A couple of ballet virgins go see The Nutcracker.

When I mentioned I was going to the ballet again someone I was with said they’d only been once as a kid and got put off by the sound of dancers’ feet hitting the floor. Totally disappointed him, he said, he had such impossibly high expectations. He’d never been since. Decided that ballet wasn’t for the likes of him, all because of that one trivial, improbable incident. I wonder how many of us talk ourselves out of ballet or whatever because we tell ourselves a similarly silly tale. In my own case an aversion to any form of dance was instilled early on by a particularly enthusiastic but not overly sensitive teacher who made my class troop unwillingly into the school hall every Tuesday after dinner to learn waltzing and foxtrotting and other such nonsense that no nine year old boy should ever have to endure. Mrs Jenkins would line the boys against one side and the girls against the the other – always the girls seemed to be on the sunnier side, looking all smiley and coy and expectant, while us boys glowered in the shadows, wanting to punch or kick something. Then she would pair us off, going down the line, matching us for size I imagine, not for personality or preference or anything, as I always seemed to end up with Helen with the unpronounceable Polish surname, a tall, pale, slender, painfully shy girl in glasses who would always sigh and fix me with a look that said “I’d really rather be doing quadratic equations.” The sound of clapping, onetwothree, onetwothree, onetwothree, and Mrs Jenkins’ shrill, high pitched, glass cutter voice encouraging us to “think Peter Pan children . . . think Peter Pan!” has haunted my nightmares for decades. Ever since then Dance has been something of an anathema. Any form of collective syncopation sends a cold shiver along my spine. The very thought of choreography makes me inwardly cower. Strangely enough my antipathy never extended to tall, slim, clever brunettes . . . work that one out!

Anyhow, the point of this digression is that very often the reason we won’t try anything new culturally is that we get trapped in an old story which we repeat even though it may or may not be true. I’ve been telling myself the above story for years, or versions and variations and revisions thereof, convincing myself with every repetition that I’m just not the type that would like the ballet. There’s lots of inverted snobbery too . . . I mean, it’s ballet for heavens sake! Last time I looked it wasn’t that popular on most Northern council estates of my intimate knowledge. Most people I know share a similar combination of cynical story and class division as the reason why ballet is out of bounds. But it’s about time we realised what absolute bullshit it is.

I went to see The Northern Ballet do The Nutcracker at The Grand last Tuesday. The only other time I’ve been to the ballet was to watch Les Liasons Dangereuse a few months ago. I didn’t get it, I must admit. Problem was, I think, it was probably the wrong thing to start with, a bit too advanced for a self-confessed ballet virgin. I’d been told The Nutcracker was more suitable for a total beginner like me. So I went along with a friend, Penny, who also isn’t a ballet buff but was determined to have a good time.  We got a choice of the stalls so went upstairs. Within seconds of sitting down Penny was joking with a bunch of ladies in the seats behind who seemed to get noticeably restive the moment we found our seats. They were too polite to prod me and tell me to shift but it was apparent I was going to spoil the show for the lady right behind me who would have had to endure the deeply distracting vision of the back of my head obscuring the stage for the whole performance. That didn’t seem right. It was obvious the ladies were out on their Christmas jollies and I was putting the dampeners on their seasonal spirits. Penny suggested we move over into the empty seats further along the row and of course the ladies would not hear of it, and of course we told them not to be silly, everything was fine . . . so we shuffled along and I then spent the whole evening in a seat behind a column obscuring the stage. But that was fine.  I didn’t have to slump or slouch in my seat, and the ladies behind had a lovely, unobstructed time. I have to admit I found the whole thing exhilarating and incredibly good fun. But I know I haven’t the words to explain why. I’m still at a bit of a loss though I reckon I’m getting the hang of it and do want to learn more. So I’m hoping I get to go back and maybe get to talk to more people who understand what it’s all about. In the meantime, here’s my friend Penny’s version of events . . .

In his first piece on the ballet Phil swore he’d take someone knowledgeable with him the next time he went. Well some you win and some you lose and he got me. Not a buff but not my first time; a lover of my own quite awful dancing, and I’d done a couple of reviews before. But would I describe myself as knowledgeable? Well no. But it was good enough for Phil and good enough for me, even though he ended up sitting behind a column and couldn’t see the stage. The faces of the lovely grannies sitting in the back row had fallen as this pair of lanky six footers approached the row in front. Small allowances had to be made. Phil strained to see and I crept down in my seat. Still I was excited to be there. I’d not seen The Nutcracker before and I couldn’t think of anything better to get myself into the festive spirit. But as the date approached I started to wonder if I’d be able to follow the show. Would I really enjoy it or did it just sound like something nice to do?

During the first half there was no disguising the fact that the lovely grannies knew something we didn’t. It could have been November the 5th with all the “oohs” and “aahs” coming from the back row. There was no denying that everything looked good but what in hells name were they on?  Christmas was in abundance there was no doubt. Act one began with a massive Christmas tree, children opening presents, excellent. Perfect costumes, perfectly discrete for ballet first-timers, perfectly lovely. But I still didn’t really get it, not like the lovely grannies – which was annoying.

Phil laughed when at some point during the second half I finally explained it to him. I told him excitedly that it was all about the dancing. He said: “Wow really? Did it take you until the second half to realise that? Had I been awake?” What I didn’t explain was it was also about everything coming together in a really beautiful way, the costumes, the lighting, the music, all combined with the amazingness of the dancing. Then it gets you. And there it was. Somewhere after the intermission an absolutely mesmerising scene. Masses of dry ice was blown across a blue lit stage disguising the tightly bound, perfectly pirouetting feet of the dancers as they floated across the stage. And that was the beauty of it. It sounds corny but it was magical.  Beautiful figures were floating across the stage right in front of our eyes.

Amazing but where does that leave me? Happy in the knowledge that I can now get excited with a row of lovely old ladies? Fantastic. Out-of-pocket because now that I’ve relived it I am going to have to see it again? Uncomfortable in the more ponderous position of agreeing with Phil’s friend?  Because can it really be just the one, yes just the one experience that can put us off something for ever or completely win us over for life? Are we that simple? Or simply too busy? Are we not more open minded? Or is the jury out?