Lorna Irvine reviews the modern classic.
The all-conquering, ground-breaking production, now in its eighteenth year, returns—and this time the plumage is a shade darker, distinctly more Odile (the Black Swan) than Odette ( the White Swan).
Lez Brotherston's sumptuous design, whether kingly court, seedy bar or padded cell (the latter highly evocative of Wilde's poem of incarceration, The Ballad of Reading Gaol -particularly within the final tragic scene) is murky and oppressive- its sinister textures compounded by impressive looming shadowplay by Rick Fisher.
Indeed, Matthew Bourne's recurring motifs of suppressed sexuality, psychological trauma and the innate need to belong are finely tuned in a macho choreography of brooding, hissing swans. Lead swan Chris Trenfield is not an elegant, nuanced swan like Bourne's original Adam Cooper, but rather a glowering, thrusting totem of masculinity- most effective in the bar seduction scene, less convincing in more tender moments with Prince Siegfried. Liam Mower offsets this beautifully as the Prince: pyjamas soaked with sweat, grappling with wild eyes for an elusive love, his youthful vulnerability heightened in such sharp contrast.
That is of course, only one side of the story. The ebullient Carrie Johnson has considerable comic chops in her satirical role as The Girlfriend, giggling inappropriately through royal protocol. The toy corgi, PG-rated burlesque with fag hanging out and tight raunchy ensemble work, encompassing pointe, shimmying and flamenco-lite is as ever a treat.
But it is the bittersweet storytelling of thwarted romance that is the real draw in Swan Lake- the reason this, as with the best of Bourne's work, endures and will continue to do so. Long may he reign, with humour, verve and skill.
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