called it) and her double danced the third ("black") act with about ten minutes' notice.
Then Siegfried AND Odette AND Odile.
Then the guy in the tux again.
Then... you get the idea.
It took a good five minutes for my palms to stop tingling.
Also speaking of bows: I don't know how or why this happens, but at rock concerts I always end up standing directly behind That Seven Foot Tall Guy. And at classical concerts I always end up sitting very near That Guy Who Shouts BRAVA!
I understand showing appreciation. I appreciate showing appreciation. But That Guy Who Shouts BRAVA! is always the one who was also whispering pedantically at his (usually female) companion throughout the entire performance, and is also usually the one exclaiming "Extraordinary!" at intermission. At least That Seven Foot Tall Guy can't help his genes.
On a really, really excellent note, I came home tonight to find a brand-new air conditioning unit in my bedroom illuminated by the new brand-new fluorescent light bulbs in my drop ceiling. My ceiling is twelve feet off the floor, and since we don't have an appropriately-sized ladder, I've been unable to do anything but look on helplessly as my light bulbs died one by one until the last one went about a month ago. I'd been working with my desk lamp, but it exacerbated the horrifying Philadelphia heat. But now, oh now, my problems are solved.
Well, my immediate "Choose between tripping on stuff after 9pm or waking up drenched in sweat" problems are solved. My "Jesus Christ, what am I even doing, here" problems continue, but I can now think about them in a much more comfortable environment.