Ballet often seems burdened by cultural associations that are hard to shake: it’s thought of as overly reliant on formalism and tradition; it has to be pretty above everything else, even if the result is slightly prudish; its power and athleticism are subsumed under mountains of tulle. Of course, none of this is necessarily true. Case in point: John Neumeier’s riveting, heart-rending narrative ballet about the life and torment of Vaslav Nijinsky, which is as far from pretty as ballet can be.
Nijinsky was, before Nureyev, the most famous and beloved male dancer of the 20th century, a key figure in the Ballet Russes and the lover of that company’s impresario, Sergei Diaghilev. He achieved some stunning professional highs – and a fair share of onstage controversy – but his career was terminated prematurely by schizophrenia. He spent the remainder of his life in and out of institutions.
In telling this tragic story, Neumeier eschews the kind of literalism that stymied Christopher Wheeldon’s recent ballet, Oscar. In that work, the biographical details of Oscar Wilde’s life were laid out chronologically, resulting in a staid, join-the-dots narrative arc. Here, the facts and pivotal moments of Nijinsky’s career are presented in disjointed, hallucinogenic slivers; there is a haunted quality to the work, a kind of swirling hysteria.
It opens at the Suvretta House in St Moritz where Nijinsky gives his final, improvised solo performance to a collection of bemused hotel guests, and where his mental decline becomes inescapable. As the crowd gathers, frivolous and glib, Nijinsky (Callum Linnane) enters, imperial if slightly dazed. He begins to dance, and immediately we are captivated by two contrasting qualities: his poise, that regal characteristic which earned him the moniker of the “god of dance”; and the instability of his anxiety, expressed by footwork that seems involuntary, disconnected to his thought processes.
Soon various embodiments of the parts he once danced appear before him – from Harlequin (Marcus Morelli) and the faun (Jake Mangakahia) to Petruschka (Brodie James) – along with an increasing number of lovers and family members. The hotel ingeniously breaks apart like a fissure in space-time, and memory kaleidoscopes in increasingly fraught visions. Solos become pas de deux which become pas de trois and quartre; a layering of relationships is mirrored by the layering of bodies on top of each other. Much of Neumeier’s choreography here is highly charged and psychosexual, playing overtly with themes of dominance and submission. It’s also defiantly queer.
If the first act is fragmentary and febrile, the second sees Nijinsky descend further inside his mind. Biographical detail is completely abstracted as images of war collide with memories of the stage, and familial relationships – notably with his equally mentally ill brother, Stanislav (Elijah Trevitt, in a performance of great urgency and vulnerability) and achingly committed wife, Romola (Grace Carroll, noble and resigned) – come under growing strain.
If madness in ballet has become a trope – from Giselle and the Red Shoes through to Black Swan – then Neumeier manages to thread a genuinely poignant, respectful portrait of the artist pushed to breaking point. The ostentatious gestures of distress – a hand repeatedly bashed against the skull or a foot suddenly turned out at right angles – may signify mental disorder but they also feel credible and psychologically authentic. Even the cliche of the Byronic artist sacrificed on the pyre of creativity feels appropriate and earned.
Nijinsky is a ballet that largely plays out among the principals and featured dancers; there’s a distinct impression that Neumeier could have done away with the corps altogether. He creates several scenes of powerful and arresting group work, but it’s the individuals who shine. Maxim Zenin is a haughty but steadfast Diaghilev, and Jake Mangakahia draws out the deep sensuality of both the Golden Slave and the faun. Jill Ogai is magnificent as Nijinsky’s sister Bronislava, and Morelli’s Spectre of the Rose is vividly sexual and suggestive.
Of course, we would be nowhere without a Nijinsky who could conjure the fire and elan of the premier danseur himself. While Linnane doesn’t have the lifts that made Nijinsky’s reputation, he more than compensates with an intensity of purpose and emotional range that brings Hamlet to mind. His hooded features – those recessed, owl-like eyes and ghostly pallor – can shift from a sunny litheness to a brooding melancholy, and his slippage into psychosis has a grandeur that never stoops to bathos or melodrama. Linnane’s is a singular talent at the height of its power.
Jonathan Lo conducts the Australian Ballet orchestra with great control and warmth, from the stately restraint in Chopin’s prelude in C minor to the rich intricacies of Rimsky-Korsakov. Neumeier’s musical selection is wonderfully evocative of the history of ballet, and he channels Diaghilev in his approach to the gesamkunstwerk, or total work of art. His often sparse lighting, the precision of his costumes, the asymmetry in the mise-en-scene, all combine to thrilling effect.
Australian Ballet have only mounted Nijinsky once before, in 2016. If the zeitgeist has moved away from the lionisation of tortured male artists who suck the vigour from their life partners, Neumeier’s work still retains the power to shock and move us. Ballet can often seem like an act of suppression, intrinsically coy, but here it is searing and passionate, an act of defiant majesty. The god of the dance would surely approve.
Nijinsky runs at the Regent Theatre, Melbourne, until 1 March; and at Sydney Opera House from 4-22 April
