Two years ago, the Opera Royal de Versailles enchanted us with two recreations by Marie-Geneviève Massé: Mozart’s Les Petits Riens, created by Noverre, and Gluck’s Don Juan, created by Noverre’s great rival, Angiolini. Both were wonderfully danced in front of contemporaneously painted stage sets. The success of these recreations has encouraged further exploration of the old and undeservedly ignored repertory, to show what Noverre’s ballets might have looked like, not only through his famous descriptions in Letters on Dancing and Ballets, but also through live performance which could reach out to a wider audience of non-specialists. The Opéra-Comique, where Noverre began as a member of the troupe around 1754 before becoming a choreographer, made much use of grotesque dancing and pantomime, and played a prominent part in the development of ballet-pantomime in the middle of eighteenth century; thus, it seemed right to programme Noverre in this theatre, from which the troupe of dancers disappeared in 1972. It was time to discover the great theoretician of eighteenth-century ballet through a practical realisation of his choreographies.
For several months, we eagerly awaited this event, and were very excited to see, at our arrival in the theatre, two of the first tragic ballets: Renaud et Armide, first created in Lyon around 1758-1759, and Médée et Jason, first staged between two acts of Jomelli’s Didone abbandonata at the Stuttgart Hoftheater on 11 February 1763. The programme which included Médée et Jason was given to celebrate the Duke of Würtemberg’s birthday; Gaëtan Vestris danced the role of Jason there so well that the ballet, inserted into Jean-Benjamin de La Borde’s opera Ismene and Isménias, was repeated before Louis XV’s court that June. Mounted anew in Fontainebleau in 1769, it was then given at the Paris Opera in 1770, and for the last time in 1804. The music of both ballets was composed by Jean-Joseph Rodolphe (1730-1812), a composer whose work is rarely heard in Paris today. Rodolphe had a brilliant European career as a horn player, and wrote ballet music for Jomelli’s operas at the Duke of Würtemberg’s court at Stuttgart, where he met Noverre. To make the two ballets suitably complete for performance today, the conductor Hervé Niquet chose other music of the same period by Deller for Armide, and by Berton, Dauvergne, Grétry and Vogel for Médée.
When Noverre chose for his subject two famous women, powerful, but abandoned, and furious because they felt their love betrayed, he wanted to demonstrate that dance could be something other than pure divertissement, that sad and tragic human stories could be related through dance, and that this art could be independent and not just a decorative embellishment to an opera. He decided to choose well-known stories from classical literature in which the passions of the main characters and their tragic destiny could be expressed in a few scenes of action. The story of Armide, as related in Tasso’s Jerusalem Delivered, had inspired Lully and – a century later – Gluck, whose ‘tragédies en musique’ were performed before Noverre’s ballets, and were well known to the Royal Academy’s public. Médée’s murders, which had inspired Corneille and Charpentier, were similarly well known to those audiences.
During the 100 minutes of the performance, Marie-Geneviève Massé chose to show us the oriental charm and poetic aspect of Armide’s love affair with Renaud rather than the tragic end of their story, showing only the enchanted island disappearing at the end. By contrast, her reconstruction of Medée concentrates on the classical story of Médée’s murder of her two children, and also makes greater use of machinery to show the spectacular destruction of the palace. The importance assigned in 2012 to the staging is in line with Noverre’s concern to pay close attention to all the details of the ballet, including machine effects, which are seldom seen today. We enjoyed it, and we admired the technical realization of the moving sets, which had been such an important part of the public’s pleasure in the eighteenth century, and still are today.
For the choreographer, these ballets were a challenge because no notations survive: the Feuillet notation, used by Francine Lancelot and her pupils and successors to record baroque dances, was very rarely used by the end of the Age of the Enlightenment, when oral transmission was preferred for ballets which were increasing in scale and complexity and in the number of dancers required. Reconstructing Noverre’s ballets requires a sound knowledge of the archival sources, theoretical writings, and iconography of the time and also a clear understanding of how physical movements and feelings relate to the music, a factor which was crucial for a choreographer like Noverre. He wrote on this very subject in his famous Letters on Dancing (1760), as did Gallini, who noted in his Treatise on the Art of Dancing (1772) that ‘nothing can introduce a more disagreeable discordance than a performer’s dancing out of time’. Ballet masters had to be musicians – playing at least the violin – and they had to train dancers to adapt their movements to exactly fit the music. Marie-Geneviève Massé, who deals so precisely with the music, as she demonstrated in Don Juan, was indeed the right choreographer to re-create these ballets.
After the softness of the flutes and the brisk movement of the overture of Renaud et Armide, the stage set moves in a quite fascinating way to suggest the enchanted island emerging from the water: the sea seems to retire, and we start to see between the rocks first just the arms and then the rest of three charming naiads, who emerge from the water to welcome Renaud; he is dazzled by their beauty. M.-G. Massé is clever enough to invent pleasingly meaningful movements, as six arms divest Renaud of his sword, and legs seductively entwine hiswaist as he sinks into sleep. This charming scene around Renaud (Noah Hellwig, a new young dancer from a classical background) contrasts with the arrival of Armide (Sabine Novel, an expert in baroque dance) who appears with great vivacity, closed fists, and stamping feet, to kill Renaud. To the febrile sound of violins, she raises her dagger, but when she discovers the beauty of Renaud as he sleeps, she feels an irresistible attraction, awakes him with gentleness and encourages him to follow her and fall in love: he responds by imitating each of her movements before they dance together. She gives him her necklace: a kind of sign that presages romantic ballets.
Trap doors in the stage open and the ‘corps de ballet’ appear as nymphs – Armide’s attendants in lovely oriental costumes imitating scales – coming to share this new love and to offer various pleasures. The undulating movements of their arms and the way they seem to be diving through water hints at the movements of mermaids, and the music is appropriate to this poetry.
As the music changes, the rocks move and close this lovely scene. Two knights (Olivier Collin and Bruno Benne) appear, looking for Renaud. They fight against two sea monsters, whose strange appearance is achieved by one dancer climbing on the back of the other. The monsters retreat with many cabrioles backwards and are finally defeated. The rocks move again and the three naiads appear once more, trying unsuccessfully to seduce the knights and disarm them. But the knights hold up a magic diamond shield which reveals the true demonic nature of the naiads, who now dance savagely with open mouths, aggressive hands and hooked fingers.
After a love duo with Armide, and Renaud’s long hesitation between duty and love, which contrasts with the determination of the knights, Armide’s supplications become useless for Renaud sees himself in the enchanted shield held before him by his two friends as cowardly and hedonistic. Both knights, in red costumes with helmets and breast-plates, fight to overcome Armide, who is dressed in white: they compete in an expressive trio with pirouettes, ‘jetés’ and ‘pliés’ in second position. Renaud then dances a ‘pas seul’ before fleeing the island with the knights. Armide, who has fainted, awakes abandoned; she finds her necklace thrown on the ground by Renaud: she takes it in her hands and dances with it, expressing her unattainable love, before hurling it to the ground. She surrenders to her fate and, beckoning to her attendants to follow her onto the island, she summons death through violent enchantments during which darkness falls, devils are invoked, waves rise up in three great surges and the island sinks into the river Oronte in a marvellous way.
The same richness in dance is also apparent in the second ballet, Medée et Jason, in which quiet scenes give way to wild and tragic actions, and solos, duos, trios, dances for five, nine and twelve dancers take place. But the music is more dramatic and more tragic in this second ballet; it sounds more interesting, probably because it seems to be influenced more by Italian and German styles. Changing stage sets clearly denote the three acts of this tragic story.
The classical Greek origins of the story are indicated by the first stage setting – a large fortified palace – and by the harmony of the brown and blue gowns worn by the dancers. A circle-dance for ten dancers evokes the social life at the court of Créon, King of Corinth. Créon (Daniel Housset, whose physical appearance embodies leadership and power) would like to marry off his daughter Creüse (Émilie Brégougnon, who dances with delicacy and nobility) to Jason and abdicate in his favour. He therefore invites Médée (Sarah Berreby, who gives a moving performance of this tragic character) to dance with him, leaving Jason to discover Creüse’s charms. When Médée surprises their love she chases Creüse, who falls to the ground; Jason goes to her aid and Médée is left alone, humiliated and intent on revenge.
Gauze veils as sinuous and suffocating as smoke descend from above the stage, while the sorceress turns the palace into an infernal cave and demonic spirits in long brown gowns and feathered crowns enter from the wings to circle in their magical rites, during which three allegorical spirits appear, and provide Medée with the means of her vengeance. The Spirit of Evil (Marie Blaise) leads the ceremony. Fire (Bérengère Bodénan) presents Medée with a casket full of devouring flames; Poison descends from the skies on a long rope and, with extraordinary contortions, pulls out of his belly a toxic robe; and Iron provides a dagger. As she receives these gifts, Médée backs away with repeated ‘arabesques’, then throws her wedding ring to the ground and calls to her children to take charge of the three gifts.
The throne room in Créon’s palace appears as a ‘picture (tableau)’ just as Noverre recommended: the huge throne is in the middle of the stage and twelve persons including four dancers on each side, are ranged symmetrically about it. A noble ‘Pas de trois’ is followed by a diagonal figure danced by ten dancers, after which Créon unites Jason and Créüse. Médée appears with her governess (Irène Ginger) leading the two children – two innocent and decorous young girls – who give the casket to Créon and the poisoned robe to Créüse: Médée seems to accept her disgrace. Créon moves towards his throne, opens the casket and succumbs to its fire; his daughter wraps her new robe about her but her dance of pleasure ends with distorted features as she dies at the front of the stage. As Jason expresses his distress, Médée brandishes the dagger and in one sweeping movement kills her children as they kneel beside him. The end is spectacular: Jason (Adrian Navarro, a strong classical dancer) seems to be petrified, Médée rises into the sky and the infernal spirits set fire to the palace. The dramatic progression reaches a very strong climax as the columns of the palace collapse. The great success of this ballet is due to the close integration of music, as revived by Hervé Niquet, dancing, as very well matched to the score by M.-G. Massé, costumes (designed by Olivier Beriot with imaginative sensitivity to the needs of all the characters), the stage sets or ‘decors’ designed and moved by Antoine Fontaine, and the lighting by Hervé Gary, who helps to transport us from earth to the sea, and even to hell itself.
The dancers, most of whom are specialists in baroque dance, are wonderfully precise, albeit not always consistent in interpretation. Jason seems to me sometimes less expressive than his partner Med é e (surely he could express his distress at the end more strongly, for he seems quite detached from what is happening around him), but that is just a suggestion for the finale… I was lucky enough to see those ballets twice, and there was a definite improvement of interpretation between the dress-rehearsal and subsequent performances, so that I really enjoyed my second chance to admire the production.
I hope that this production, by the Palazzetto Bru Zane-Centre de Musique Romantique Française, associated with the Opéra-Comique and the Centre de Musique Baroque de Versailles, will be able to travel abroad. It would be of great value to show these ballets in the European cities where they were played in the eighteenth century, and thereby restore the relevance of these works to the ballet culture of today. Let’s hope that they will go to Stuttgart, where Médée et Jason was premiered in 1763, and also to the cities where it was subsequently performed – Venice in 1769 (where Jason was danced by one of Noverre’s famous pupils, Le Picq), Milan (1774), Warsaw, Kassel, and to London (with Gardel as Jason) in 1789. Through this present staging, the talented Marie-Geneviève Massé makes us appreciate more deeply the missing links between baroque dance and classical ballet, and helps improve our vision of the history of dance, as well as demonstrating that these ballets have always given great pleasure to the public.