There are so many swans in English National Ballet’s tutu-tacular Swan Lake. The corps de ballet swells to 60 ballerinas in Derek Deane’s large-scale production originally created for the Royal Albert Hall in 1997.
Their circling unity is impressive – arms flapping, heads tilted, faces solemn. In Tchaikovsky’s 19th century classic, they build a tsunami of femininity in extremis, falling to the floor in teardrop formation, spotting the stage with snow-white tulle.
The vast stage needs filling – even the boldest leap barely makes a dent – so Deane scales everything up. Four cygnets become eight, a pas de trois is now a pas de douze.
Marshalling the feathered infantry and multiple casts must be a mighty feat of admin – you can only imagine the spreadsheets. And the production undoubtedly delivers spectacle, even if emotion isn’t similarly amplified, rarely landing the whomp you might crave from a visit to the lakeside and the perilous love between the prince and the swan-maiden.
Tchaikovsky’s ceaselessly involving score does a lot of emotional heavy lifting here. Gavin Sutherland, conducting from above the stage, digs into loss and loneliness, and passion beating its wings against the odds. Sutherland also has a lovely way of peering over his shoulder at the soloists, to check they are comfortable with his speeds.
Below him is the royal court, all muted gold and aquamarine, with attendant jugglers and tumblers. In their midst, Gareth Haw’s leggy prince looks like he’s waiting for life to begin, pasting a polite royal smile over his boredom.
At the lakeside, mist sidles over the floor and plumes in the air. Sangeun Lee’s Odette, fragile but majestic, towers over her flock of swans. You have to peer at the central couple through a thicket of tutus, while James Streeter goes full panto as villainous Rothbart.
Lee and Haw, the opening night leads, are both newish recruits to ENB, following artistic director Aaron S Watkin from his previous gig in Dresden. They don’t convey much chemistry but their geometry is impressive, winding long limbs around and inscribing complex lines in the air.
In the third act they come alive. Rothbart crashes the royal ball with his shaggy gimp entourage (Jane Haworth’s queen gingerly tugs her skirts away from the creature slavering at her ankles). He also brings Odile, Odette’s malignant doppelganger.
Lee gives her an unscrupulous gleam, and her dancing takes off – she crowns her lifts with a kick and throws off turns with a demonic dazzle. Haw leaps his heart out, tracking her like a devoted dupe. The stage is far less crowded here, and the air between them crackles.
The last act brings back the swans (60 pairs of noisy pointe shoes sound like exploratory lakeside fracking). There’s a thrill to the flock’s distress, swirling in agitation as their queen’s life is threatened, bringing a frisson that is lacking elsewhere.
