The Nutcracker

Yesterday I went to the ballet.

Knowing that we’d talked about going for a while, The Girl’s parents bought us tickets for Christmas. My curiosity in ballet has been growing over a number of years; firstly, because one of my favourite films is Billy Elliot- admittedly, this is much to do with my interest in Thatcher’s Britain as it in Billy's transformation. Secondly, as a child, The Girl was a fine ballet dancer appearing in a number of amateur productions; therefore going to the ballet would be a window into her youth. (If The Girl should ever want to experience my youth, she need only visit a municipal field and occupy a bench for ninety minutes.) Thirdly, I’m slightly more interested in dance now than I used to be. The Girl’s friend is currently in 42^nd Street- which is Lionel Messi footwork put to showtunes- and Strictly is so ubiquitous in our household that I would have to go paintballing with Byker Grove to be excused from it.

The Nutcracker seemed like a good place to start for a first-timer like me, because it’s the most famous one and based on a children’s story. Also, the chance to see it at the Royal Albert Hall was something of a boon. I mean you don’t really want to watch something as dainty, as delicate, as ballet in a multi-storey car park; you want to witness it in a grand, palatial setting. So this is why we find ourselves on the red-royal chairs of London’s hallowed venue.

I had read the synopsis of the first act of the ballet because I know I’m susceptible to a daydream. Therefore, I was clear about what was happening at the beginning. Clara and her family are having guests over on Christmas Eve, where her uncle then gives her and other children a present each. These toys aren’t typical though: they’re more like automatons, mechanical devices that can spring to life. The kids bloody love these toys, but they’re put away for safekeeping. Worry not though, Clara, because here’s a nutcracker to keep you occupied, says her uncle in the form of dance. Today’s children would deliver a nutcracker to the groin if any adult dared offer them such a gift, but this being the 19^th century she's admires the craftsmanship that’s gone into the object. Her brother Fritz though sees her joy and tramples all over it, breaking the nutcracker in the process. Later, in way of succour, Clara is carried away into a fairy kingdom where the subjects treat her to a quasi-jubilee, rolling out the red carpet and having sweets perform dances for her. (Just as Krampus entered our movie market a few years ago, showcasing a dark version of Christmas where naughty children are punished for naughtiness; I think there should be a sequel to The Nutcracker where Fritz is taken to the underworld and serenaded by Bounty bars, strawberry creams and other unholy confectionary. Subjected to awful sweeties, he would think twice about eviscerating his sister's future presents.)

Imagine giving this gift to a child now.

In all honesty I only understood the story from talking to The Girl afterwards. I didn’t realise at the time that the Spanish dancers were meant to represent chocolate; the Chinese tea and the Russians candy cane. In fairness, it didn’t really matter that I wasn’t sure what was going on; because to put it plainly I was so beguiled by what I saw- that for once- I didn’t really care about the narrative. Normally, I’m terrible if I don’t get something – this is probably why I don’t appreciate modern art, David Lynch or Rugby Union; but here it really didn’t matter. In all my life, I don’t think I’d ever seen anything as perfect as the ballet. Watching these super-talented humans transform into glorious spinning tops is a thing of wonder. Witnessing the springboard skill of dancers turn trampolines out of their bodies is something else. Seeing music box ballerinas in the flesh is an incredible privilege. Ultimately, narrative comes second to artistry.

Why do rugby players do this?

And I haven’t even mentioned the music? Normally, orchestras are treated with contempt. They're thrown in the ‘pit’ and told not to move until the performance is over. Here though, they were in full-sight, above the stage, earning the coverage they deserved. Hearing Tchaikovsky’s compositions in such an esteem setting is a Christmas memory no one can ever take away – not even that over-indulged, cruel-headed Fritz.  I hope Clara cracks his nut next Christmas.

The Nutcracker is at Royal Albert Hall until 31st December.