Lorna Irvine is enthralled by Scottish Ballet's most recent tour.
Choreographer Christopher Bruce is on the cusp of turning seventy next year, which may explain the decision for reviving his reflective piece from 2009, Ten Poems. An ambitious opener, relying only on the timbre and meter of Richard Burton's readings of Dylan Thomas' poetry, it segues from the melancholic -Jamiel Lawrence and Eve Mutso's tender dance for Lie Still, Sleep Becalmed to the playfully bawdy in Lament , in which Erik Cavallari's lusty labourer and seduced peasant women become almost Shakespearean, to mordant shadow-play for And Death Shall Have No Dominion.
Yet, for all of the terse movement at the start with Andrew Peasgood touching as The Poet, there is a youthful defiance. There are recurring motifs of child-like rings being formed and clenched fists ready to strike. The powdery blue and beige colour scheme of the costumes against an olive background look like a Lowry painting springing to life- the company's capricious choreography emulating the march against time, fiercely confronting ''the dying of the light''.
Catching the zeitgeist, Helen Pickett's wonderful adaptation of Arthur Miller's The Crucible arrives at a time when yet again, a piece of art has been subject to controversy. It's easy (perhaps almost too easy) to draw parallels between the Salem Witch Trials of 1692/the McCarthy Communist trials and the recent protests over black slavery art installation, Exhibit B, currently shut down by London's Barbican Centre, in terms of hand-wringing anger, resentment and pain caused; nonetheless, it proves how such themes of heresy and intolerance endure.
John Hopkins' electro score, as scratchy as it is twinkling, with occasional creepy murmurs, is well-served by the diaphanous chemise: clad women, in scenes bubbling with eroticism. Lust itches underneath starched petticoats. They glide and slink like corrupted wood nymphs, trying to cast demons out of their mouths. Constance Deverney impresses as Betty Paris, possessed by suggestion and manipulation, but it's Sophie Martin and Chris Harrison revealing their dark sides as Abigail Williams and John Proctor respectively, whose sexual power-play starts to shift as she is revealed as an arch dabbler in the black arts. Their pas de deux dances are brutal and paranoid.
Utterly stark, few props and mood lighting are all that is required- a rostrum, slid on by the cast from where the demented judge (Pascal Johnson) rants, a table and small chairs comprise the set. Puritan collars are taken off as evil takes hold, and the shadowy finale is ominously lit.Simmering with malice through Bernard Hermann's gorgeous Vertigo theme, the excellent ensemble work emulate the mania of St Vitus Dance, accused and accusers alike convulsing, constantly on the brink of collapse. They may cover their eyes, but what is done can never be undone.
The overwhelming feeling, though, is that of those on the periphery constantly watching, ever judging- which could not be more apposite at a time like this. Words and deeds can be as pernicious as poison.
Touring Scotland until October 8.
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