Hip hip Hirano: Manon at the ROH
Manon
Royal Ballet
Royal Opera House
Amphitheatre A81, complimentary (staff Christmas ticket)
26 April 2018
ROH page
Manon is one of those ballets that rests on the charisma of its stars. Maybe that’s an inane thing to say and all ballets do the same, or at least all ballets where a sweeping narrative arc has a big fat tragedy lurking at the end of it. Either way, I know Manon has the power to devastate but I could have easily just have read about this performance in the newspaper for all the emotional impact it had in live performance.
I lay the blame, or perhaps I should say the cause, at the beautiful feet of Vadim Muntagirov, above which are two beautiful legs and above those a very graceful torso but right at the top a head that doesn’t seem bothered by much beyond grace and beauty. This gives ample provision for a lot of ballet but not for Manon. It’s then a shame that he’s paired with Sarah Lamb, a wonderful actor but of an internalized, intellectual, delicate sort that for a story of Manon’s torridity needs amping up by her partner. Muntagirov doesn’t seem to realize there’s anything there to amp.
The real attraction of the evening was in fact Ryoichi Hirano’s turn as Lescaut, casting that seemed to me so off the wall I thought it must have a pleasingly nutty kernel at its heart. This is that Hirano has a comic gift I think unmatched by any other at the Royal Ballet, enough so to make me wonder that for all his length and noblesse his highest calling is in fact to goof. It also made me wonder if it was ever thus that these comedic roles were taken by shorter dancers; the matched height of Hirano and Muntagirov makes a lot of sense of their joint choreography, especially as Lescaut bullies, dominates and snarks.
Around the principals the Royal Ballet did its narrative corps de ballet thang, so individually characterized and expertly scenery-filling it’s almost absurd how good they are. Leading this throng of well-drilled bodies was Gary Avis as Monsieur G.M., superbly nailing every aristocratically raised eyebrow and creepily slobbery foot fetish down to a tee as only Gary Avis can.
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