A ripple of contentment like a happy sigh runs through his whole body as her smile finds his, in front of anyone and everyone who has eyes to watch. (And in fact there are a handful of humans who glance at them and can’t help smiling at the way they complement the poster—dark and light, leaning to entwine rather than struggling against one another.)
“Probably a good idea,” he replies, though already he’s had a better one: how to get back at her during the interval. Twenty minutes should be long enough for what he’s got in mind. “I love you too.”
*
They find their seats easily enough, get comfortable together and spend a few minutes chatting about the current season at the National Theatre before the lights dim. Merope Stanton takes the stage first, to give a short speech: She thanks her audience for their support, in all its forms, and the company as well, for their faith in this new production. With the embarrassed ease of someone telling a by-now infamous story about themselves, she relates how the inspiration for this Swan Lake came from a recurring dream she had, about two bird queens who fell in love—the perfect twist on a classic, for a dance company that aims to bring queer love stories and ballet together, to show happy endings for those who don’t traditionally get them.
She also apologizes for any technical mishaps they might have this evening, but reassures everyone that the final tech rehearsal should have eliminated all the pre-opening problems*.
There’s an enthusiastic round of applause as she thanks the crowd one last time before jogging offstage. Then the lights dim further, the recorded score kicks in, and Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s hand gently in the dark.
Instead of the triumphal entrance of a prince and a hunting party, the performance opens at the Court of the Ravens, with the triumphal entrance of their queen, Odile. The costumes are stylized, the sets mostly projected onto panels along the back of the stage and accentuated with a few props. And none of the dancers are on pointe—in fact they don’t look much like a traditional dance company at all, with the variety of body types on display, very few of them the standard stick-thin and short. For instance, Von Rothbart is six foot three, muscular, bearded, and has the show’s only pointe solos.
And it’s their story. A few deviations, yes, but the bones are all the same.
The first act ends with Odile and Odette being interrupted by the sorcerer; what had been a tender pas de deux becomes a nearly-acrobatic pas de trois as Von Rothbart issues his challenges and tries to keep the lovers apart. The mountain of fire and the depths of the lake glow ominously into life at either side of the stage, presenting the two queens with their challenge as the curtain falls.
The applause would be enthusiastic even if there weren’t two supernatural beings in the audience. A wonderful sign, Aziraphale thinks, and turns his beaming smile on Crowley as the lights come up.
“What do you think so far?”
* It didn’t. The angel in the audience, however, did.
btw unless she has other plans he’s going to talk her off at intermission.
“Probably a good idea,” he replies, though already he’s had a better one: how to get back at her during the interval. Twenty minutes should be long enough for what he’s got in mind. “I love you too.”
*
They find their seats easily enough, get comfortable together and spend a few minutes chatting about the current season at the National Theatre before the lights dim. Merope Stanton takes the stage first, to give a short speech: She thanks her audience for their support, in all its forms, and the company as well, for their faith in this new production. With the embarrassed ease of someone telling a by-now infamous story about themselves, she relates how the inspiration for this Swan Lake came from a recurring dream she had, about two bird queens who fell in love—the perfect twist on a classic, for a dance company that aims to bring queer love stories and ballet together, to show happy endings for those who don’t traditionally get them.
She also apologizes for any technical mishaps they might have this evening, but reassures everyone that the final tech rehearsal should have eliminated all the pre-opening problems*.
There’s an enthusiastic round of applause as she thanks the crowd one last time before jogging offstage. Then the lights dim further, the recorded score kicks in, and Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s hand gently in the dark.
Instead of the triumphal entrance of a prince and a hunting party, the performance opens at the Court of the Ravens, with the triumphal entrance of their queen, Odile. The costumes are stylized, the sets mostly projected onto panels along the back of the stage and accentuated with a few props. And none of the dancers are on pointe—in fact they don’t look much like a traditional dance company at all, with the variety of body types on display, very few of them the standard stick-thin and short. For instance, Von Rothbart is six foot three, muscular, bearded, and has the show’s only pointe solos.
And it’s their story. A few deviations, yes, but the bones are all the same.
The first act ends with Odile and Odette being interrupted by the sorcerer; what had been a tender pas de deux becomes a nearly-acrobatic pas de trois as Von Rothbart issues his challenges and tries to keep the lovers apart. The mountain of fire and the depths of the lake glow ominously into life at either side of the stage, presenting the two queens with their challenge as the curtain falls.
The applause would be enthusiastic even if there weren’t two supernatural beings in the audience. A wonderful sign, Aziraphale thinks, and turns his beaming smile on Crowley as the lights come up.
“What do you think so far?”
* It didn’t. The angel in the audience, however, did.