Thinking about 2013

This week I spent a happy evening after work drafting a home-made calendar for next year.

I found when I moved in May that my wall calendar was one of the very few things I could not accommodate in any sensible (i.e. useable) way.  There are no hooks on the walls, or nails in the walls, no picture rail, and nowhere to put up a pin board; so, nowhere to hang my calendar. 

I bluetacked it to the wall, but it was too heavy, and kept dropping off with a crash at odd moments.  Including the inevitable middle-of-the-night crash.  Shriek, thrash about, sit up, bang head on cupboard.  Bah, that's not on.

So I disemboweled it, and have been sticking up individual 1-month sheets.  It works, in a rough and ready way, but when you've removed the staples and separated a calendar into individual sheets, sometimes the picture that comes with a month is rather unsuitable for that month (snowdrops in August and so forth).  They're still lovely pictures, but it looks stupid sometimes.

I was thinking rather crossly that maybe I would have to manage without one next year.  But then it hit me that I could make my own, and print it on light-weight paper that wouldn't crash to the floor.  Ah-ha!

It took about ten minutes to do the grids and fill them in.  And then I had a nice mooch in Google images, and one or two other places online, and made up a selection of pictures.  I'm going to be alternating Greek islands (and beaches I want to swim from) with food, plants and handsome men.  Since they're all loose-leaf pages, I can change the images around every week - even every day if I want. Or put up two or more at a time.  I can mix and match; Renner with cherries, McRae with scarlet buckeye leaves, Stepanek with Antipaxos...  Have Crete with the cherries.  Thassos with daffodils.  Renner with daffodils.  Heavens, the possibilities are endless.  Happy, silly Dent.

Luckily I don't have Photoshop, or the possibilities really would be endless.

If anyone would like to borrow the grids, and then make up their own image selection, let me know and I can copy them to you.  It's easy, cheap and can be custom-made to your personal tastes.  Maybe I should go into business? - the Dent patent loose-leaf customised pick-your-personal-porn calendar.  What do you think?

Writing update; last night I wiped out the Big Evil Bad Guy.  Oof, got there.  Now I only have a couple of scene to do, and I'm done.  Apart from the revisions.  And typing up.

It's been a fun ride, and to my amusement I can see sequel possibilities.  How daft is that?! 

All go this week...

 It’s been very busy since I started the new role at the beginning of last month.  It’s a different kind of busy-ness to my previous job – here, one can plan and organise far more, because there is less necessity to be constantly picking up on the steady stream of new enquiries, which could feel at times like being under fire from incoming missiles.  I don’t have to do as much firefighting of sudden weirdnesses or disasters, or as much thinking on my feet, and I don’t have to deal with nearly so many really strange random things, either.  Now I’ve got over the ten days or so of grogginess which that minor operation had left me with, and the very heavy period that followed it last weekend, I have begun to feel more like a normal human being again, and I think (I hope) I’m getting my head round my new job a bit better. 

Stephen is coping well with his broken wrist, I’m glad to say; much better than I did two years ago with mine.  He’s probably a lot fitter than me, and it is his non-dominant hand, which must help.  I listen and make admiring noises on the ‘phone.

I had a touch of backache on Monday, following my first really serious gardening session of the spring at the weekend.  It was raining, and I took advantage of that to do some planting and transplanting.  I put in some echinceas and asters, and a dicentra I got in Poundshop and sowed the first of my seeds, and then did some weeding and pruning jobs.  I then did a lot of cleaning.  All three of my housemates have moved out in the last two weeks, which is a pretty weird coincidence; it’s odd to have the house to myself, but I don’t suppose it will be for long.  If anyone knows anyone looking for digs in west London, send them this way. 

Culturally this has been a slightly insane month.  Last Thursday I had a Philharmonia concert, Monday night I went to the Royal Ballet double bill of “The Dream” and “Song of the Earth”; Wednesday I went to “The Death of Klinghoffer” at the ENO, and last night I was at the ballet again, having managed to get a return for “Romeo and Juliet”.  Tonight I actually get to have an evening in – then tomorrow I’m out again, seeing Giraudoux’ “Ondine” with friends.  Next week I have another Philharmonia concert, the week after I have tickets for an English National Ballet mixed bill and the “War Requiem”, and the week after that the RB revival of “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” and a second ENB mixed bill.  Then things get a bit quieter!   I hardly know where to start with reviewing...

Music first.  The Philharmonia concert was Schoenberg and Beethoven; odd but effective bedfellows (please excuse the kinky image).  Mitsuko Uchida was the soloist in the Schoenberg piano concerto, wonderfully magisterial and jazzy, and then the second half was a thrilling seventh symphony.  My favourite maestro Salonen was conducting, with his customary combination of lucidity and passion, and the orchestra always play their socks off for him.  Then “Klinghoffer” the evening before last; a fine production of a beautiful and painful piece.  I’m a fan of Adams’ music, though the opacity of some of the libretto is irritating, and this was well worth seeing.  As for the accusations of unacceptable political bias, it struck me a remarkably even-handed over a dreadfully sensitive subject.  It is one of the duties of the artist to try and be honest, after all, and another to look at serious subjects.  By all means let the offended cry “I’m offended!” – otherwise we have no freedom of speech – but if they cry “You have no right to offend me, and so I will silence you!”  - then we have no freedom of speech, and not even the freedom to say so.  If works of art may not address any difficult or sensitive subject without being threatened with censorship for having caused offense, then god help us all.

Ballet.  “The Dream” was, well, dreamy.  It’s one of those little Ashton mini-masterpieces, a pure gem, perfectly  polished, balancing humour, charm, grace, love, magic, and fiendishly difficult technical challenges (the latter disguised with consummate delicacy as simple beauties).  He takes Shakespeare’s play and sums it up brilliantly.  Paul Kay’s cat-soft landing was an asset for his athletic Puck; Roberta Marquez’ Titania was like a sexy creature of air, Steven McRae was a sinuous, polished, decidedly nasty Oberon.  Oberon has a signature move (which probably has a proper technical name – a fast pirouette that slows to a controlled standstill and then goes straight into a sort of arabesque penchée) that looks agonisingly difficult; McRae glides through this repeatedly, looking completely at ease, and still acts while he does it.   “Song of the Earth” was, well, Mahlerian; emotionally socking, profound yet simple, evocative and tragic.

I had been meant to be going to “Romeo and Juliet” this weekend with friends but it fell through, so I was very happy to get a single returned ticket in a good spot in the Amphitheatre.  More Marquez and McRae.  Fabulous.

I know this isn’t a term one would often see used in a ballet review, but the best word I can think of is raw.  It was incredibly raw.  Not in technique – this was a top-notch cast and the company as a whole were going full-on and flat-out.   But raw in feeling; acutely naturalistic and fresh. 

Steven McRae has one of the most exposed faces I’ve ever seen; every emotion burns across him like electricity.   His chemistry with Marquez is intense, and really brings out the youth, the inexperience, the headlong recklessness of the two lovers, and their hopeless inability to hold back in the face of disaster.  It may sound a bit bizarre, but the acting, right the way through the cast, was of such an order that at times I didn’t really register the dancing; the dancing was so completely at the service of the drama.  

One little example; Roberta Marquez as Juliet, starting to relax with Paris as she dances with him at the ball, so that you see she has begun to feel more confident things will work out in this arranged marriage, with this perfectly presentable older man – but then she meets Romeo and unleashes the full flexibility of her back; it’s as though her body has suddenly come into its own, and in her increasingly pliant, yielding movement one sees volumes of sensual self-discovery.  It was acting through dancing.  One doesn’t need words, with a performance of this calibre.  Marquez is also the deadest drugged Juliet I have seen; McRae was really lugging her, in the tomb scene, the horrible indignity of it adding to his agony.  And McRae does a good line in agony; he can make a spin tortured, yet equally he has the dramatic sense to stand stock still, as though frozen by horror, during the dying Mercutio’s last dance.  He has also, it would seem, studied exactly what a very fast-acting herbal poison would do - “Oh true apothecary, thy drugs are quick!” – his is not a romantic death at all, but startlingly gritty.  The legs and hands going numb, the heart muscles and the muscles of the chest rapidly paralysed so that breathing becomes unsustainable and the circulation stops; collapse and death follow swiftly...  and I cry into my binoculars.

I wonder what the play of “Ondine” will be like?  I haven’t read it, but Giraudoux was a fine writer.  Someone ought to revive “La Folle de Chaillot”, I’m sure that would go down well in the present social climate.  Probably too inflammatory, with its message of the ordinary people resisting and eventually eliminating the capitalist leeches who want to destroy their lives...   Goodness knows I can think of a few capitalist leeches I’d like to see lured into the sewers of Paris and left there.

On which unkind note I will leave you, and say, have a good weekend!

A sad departure...

As a self-confessed balletomane, I suppose I have to say something about last week’s startling news,  Sergei Polunin’s exit from the Royal Ballet – and, judging by the latest story in the Daily Telegraph, even possibly from dancing altogether (the Telegraph isn’t my regular news source, incidentally! - far too centre-right for me, but their arts coverage is usually good). 

I have to admit I am not as overwhelmed by the loss of Mr Polunin as some.  Yes, he is a very showy technician.  Cor blimey, what a jump.  Cor BLIMEY, what entrechats...  And yes, he has a splendidly haughty, princely stage presence, and he is fantastically good-looking (provided you like cheekbones).  But I’m afraid I had rather got him labelled in my mind as not-fully-formed, because for my money he didn’t always seem terribly engaged dramatically.  There are some more disengaged chaps around, but there are also chaps at the RB I’d much rather see. 

When I saw a little while ago that it was going to be Mr Polunin dancing in “Marguerite and Armand” with Tamara Rojo I was a bit worried.  Ms Rojo is not only a phenomenal technician, she also acts with every breath in her body, and it is a real pain when one sees her paired with a bloke who looks blankly at her and doesn’t engage at all.  I can think of one young man, who shall remain nameless, going through the motions with perfect, bland accomplishment while at his side Ms Rojo emitted passion down to her fingernails.  

Luckily in “Marguerite and Armand” Mr Polunin came out of his shell and gave a tremendous performance, totally spot-on dramatically as well as technically.  For the first time I could really see why some of the papers had been acclaiming him as the next Really Huge Big Star.   He had a real chemistry with Ms Rojo and the performance was very, very good.  But Ms Rojo was the real star, even then. 

I know I’m not an expert and I’ve obviously been missing some extra fillip of terrificness in those jumps, entrechats etc.  But my main feeling is more one of sadness for Mr Polunin.  It’s such a waste, that a talented young man who could have been a Big Star (even if he wasn’t really one yet) has apparently flipped slightly and chucked in one of the very top jobs in his profession.  It seems a real shame, and no-one should have to be so stressed by their work that they reach that stage.  Who knows what went on behind the scenes? – certainly not me.  But I hope he gets his life sorted out.  If he truly doesn’t want to go on in the dance world, I hope he finds something else to do, something to which he is genuinely committed.  As it is, it just looks as though Mr Polunin was the “short-twitch muscle” equivalent of Ed no.1; not so much blessed as blessed-and-cursed by his enormous potential.

And in the meantime while we wait to see what the poor lad decides to do next, at least in the world of ballet everyone is used to sudden cast changes and to stepping in at short notice to fill a gap.  Anyone who had booked to see Mr Polunin as Oberon in Ashton’s “The Dream”, opening tonight, will get Steven McRae instead, and one can hardly feel short-changed by that (I had booked to see Mr McRae anyway, but then for my money he already is a Star – I’d pay good money to watch him stand at the side of the stage and look thoughtful).

Not much to report on my own account at the moment.  My head cold is coming out (cue loud sneeze) and my first day in the new job has gone quietly.  Now I’m off home to eat curry and try to finish Fairy Story number 2.  All the main characters are now under enchantments of one kind or another, and I have a big confrontation scene to write as they face off with the twin sorcerers who are responsible.  Eee, should be fun!

A long post; January already, and the Immies for 2011

Thursday already.  Heck, January already.  Hey, it’s 2012...

It was, as I had hoped, a very peaceful Christmas and a quiet New Year (apart from the massive firework display down the road and the madly barking neighbourhood dogs this set off).  Walking and relaxing with my family, doing a massive jigsaw, seeing a few friends, sleeping ten hours a night, eating too many Pringles...  Sometimes it’s good for one just to do very little and simply rest, body and mind.

And now it is January again.  Happy New Year, everyone.  The weather has been all over the place today; one minute we have had sun falling across the grass of Kew Green and bare trees shining against a chilly blue sky, then next moment the skies turn black and rain lashes down in curtains.  It seemed quite sensible to think of new beginnings and new resolutions without irony, each time the fresh-washed sun reappeared; but those periodic bursts of wintry rain make me want to hide my head and go to sleep underground instead.

I’ve had a couple of odd encounters over the last week.  At a New Year’s party I thought I saw an old school-mate across the room – she was a tough lass in her youth, so I’ll call her Tuffisa.  Tuffisa hardly seemed to have changed at all in almost thirty years; still the same curly black hair, girlish figure, casual clothes and determined expression.  I wondered if she would remember me, and was hesitating whether to go over and say “hi” when beside me someone said “Oh, Imogen, Tuffisa Jones is here, do come and say hi” – and led me across to a totally different woman.  The real Tuffisa had changed beyond recognition; she is now blonde, elegant, gracious and decidedly voluptuous (not that I can talk!).  The weird bit came when she introduced me to her partner, since she was the woman I had thought was Tuffisa herself.   She turned out to be really nice, and it was good to see Tuffy again after such a very long time; but it did give me a funny turn to start with.  Is it odd of me to have been spooked by an old friend’s new partner looking so like the adolescent appearance of the old friend? 

Then on Tuesday night I was at the wonderful “Slava’s Snow Show” (SEE THIS IF YOU HAVEN’T- IT’S BRILLIANT!!) and two rows in front of me was a chap with whom I could have sworn I used to do amateur drama, back in the day.  He seemed to be with his family, and I used to have a terrific crush on him when he was single, so in the circumstances I didn’t like to butt in.  The last time I had seen him was while I was a student, when he was a tall, handsome Malcolm in “Macbeth”, and I was doing costumes.  When I thought about it I realised this must have been nearly fifteen years ago, and that gave me a funny feeling, too.  It just doesn’t feel that long.

The moral of this (other than “Hi, ‘Malcolm’, if you’re reading this!”) is Tempus Fugit.  Time flies, so have fun, do things that interest you, and don’t let life just slip away. 

In the which spirit, I have decided to try and do something creative every day during 2012.  I’m hoping that by making my definition of “creative” as open as possible I can avoid the usual backsliding and collapse of New Year’s Resolutions.  After all, do something creative covers a pretty wide remit.  So far I have made notes, written a bit more of a story, and made more notes about something else.  Even if all I do is make notes, I’ll still achieve something if I make a few every single day...  That’s the idea, anyway.

The other big thing I like to do in January is to think about the highlights of the past year. So here is my list of “Immies” for last year:

The Imogen Awards 2011

Best concerts:

“Infernal Dance”, the Philharmonia Orchestra’s Bartok season, was everything one could wish -  thrilling and revelatory; the Violin concerto no 2 with Christian Tetzlaff, Yefim Bronfmann showing off in the Piano concertos, the delicious “Wooden Prince” Suite, the complete “Miraculous Mandarin”, a marvellous performance of “Contrasts”...  The whole thing concluded with a gobsmacking “Bluebeard”.  Marvellous!

http://www.philharmonia.co.uk/bartok/

Prom 32 – Christian Tetzlaff (again – oh swoon) playing the Brahms concerto superbly, followed by the extraordinary “Das Klagende Lied” with the BBCSO under Edward Gardner.

Prom 41 – the BBCSO again, under Mark Wigglesworth, in a lovely programme, mainly of Britten, ending with a life-enhancingly energetic “Spring Symphony”.

Best exhibition:

Tom Thomson and the Group of Seven, Dulwich Picture Gallery.  No contest!  This runs for a couple more days, finishing at the end of this weekend, so if you like powerful dynamic landscape painting, hurry down to Dulwich...

Best dance:

I have been seeing a lot of ballet this year.  I’m not quite sure why, but for me it is perhaps the most consistently thrilling of all the performed arts.  This year was particularly good:

“Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” by Christopher Wheeldon for the Royal Ballet.  This was simply gorgeous, and tremendous fun!

“Metamorphosis” by Arthur Pita at the Linbury Studio Theatre.  An extraordinary new piece; deeply terrifying and deeply moving.

The ENB “Black and White” mixed bill was excellent, especially the revival of “Suite en Blanc”.  At the risk of sounding daft I am going to say it - the moment the curtain goes up on that panorama of dancers is practically worth the ticket price on its own.

The many “Manons” of the Royal Ballet!  I saw four performances in total over the year – three in the summer and another one in the autumn.  All were excellent, and it was marvellous to have a chance to see the subtle differences of interpretation between performers.

The Royal Ballet’s mixed bills were excellent this year: Asphodel Meadows/Enigma Variations/Gloria and the one that included Ashton’s “Rhapsody” both epitomised everything that is going right for the RB at the moment; ravishing beauty, emotional truth, and technical mastery at every level, from the principals right down to the newest members of the corps. 

Best World Music

Ealing Global Festival.  What a great day out this local mini-WOMAD is every year!

Best opera

La Bohème at the ENO.  I caught one of the last performances of the run; it’s a lovely production with great sets and naturalistic direction.  Elizabeth Llewellyn was a revelation; she certainly ought to wind up as a very big star indeed.  She has a glorious voice and she can act.  She’s also very beautiful.  A perfect Mimí in a perfectly-judged production.

“Pelléas et Mélisande” at the Barbican (concert performance).  No staging at all, just excellent singers lined up in front of an excellent orchestra, all led by an excellent conductor.  Favourite Baritone was an intense, passionate Pelléas and Laurent Naouri a magnificent and tragic Golaud.

Best individual performers:

1)      Ballet:

Carlos Acosta and Tamara Rojo in Swan Lake, for a partnership of regal scale and brilliance.  La Rojo was even better in the beautiful in “Marguerite and Armand”, a real cry-into-your-lap performance.

Steven McRae; passionate and doomed in “The Rite of Spring”, febrile and anguished as Prince Siegfried in “Swan Lake”, or just showing off his bravura chops in “Rhapsody”; every little thing he does is magic...

Edward Watson, astonishing in “Metamorphosis”.

The lovely Hikaru Kobayashi getting a chance to shine, and seizing it with both hands, as Princess Aurora in “Sleeping Beauty”.

2)      Opera:

Elizabeth Llewellyn in “La Bohème” at the ENO – see above.

Kristine Opolais in “Madame Butterfly” at the Royal Opera was terrific and had me crying my eyes out.

Stuart Skelton, John Tomlinson and Iain Paterson, all deeply moving in “Parsifal”.

3)      Concert:

This has been rather a year for virtuosos:

Nikolai Lugansky’s fabulous solo recital at the Queen Elizabeth Hall, playing Chopin, Brahms and Liszt.

Christian Tetzlaff playing Brahms at the Proms and Bartok at the Festival Hall.

Gil Shaham restoring the Bruch violin concerto no 1 from saccharine to stunner in Prom 62.

Stephen Hough playing Liszt’s Piano Concerto no 1 with the Budapest Festival Orchestra under Ivan Fischer.

And last but not least

The ever-magnificent Sarah Connolly, heart-breaking in “Das Lied von der Erde” at the Festival Hall last February.  Worth missing part of The DipGeek’s birthday party for (and I do not say that lightly, as The DipGeek throws a good party).

May 2012 be as good, culturally and in other ways! 

How not to grow old...

You all know what a balletomane I am, with my raving enthusiasms and cries of delight - "She was wonderful, they were terrific, he's brilliant!" and so on. It must get rather monotonous...

Anyway, last night I was at Covent Garden for my last ballet outing until ENB’s summer season in July (sob). But I had two of the other kind of balletomane in the seats behind me – the “Fings ain’t wot they used to be” kind; real griping grannies.

I quote:
“No-one knows how to dance Ashton properly these days, that girl’s port de bras is awful, they should send that Ukrainian boy back where he came from, it’s a disgrace that chap was allowed on stage without having a chest wax… "

And so forth.

They weren’t just criticising the performances, either; they were being downright mean, making sniping personal remarks about dancers’ abilities, technique, looks, morals, age, you name it... They bitched about two of my favourite female dancers; then, they thought everyone was over-rated, Nehemiah Kish needed a nose job, Leanne Benjamin should have been let go years ago – “she’s well past her sell-by date” – Madam would never have allowed a shocking performance of “Scenes de ballet” like that to go ahead, Madam would never have promoted “that dismal smirking Cuthbertson girl” to principal, or hired “that ugly Japanese boy, and that American with the awful feet”… (“Madam”, in case you don’t know, was Ninette De Valois, who founded the RB).

When the “Rite of Spring” ended, as soon as the applause finished one of them started up again - “Well! Wasn’t that a mess? I suppose with all the foreigners in the company these days…” – and I just leapt up and fled. I don’t think I’ve ever exited the auditorium so fast!

It made me wonder if the Royal Opera House has a department handling complaints, like Kew, and if so, how on earth do they answer such horrible personal comments about individual performers?

For the record: “Scenes de ballet” is not my favourite piece, but was very well-danced; “Voluntaries” was gorgeous, heartfelt and lyrical (& Leanne Benjamin is SO not past her sell by date! - & Ryoichi Hirano is SO not ugly! - and Nehemiah Kish SO doesn’t need a nose job – or a chest wax for that matter!); and the “Rite” was absolutely stunning (Steven McRae’s dance of death was chilling – he is brilliant, this ginger Aussie dynamo, and I love him to bits).

But these carping crones cast a nasty shadow over the whole evening for me. Why they had bothered to come in the first place I don’t know, but heaven preserve me from growing like that. I'm more likely, on current evidence, to be a dirty old woman than a griping one, but it was still a salutary reminder of how not to grow old.

There, just had to get that off my chest.

That picture, incidentally, is Leanne Benjamin, photographed somewhere in the Australian Outback a couple of years back, in a jeté so zingy she's practically in flight... Past her sell-by date, my eye!

Hectic, but with ballet and more ballet...

Well, it’s been a hectic couple of weeks since I got back from my holiday. Work is at a busy time of the year and our department as a whole is still very short-staffed, although my team is slightly less stretched now that someone has come back from a long period of sick leave. The new computers are still causing hiccoughs assorted; every time I think I’ve got the hang of things I am brought up against another baffling change to the simple “how you do this” issues, with the result that I still feel like a cat chasing my tail a lot of the time. Fire-fighting the illogicality of Windows 7 is a big draw on one’s time and energy.

I haven’t been completely without fun, though. I’ve had a lovely trip to the Wetland Centre, some ballet outings and concerts to go to, plus a trip to the cinema (“Thor”, totally daft but entertaining; nice to see Tom Hiddleston, one of my ideal Gabriel Yeatses, getting a good high profile job, too) and a highly enjoyable birthday party – the sort where intelligent people talk about intelligent things and laugh a lot over a few pints. I’ve been trying to keep on top of the garden, not an easy task in this drought. And I’ve started the tricky and rather emotionally-draining business of giving “Ramundi’s sisters” a third revision. >sigh< It needs to be done, but it’s a job that gets slightly more sticky with each turn around the block.

My ballet outings were all very enjoyable. The latest Triple Bill at the Royal Ballet was a lovely package, except for being too short – none of the three pieces was particularly long, and the first came in at under twenty minutes. Even with longer than average intervals to pad it out, I was home soon after ten pm; but it was a good enough evening that I didn’t feel short-changed. “Ballo della Regina” was the “please sir, I want some more” opener, with Lauren Cuthbertson in lovely, shiny, smiley form as the lead ballerina, skipping through some fiendish footwork as if it were a playground game. She had a scrumptious quartet backing her up, and Sergei Polunin, all huge leaps and cheekbones, was classy as the sole fella.

Next up came a new piece by Wayne McGregor, which has got the critics all at sixes and sevens; like retsina, it seems, you either love it or loathe it. I was high enough up in the house not to be overly distracted by the video backdrop of exploding trucks, and could concentrate on the dancing. I’m never entirely sure I’m convinced by McGregor’s intellectual ideas, but he certainly choreographs incredible stuff from the dancing point of view; elastic off-centre bends, weird shapes, strenuous lifts and general frenzied athleticism all round. Ferociously tricky, it was danced by the small cast with a bravura that was slightly scary.

For a finale we got a revival, much longed-for by me, of Christopher Wheeldon’s “DGV”, a gorgeous non-narrative piece whose lack of a story does not preclude a heartfelt warmth in its series of fluid duets and final, powerfully uplifting ensemble. It’s a thrilling ballet that I could happily watch over and over; and with a cast like this it simply sings. Duet number one brought us a sensuous Laura Morera and Steven McRae’s customary febrile dynamism, duet number two, Zenaida Yanowsky’s long limbed elegance and the steady, modest strength of Eric Underwood. For duet number three I was lucky enough to see Gary Avis and Melissa Hamilton again; this is a luxury partnership of astonishing chemistry, and their ease with one another in this tender, soaring, probably hideously-difficult material is simply dazzling. To finish off, replacing Sarah Lamb and Federico Bonelli, came a decidedly high-calibre piece of back-up casting in the form of Itziar Mendizabal and Nehemiah Kish, two new recruits both of whom I am warming to rapidly. They hadn’t originally been slated to dance this at all, seem to have been put in fairly late in the day, and both looked as though they were loving every minute.

Then came the saga of the “Manon”s. MacMillan’s “Manon” is one of my all-time favourite ballets, and I went to see it back at the beginning of the run in April for a performance featuring the sexy Steven McRae, passionately intense and technically dazzling, and his regular stage partner, the beautiful and elfin Roberta Marquez. Gorgeous!

When I discovered that a performance featuring Alina Cojocaru and Johan Kobborg was being put out on the Big Screen in Trafalgar Square last week, though, I decided I had to go to that – after all, Cojocaru and Kobborg are pretty damned special together, and it was free, and Big Screen screenings are tremendous fun in a slightly surreal way (double decker buses circling, sirens wailing by, aircraft heading into Heathrow as the night sky darkens to deepest phthalo blue…). So I went along, with a fleece and a picnic, and failed to link up with a friend who cried off at the last minute, and was thrilled all over again.

It was a totally different interpretation of the leading roles, with Kobborg playing Des Grieux as an intelligent, mature man of almost heroic decency, and Alina’s Manon the most thoughtful, even moral, I’ve ever seen. I know it sounds odd to call a girl who elects to become a rich man’s kept woman “moral”, but really, you could see her struggling between the choices facing her, knowing that both are, in one way or another, wrong – forswear the man you love and become a whore, or let-down and disobey your beloved brother (and know you are losing your one chance at financial security as well)…

And then my mum called me on Friday to say the friend she was going with to the Saturday matinee (scheduled to be danced by Laura Morera and Federico Bonelli) had called to say she couldn’t come after all, and would I like to join her? Well, Morera and Bonelli were a stunning Tatyana and Onegin last autumn, so I was delighted to say yes. Only to find, on arriving at the Opera House, that Mr Bonelli was injured and was being replaced by Mr Kish – who’s only danced the part once before, and that not with Ms Morera.

Mum was vocal in her disappointment (she feels about Mr Bonelli rather as I do about Messrs Watson and McRae, tall dark Italians being catnip to her in the same way ginger toms are to me); “Who’s this Nehemiah Kish, then? Never heard of him. Where’s he from? How long's he been kicking around?” etc etc – rather embarrassing as one cringes and hopes her well-pitched and rather carrying voice will not reach the ears of a parent, wife, girl~ or boyfriend, or anyone else who’s there to support Mr K... I tried to reassure her but as I hadn’t seen him in action very much, all I could say was fairly bland things about him being tall and a good partner.

So into the theatre we went, and the lights went down, and we were treated to what was for me, completely out of the blue, the best of the three “Manon”s I’ve seen this year, by a good margin.

It’s always hard to explain it, when it happens, but it was one of those performances when everything just comes together. By the time they got to that final terrifying pas de deux, hurtling into despair and death in the Louisiana swamps, I was crying helplessly into my binoculars, totally harrowed.

With two leads who hadn’t been set to dance together, and who therefore can’t have had much rehearsal together, one could have forgiven the odd hesitation or over-careful lift, but in fact they seemed pretty much unfazed by it; there was hardly any sign that they hadn’t been dancing together for years. To my eyes they were well-matched physically, technically and emotionally; their acting styles were complementary (both are subtle and inward actors rather than grand-standing and full-on) and they brought the whole thing alight for me.

The rest of the cast was batting down the order, too, and there were lovely little touches all over the place. José Martín was an excellent Lescaut, perhaps less virtuosic than Ricardo Cervera had been but more complex as a character; Valentino Zucchetti was a terrific Beggar Chief, Gary Avis a really nasty Monsieur GM, Bennett Gartside a really nasty Gaoler – I could burble on for ages listing every bit part who got a credit, as there wasn’t a duff performance to be seen. And from our leads there were lovely clean lines and confident sweeping lifts, kisses that looked as if they were really meant, and all the time that sense of real feeling, of something not thought-thru’ and rehearsed but fresh and immediate.

Laura Morera’s Manon came across as a girl who at the beginning is only just discovering the power her allure gives her, making a journey from innocence to a painful adulthood – a Juliet-like character, trying to make the right decisions, to solve the pull between irreconcilable longings. Mr Kish’s Des Grieux was a classic nice guy, simple and straightforward, kind-hearted, devoted, even perhaps not terribly bright; exactly the sort of decent, honest boy-next-door type she ought to have been able, in a better world, to marry and be happy with.

She knows how to use her stillness to say more than one would think possible; he knows how to use his very beautiful hands and wrists to finish a long, aching line; they both have the technical skill to let the choreography do the talking, rather than trying to over-characterise. The final pas de deux was about as no-holds-barred as I’ve seen it, Manon’s death a shattering moment, Des Grieux not screaming silently as most do but slumping back on his heels, staring at her body in shock; exhausted, bereft, and knowing he’s next.

I’ve been haunted by it ever since.