By Jef With One F
By Pete Vonder Haar
By Abby Koenig
By Olivia Flores Alvarez
By Jef With One F
By Christina Uticone
By Angelica Leicht
By Altamese Osborne
The out-of-town dance critics who flooded Houston last week weren't here just because they admire the Houston Ballet (though that's part of it). They were here because, with Dracula, Houston Ballet artistic director Ben Stevenson is offering up something truly rare: a brand-new full-length story ballet. Over the last few decades, new story ballets have been few and far between, and Dracula makes clear why that's a shame -- we could use more of the freshly evocative choreography and luscious looks of this Dracula. Still, there aren't a lot of Tchaikovskys and Stravinskys out there burning to compose ballet music these days, and that's tragic: Music can act as an artistic salve, massaging the other creative elements into a whole and lending a production unity by creating character through leitmotif, mood through instrumentation and, perhaps most important in terms of story ballet, a sense of pacing. Though Dracula is full of Stevensonian style, the lack of music written expressly for it is a disappointment and, finally, the work's greatest weakness.
Luckily, there's much to make up for it. It's not strange that Stevenson chose the story of Dracula for his new ballet. Dangerous, sexy and powerful, Dracula is the closest that '90s popular culture has come to reinventing an antihero, the sort of compelling character needed for story ballet. And, of course, the recent fascination with Bram Stoker's novel and its various progeny is evident everywhere, from Freudian literary theory to popular fiction and film. Interest in the vampire isn't, as is often suggested, a mere celebration of the novel's century mark. What Dracula does for us, especially in his current seductive shape, is stir up our subconscious desires for pleasure and immortality. And wonderfully, for the most part Houston Ballet's Dracula stays true to that libido-charged version of the story.
What ends up haunting this production is the score: an arrangement of various Franz Liszt pieces that often provides sweet melody where gloom is called for. This unwieldy orchestration is evident early in Act I, when Dracula's 18 brides, costumed in flowing white gowns, dance in his crypt. Designed to recall the Wilis in Giselle, the brides are ghostly sleepwalkers. Their chiffon sailing behind them, the corps knits patterns in the crypt with such tenacity and at such length that it is a relief when 12 finally depart, leaving six sisters on-stage to twirl about their lair. Pared down in number, the brides' patterns are lovely, and a duet, rare in corps work, is an especially nice touch.
With the spectral brides, the spooky mood is set. But then it's set again, and again. It's difficult to say why it takes so long for Dracula to arrive on-stage; it could be that Stevenson, in his best showman's fashion, wants to tantalize the audience and build anticipation for the evil moment. More likely, the romantic vision of the brides proved too seductive to depart from -- indeed, one balletgoer wondered later if the brides might come over to his house and run about from room to room. But seductiveness aside, the corps' lengthy dance becomes tiring and repetitive.
Adapting Stoker's novel for the stage, Stevenson wisely chose essence over faithfulness. This is a simplified version of the tale, separated into three locales: Dracula's crypt, where he bites his first village maiden, Flora; the village below his castle, where people celebrate unaware of the danger that awaits, and where Dracula kidnaps a maiden, Svetlana, who's recently engaged; and his bedchamber, where he attempts to feed on Svetlana, and to which villagers rush to her rescue. Despite its dark mood, the story occasionally loses tension; the opening night cast compensated with a handful of inspired performances. Most notable were Susan Cummins as Flora and the normally reserved Barbara Bears as the warm, feisty Svetlana. Dracula, danced by Timothy O'Keefe, was especially magnetic as well -- drawing his victims to his embrace with the power of his outstretched hand, and sweeping them across the floor like the broken rag dolls they become after his bite. As much a seducer as hunter, O'Keefe's Dracula relishes his prey. The genius of Stevenson's choreography, far and away the highlight of the evening, is wonderfully evident in the vampire's feeding scenes. Even as she struggles to get out of Dracula's grasp, Flora offers her neck for his bite, while chaste Svetlana succumbs to his embrace and to the whirlwind-like power of his swooping cape.
Though the choreography is rich and textured, Liszt's music for Flora's solo is the least fitting the first act has to offer. Gentle and romantic (even tinkly), the piece reflects none of the wicked possession evident in Cummins's character. Prancing gingerly toward her new mate, her feet often snapping up into a casual passe, Cummins, unable to break her focus on the vampire, is entrancing as she crosses the bridge to evil. It is in this solo, too, that the choreography introduces a contemporary feel -- Flora's foot flicks will resonate later, when Svetlana is introduced. Housed in the gothic structure of Romantic ballet, this kind of movement invention offers a newness that Romantic ballet often lacks. The choreography is both human and tangible, grounded in character -- a far remove from the airy visions of the stiff classical movement vocabulary.