Swan Lake

This evening I attended Cullberg Ballet’s Swan Lake at the Burswood. If you are planning to attend tomorrow congratulations on money well spent and I recommend you read no further. For all you others, there is only one solitary performance remaining at three ‘o the clock tomorrow so this may be a little late, but I urge you, urge you to go and see it.
Not a chance you say? Too expensive you say? Fine, fine, pull up one of those red plastic chairs over there and allow me to share my thoughts with you. Here you are, pour yourself a tall glass of critical opinion and make yourself comfortable. I, alas, am in no hurry. Who goes to see dance performances? ThatÂ’s the first question I want to ask. The same people who go to the theatre? How much do the little sub-groups intermingle I wonder. More specifically, who goes to the ballet?
“A damn fine question Heath, why don’t you give your opinion which we can only assume will be a sweeping generalisation?”
“Well all right then, you lovely guest you, if you insist.”
It seems to me the sort people who go the ballet, are those who want to be the sort people whom go to the ballet. Is that clear? So they can say things like, “Oh, Maureen I went to the ballet last night, it was lovely, really, really, lovely.” The ballet. As though there was only one. (Presumably the one they went to). This is important. This should not be overlooked. You see, the generally held assumption seems to be that over a lovely Chardonnay one evening you can say, I went to the ballet/opera and instantly you sound like an intelligent, cultured person who knows what to do with their entertainment dollar. Which is of course, absolute bollocks.
Trust me, I work for BOCS and for the Maj so I know what IÂ’m talking about people, these folks are about as discerning as a syphilitic prostitute with a missing limb and poor personal hygiene. They just go for what they know. What they think they should be seeing. Truly. You want to know the secret to making money from the entertainment industry? Lean in close and IÂ’ll tell you. You may have guessed it already but then again, you may not have. ItÂ’s simple really. NO SUPRISES. Give them what they want. Give them what they no. Ask McDonalds about this one folks. ThatÂ’s what itÂ’s about. Knowing what it is your paying for. Safety.
I don’t think I would be violating my trusted position as BOCS phone monkey if I told Swan Lake didn’t sell that well, as ballet goes. Why was this? Probably because it wasn’t at His Majesty’s Theatre, with all that red carpet and pretty light fittings and marble staircase. But then again, the Kirov production of Swan Lake (“Straight from Russia” the publicity assured us) had sold out a year or so earlier inthe same venue. Perhaps too many people saw publicity photographs, or read the reviews and got an inkling that the production wouldn’t be entirely what they expected, that is that it was in fact a re-interpretation of Swan Lake. Gasp. But as a large venue like the Burswwod goes it was pretty full never the less due to one simple fact. Name recognition. Swan Lake equals Ballet equals Pretty Girls in Tutu’s Being Pretty equals Something Mum and Little Josephine Would Love to Go To. Name recognition, no suprises it works every time. Don’t believe me? Ask Shakespeare, or ask the promoters who put on that absolute waste of time and space and two hours of my life called Shout.
Phantom of the Opera, Elvis to the Max, big sellers and no suprises one and all. (Elvis, being dead, is about as predictable as you get and sells accordingly. With him you see its a pretty safe bet he wonÂ’t be trying to wheedle in material from his new album.)Can you guess what it is theyÂ’ll be doing in Singing in the Rain? I wonder what it is that CATS is about? You may see a pattern developing. If you want to make money, make it predictable.
An example; Music Spectrum’s Les Miserables. It was almost completely sold-out. Their marketing strategy was brilliant. Use the image and font that everyone already knows on the poster, omit any photos and let the name and the general populace’s cluelessness sell tickets for them. Instant success. No big name actors needed. (Heck, why even pay the actors? Everyone knows they’re contribution to a show is minimal. Musicians on the other hand...) People phoned me up and said things like, “I hear Lay Miz is coming to Perth, I need twenty tickets!” “It’s coming from Perth and it 'aint going anywhere else lady.” (Incidentally, I didn’t get to see Lay Miz so I cannot comment on the quality of the production. The punters seemed happy but then again it doesn’t take much does it?)

“You know, the name, you’ve seen the movie, you’ve heard the music, now come to the play! And don’t be scared, we won’t do anything you wouldn’t expect, won’t sing songs you don’t know or play around with ideas that may be unfamiliar to you. We’ll be just like television, except you get to dress up, honestly!”

To get back to my point: Swan Lake and its audience of gray haired old ladies, seven year old girls and big-haired ugly dress wearing fraus and their sensible shirt-tucked-neatly-into-pants petty bourgeois husbands. Why were they there I ask? The name recognition got ‘em in. Simple as that.
“Ah-ha, but what about yourself!” I hear your shriek as my interminable review sails along merrily on a sea of bile, cynicism and unconventional literary style.
“Yes, what about you, you opinionated sod you, why were you there?”
The answer, once again, is simple. I am exceptional.
Now before you hit that back button on your browser in disgust allow me to justify my claim by actually making a comment on the show I am purportedly reviewing.
It was funny. Swan Lake was extremely goddam funny, oh yes it was. Yet my shrill laughter rang out all by its lonesome in an audience of probably six hundred people. What other explantion can there be other than that given above?
So hereÂ’s where you think maybe I just have a very odd sense of humour. Believe me, chortling away to myself, by myself, in the respectfully silent auditorium I asked this very question. No. It was goddam funny, overtly comical. Dancers waving about smoke machine tubing, slapstick, sight gags, oversized props, it had the lot. I am not losing my mind honestly; I was under the influence of no drugs. At interval I considered standing up and yelling, TRUST ME PEOPLE ITS SUPPOSED TO BE FUNNY YOU ARE ALLOWED TO LAUGH.
It would have been to no avail. The punters were surprised, no doubt about it. This was internation. This was art. Why is that man laughing? Why are the women in tutu’s moving like that and why are some of them men and were are their pointy shoes? I heard a women behind me say, “What’s going on”” As though she had been duped, conned, made fun of. It was a gloriously ridiculous situation I assure you. These people had paid good money for the ballet. Not to see these people dancing about telling a story with beauty and grace and whimsy and imagination. They were confused. This wasn’t explained to them. As far as they were concerned they just had to sit quietly and then applaud at the end. Listening to comments at interval many patrons thought it was ‘in poor taste’, as though they had attended their mothers funeral and discovered someone was manipulating the corpse, "Weekend At Bernies" style. Shocking.
Ah, Perth audiences, you never cease to amaze me. But do not let me claim outright exception here. Some others may have found it funny I concede, I saw some smiles, one or two people giggled, a chuckle was heard. All in my immediate vicinity though so maybe they were laughing at the crazy man who thought ballets were allowed to be funny. But please, dear reader (dear indeed if you have stayed with me all this while) do not think from my making light of the situation that the production had inadequate performers, substandard production values or anything at all lacking in any way. This is what bamboozled the bums on seats methinks. It was quite beyond them to accept that all this energy and money and beauty and effort and talent and sublime movement was coming together to achieve the comic. I mean really, if they wanted to laugh they would have bought tickets to a British farce with Jon English and a few washed up television personalities. (Who am I kidding, they probably already did, no doubt they received a Priority Booking Form in the mail.) Society has for too long suffered from ignoring the truth and the beauty and the tragic of the comic. If you donÂ’t believe me ask Beckett. Or Stoppard. (Their plays donÂ’t get put on in Perth though. Men playing with their reproductive organs dominate the venues) This prejudice however is universal and fortunately its discussion, though important, is quite beyond the scope of this document. Perth does not after all, have a monopoly on ignorance, just a controlling share.
Alas, I have wandered far afield. Where was I? What was I driving at? Is anyone still reading? Oh well. Its very early in the morning as IÂ’m writing this so goodnite or morning or afternoon to anyone who made it this far.

To recap;
*People with opinions contrary to my own are moronic philistines.
*CullbergÂ’s BalletÂ’s Swan Lake was superb.
*Humor is the closest humaity gets to the divine.