Bruce Wall

This is especially shocking when one considers that it is not the first time it has happened. 'Once bitten' ... and all that.

That's grand. For my money the ENB Philharmonic is the best ballet orchestra in the country. Gavin Sutherland is, simply, a genius.

I thought 2014 a really very good year for ballet locally; one with many treats albeit not with the range of international balletic exposure that was bestowed on London the year previous. Prime among these were (i) the truly stunning revelation of Wheeldon's THE WINTER'S TALE by the Royal Ballet where this talented choreographer finally came into his narrative own I felt in what Mackrell referred to as 'a game changer'; (ii) everything about ENB's hauntingly beautiful LEST WE FORGET programme; (iii) both Muntagirov's and Hayward's debuts in MANON; (iv) Osipova in RUBIES (aside a shining McRae), GISELLE and - ultimately - A MONTH IN THE COUTRY; (v) the fine triple bill that Northern Ballet presented at the Lindbury; (vi) Stina Quagebeur's thrilling VERA for ENB's Choreographics incentive, that work being a fitting farewell from the Company for the hugely gifted (and much missed) Nancy Obaldeston and (although it was created the year previous I only caught up in 2014 with) (vii) Mark Bruce's incendiary DRACULA which I pray gains its rightful recognition on a world stage as a deserving ambassador for British cultural excellence and (viii) Brandstup's fixating blow by blow low down on maternal potency in his 2013 creation of a CEREMONY OF INNOCENCE such as was so vividly realised in Royal Ballet's THE AGE OF ANXIETY programme especially as on the occasion of Deirdre Chapman's mind blowing farewell performance; one so, so dramatically vivid and spare. In terms of visiting artists, (ix) it was wonderful that London finally (nine years after its creation) got to see Ratmansky's CONCERTO DSCH courtesy of the Mariinsky / Hochhausers (was that their farewell to presentation as well? ... If so HUGE thanks for so, so many memories over a number of decades) and (x) a very fine Valdimir Shklyarov impressing in a goodly range of roles within that Russian Company's summer remit.

Related only because it deals with THE NUTCRACKER ... Click here for a new and lengthy VANITY FAIR article about Balanchine's adventure with the same.

Yet another puff piece here.

As promised .... I had a double dose of 'American in Paris' this weekend being as I was, myself, in the City of Light. This was sandwiched between the enchanting Paris Opera Ballet School demonstrations and a performance of La Source. I am very glad that I saw it twice - as it helped to clarify my own personal take which was largely positive. The Sunday matinee was I think the better performance and I joined the largely French audience in their cheers and exultant stomping. On the Saturday evening Craig Lucas' book had somehow seemed much more lumpen than it did during the matinee but that may well have been my own exhaustion having just got off the Eurostar. The concept of a triangle of men in love with the same young French woman is certainly not the strongest nor is it the most novel. This is very much Wheeldon's show. It is almost entirely his extension to Balanchine's 'Who Cares'; here surrounded within Bob Crowley's dazzlingly spare sets/projections. That said - and what makes this production so thrilling and immediate - is that it is framed - almost entirely - through the eyes, ears and most especially the exhalation of the feel of one, Robbie Fairchild. Fairchild does not disappoint. Never. Not once. Not at all. This lad is a STAR - with a capital 's' and everything else you might care to toss into his mix. What self respecting woman of ANY age would not fall in love with his endearingly crooked smile and his immaculate sense of grace be it lodged in (i) his balletic jazz movement; (ii) his astute comic timing; (iii) his involving dramatic appeal - (even when the book might not be as creatively supportive as it might otherwise have been) and (iv) through the effortless ease of his welcome singing voice; a supported 'Matthew-Broderick-like' instrument which easily wafts over the French footlights. With each aspect Fairchild caresses. He is, I think, as close as we are going to come to an Astaire facsimile in the early 21st Century. Oh, forget that: He IS Robbie Fairchild. That'll be enough in ANYBODY's book. Both Gershiwn and Porter I suspect would glow at the way he delivers each of their songs - and resultant dances courtesy of Mr. Wheeldon - with a full and easy measure. Fairchild 'Freds' them, much as Porter once quipped. Leanne Cope as the girl in question was certainly demure and looks fetching in her new culled bob which sets off her gamine headlight-bulb-like eyeballs in whichever direction she may choose to shine them. (How refreshing it is to see her in a dramatic role where she is not being murdered, raped or sold into prostitution.) Her character - an orphaned French dancer who's long made a living as a sales assistant - is largely - as it happens - defined by others. To wit: it is through others' reflections that her character comes alive. She is a matter of others' reflection. [in this regard Brandon Uranowitz has a sweet vibrato as a frustrated Gershwin stand-in embittered by his own war time travails; Max Von Esson as Henri Baurel - the husband-would-be who ultimately loses - is possessed of the evening's strongest male voice; Jil Paice is the proverbial rich bitch (a nasty American of course) with a svelte line in caustic vigor and the theatrical veteran that is Veanne Cox exalts in the most challenging dramatic assignment of the evening [that of a French matriarch with a war-time conscious] negotiating any and all mine fields left open to her with apt aplomb.) For fairly obvious reasons given her employment with her native Royal Ballet, Cope as Lise Dassin is most impressive in the balletic segments; especially the fine final telling Wheeldon piece seemingly created for her character within the so-called 'Ballet Chatelet'. It is a jubilant circus of an affair during which her romantic zeal for our hero - [which is - it must be said - never really in doubt this being a musical comedy] - takes more than imagined centre stage. As Jerry Mulligan, Robbie (forgive my familiary but he just seems such a nice guy as to invite one and all to call him by his christian name) would make ANY woman look divine in ANY position. Still, in that final - and apt - Wheeldon pas - replete with its very difficult partnering - [which - much as everywhere else in AN AMERICAN IN PARIS - Fairchild makes look simple} - Cope glows on behalf of us all in his caring hands. In her character's regard Fairchild practically peculates - even whilst being oh, so memorably shoved into the Seine. The tension of their romantic partnership buoys as it should but oh, so easily might not have done in other hands. Cope's singing voice it is true is not the strongest - but it is certainly amiable enough for the one and half songs she is asked to sing. Moreover, she does sincerely try to act the songs and even goes so far as to maintain her French accent in every lyric. It's only that the one full solo assigned to her is SO famous: 'The Man I Love' - (and, yes, it's hard for any NYCB lover - [and I know that's a foreign climb here] - NOT to think of Balanchine's choreography in that and - even more - in 'Embraceable You' and 'Fidgety Feet'... and, of course, with Mr Fairchild - the natural successor to Robbie La Fosse in that role - at its pulsating heart). Ms. Cope was slightly under pitch in her solo head voice on Saturday night but was happily back on measure - albeit with some 'snap, crackle pop' sound difficulty emanating from her sound equipment - for the Sunday matinee. At the curtain calls Cope curtsies with the unassuming propriety given to a Royal Ballet artist next to Mr. Fairchild's 'aw, shucks - I'm really here - and you like me' come hither Salt-Lake-City-born grin bow. The latter is as convincing as any winning lottery number. Both audiences I sat aside roared and stamped their appeal. What they will do when they need to come to replace Fairchild - (and I suspect it will come to that in NY - NYCB should not be left waiting too long) - heaven only knows. Someone needs to create an original show for this lad's extra-ordinary talents ... and soon. 'Who Cares?' The world will ... and rightfully so. . Bless you, Robbie; Bless you Mr. Wheeldon. You done us - indeed ALL - proud.

I have feelings somewhat along your direction, 'amum/Cathy'. I have, myself, enjoyed the humour, the commercial sheen and certainly the design that AMP so happily envelopes but for me - and I realise this is a matter of personal taste - the choreographer's pallet (and here I mean Bourne's) can be sadly limited at times. Indeed, I oft find his dance itself needlessly repetitive and at a remove. I say this most notably with Mark Bruce's oh, so rich canvas of a Dracula - (comparable as they are all pieces of 'dance theatre' per se) - so vividly in my mind. How I would like to see Bruce as celebrated on an international scale as Bourne. I pray it will come. The one piece of Bourne's where I did find the heart actually embraced through the steps was in his take on Cinderella. Might that have been because it was mounted with two key dancers who had then just departed from the Royal Ballet at its creative core? I could, of course, not say. As with most of these things, we will probably never know. Sadly I left it too late to get into The Lord of the Flies. I have a feeling that the community outreach in that event might well have held a similar stretch in terms of Bourne's overall creative choreographic diversity. Certainly I applauded the idea of that particular gamble.

Another 'star danced'

I had the same problem on the ENO website once before. I have no idea why. Their system seems erratic.

Thanks Buddy. Only been able to access the second clip ... but it is just so refreshing to see that Fairchild/Wheeldon are clearly being 'their own men' and not trying to imitate Kelly .... Quite right too. That would, I think, be seemingly impossible. Robbie Fairchild appears to be a totally relaxed Broadway hoofer .... an astute comedic force and he sounds oh, so much like Matthew Broderick did in The Producers and How to Succeed. Even better it appears from the clip in the latter category. I SO look forward to this. I pray when it goes to Broadway ... to the Palace ... in March ... that they will let Robbie Fairchild have some nights off to dazzle as he has for so many NYCB seasons now in everything from Wheeldon's Carousel Suite to Balanchine's blazing Brahms Schoenberg and ... yes ... another Gershwin thrill, Who Cares. That he is a star has been undoubted by all who have had the privilege to follow his extraordinary career. Would that there might have been more opportunity to do so in London. Of course I can't wait to see Ms. Cope as well .... It's only she wasn't heavily featured on in that particular - and fairly lengthy ... extract.

On musical choices ... a video here. Endearing to see Robbie Fairchild take a 'selfie' of himself and Leanne Cope. Their excitement is, indeed, infectious. So looking forward to seeing this during the weekend. Here the company reflects after their first preview. It seems they felt it went well.

Ooops ... That first link should be this.

Promos here .... Segment around Serenade here. It is called: Curtain Up: If there were a story. There are four Balanchine works to be highlighted. It looks to me from the clip that Serenade, Western Symphony, Balanchine's extraordinary Coppelia and his one act Swan Lake are to be explored. (Have the latter two ever been seen here? I am uncertain.)

I thought Mark Bruce's DRACULA a STUNNING affair. It was entirely insightful. This Dracula will surely, as it so richly deserves, help place the UK's dance scene on - at least in this instance - a wholly deserved pinnacal. It has been - with the exception of Wheeldon's brilliant coming to maturity in THE WINTER'S TALE for the Royal Ballet - a long time since I experienced a dance narrative SO respectfully wrought in terms of its source material; so potently varied in terms of the humane embodiment of its own period's cultural references and foibles. The two music hall references inserted into Mark Bruce's scintillating script weren't in any way twee. Not at all. They were as seriously defining as the intriguing transformation of the hounds into the horses drawn in front of the 'vampirical' coach amazed and beguiled. One's admiration only ever balloned upwards. Every element was here skillfully tendered. The literacy employed throughout (musically, choreographically, scenically, etc.,) was supreme. Everything lay in the intoxicating complexity of its detail. Bruce's frequent sense of stillness injected an additional chill. So much so indeed that the audience became entirely relaxed in their involvement from the very get go. Instantly we were transformed - nay, transfixed - as was the stellar Jonathan Goddard and all involved The precision was clockwork. We, the audience, become the first and last character at the heart each vivid dance study in this seriously wrought slice of drama. Its blood was was ours as well. The effect was cumulative. It had been our privilege. This was far, far better than anything merely labelled 'good'; Mark Bruce's work is viscerally brave. I SO loved the ending. It vividly held a mirror up to the fragility of our own natures without unduly calling attention to itself. We too have been - and will continue to be - smitten. We too must inevitably roll into our own dark. Leaving the Arts Depot I'd only one thought in mind: When can I see this again? I can think of no higher compliment that. [it was a treat to run into BcoF's Alison and together we sat during the interval with the show's publicist who noted that - having toured twice -Mark Bruce's Dracula would not tour again in the UK. ] There is no question but that this DRACULA deserves to be seen internationally and in deservingly unique spaces (as is outlined as part of the Company's remit). I personally felt the stealth of this extraordinary narrative would have been a wonderful addition to our own dear National Theatre. It could/should hold its head as high as the best of the output therein. Certainly this DRACULA deserves to be seen in the chief dance capitals of our world; Paris and New York. In Manhattan I would love to see it play in front of the subscription audiences (always at a capacity; sold out even before their original box offices open) of NYTW or the CSC. It would glimmer in much rightful admiration. Of that I'm confident. Mark Bruce's Dracula is - in an of itself - an extraordinary cultural ambassador.

The Royal Ballet; a basket of roses and me: an association “Patrick made me strong,” her letter read. I have only given money in lieu of flowers three times. I have never paid for a bouquet nor taken such to any stage door. I’m the kind of person who if I felt THAT driven I would want to say ‘thank you’ in person. Usually I just join in that celebration of the performance – that mesh of historical moments – that we all have shared through applause. 'Bravo/a/i' I might be heard to call out when warranted. To me that is sufficiently special. I have, however, given money in lieu of flowers three times to charities that had been noted as being personally meaningful to three extraordinary ballet artists, females all. One was to a drug rehab unit. The other two were hospices. There was no question but that each marked a memory; each was dedicated to the end of a particular road. One was in honour of Kirkland on the announcement of the untimely death of her friend, the dancer, Patrick Bissell. Another was for Gregory who I knew had been devastated by the news of the suicide of Joseph Duell. Danny and Joey Duell were dancers with the NYCB. They were brothers. Danny was a principal. On learning that he was AIDS positive Joey went back to his apartment and took one final leap off his balcony. He was 29. It was the 80’s. It was NYC. It was devastating. But to my story. I must have had 50 friends die (largely horrific) deaths from AIDS while I was living there. This particular tale involves a close friend, Joel. Joel Thompson was his name. Decades later I still miss him. For me he was one of God’s angels on earth. I could talk to Joel about anything. He was a chorister at the Met. I worked there as well. It was a Saturday and I had to oversee a performance. I remember it was Wozzeck. It was a broadcast matinee. I was running out of the broadcast booth back to the director’s one and I passed a singer who I knew was also a friend of Joel’s. ‘Have you seen, Joel?’ I asked as I dashed. ‘I’m going after this,’ David said. I turned, now rushing backwards. ‘If you give me three quarters of an hour after this,’ I said, ‘I’ll go with you.’ He smiled and put his thumb up. True to his word when I came out into the security area at the Met’s stage door, there David was. We made our way to St. Vincent’s Hospital. We went to the desk for passes for the intensive care unit where Joel then was. There was a pause. ‘You need to go to Admitting,’ she said. That didn’t strike me as strange as Joel had told me they were going to let him out that weekend. Maybe he had left … or maybe he was just preparing to leave. We got to Admitting. ‘There are three Joel Thompsons,’ the receptionist said. The woman showed me a list on her computer screen. (In those days it was but a simple green on black; no other colour). ‘Give me a minute’ she said smiling as she disappeared into a back room. David and I sat down. We waited for what seemed an age. We were laughing, I remember. We were trading tales about Joel. (Joel had - and was - a great laugh.) Suddenly the receptionist reappeared. She seemed disturbed. ‘Your friend,’ she said with some difficulty …’Your friend died half an hour ago.’ David and I stood frozen. Joel was 26. It was if a gun had gone off. After a pause she said: ‘Do you want to go up? He’s still there.’ I looked at David in silence. We looked back at her nodding ‘yes’. We went up to the unit. Nothing was said. There was noise around us but somehow I didn’t hear it. I recognised some of the nurses on the unit because they had been there when I had visited Joel on other occasions. We were ushered into his room. He was at peace. David and I just stared. A nurse came in and asked if we were alright. I nodded ‘yes’. ‘Did his parents know?’ I asked. ‘They were called last night,’ she said. There was another pause. Joel’s parents lived in Pennsylvania. That’s not a world away from NYC. I looked back at her. ‘They didn’t come,’ she said. She pursed her lips, turned her head away and quickly left. There was a single envelope on the bedside table. It was open. There was a letter sitting in it. Maybe they had written I thought. I picked it up and took the remainder of the contents out. I looked at the back of its second page. It was from Joel’s sister. I turned it over and read the first line. ‘Dear Joel,’ it read, ‘Now is the time to repent.’ I couldn’t read any more. That’s when tears – (silent I fear – I am British after all) - flowed from my eyes. I couldn't help it. I handed the letter to David. ‘His sister,’ I mumbled. David looked at it. He must have read what I did. He tore the letter up and threw it on the floor. “For Joel,” he said. ‘For Joel,’ I whispered back nodding. There was a store then in Greenwich Village. There were so many (largely young) men dying of AIDS at that time that they had to have somewhere to get rid of their goods. Apartments usually had to be cleared in a day or two. Time waits for no man after all. Better the cause than a skip. I agree. The people who staffed the unit usually also volunteered to go and clean out the flats of the dead. That was one volunteer effort I could just never bring myself to subscribe to somehow. I did however make a point of going into the shop at least once every every week and trying to buy something to support the cause. As the death rate became ever increasing the prices became more and more absurd. I remember staff members at the Met laughing. Suddenly I – who always used to wear more or less the same thing – became a fashion plate. All the clothes, of course, had come from that stock. I remember once buying a tailored Cardin suit with documentation that it was an original for $20.00. (When I sold my flat in NYC in 2001 I took it and gave it to the costume collection at the Metropolitan Museum. I had only worn it a handful of times. They in turn handed me a tax credit for thousands of dollars. I laughed and returned it saying it wasn’t mine to have in the first place.) Sometimes I would go into the store more than once a week. Usually this was when one of my friends died. I wanted something of theirs to hold onto. When Joel died I knew that his flat – in which I had spent many a happy hour – would be cleared. I went into that store every day that week – taking time off work to do so. (Not that I ever said precisely why.) It was Wednesday morning I remember. Suddenly I saw things that were Joel’s. I bought a goodly number. I know it sounds absurd but that’s what people did then. I bought the sweater Joel was wearing when he first told me he had AIDS. I still have it. I’ve never worn it. It’s Joel’s. We had gone to that cheap chicken restaurant – a chain whose name I cannot now remember – on West 72nd Street. I liked the sauce. Joel liked the cornbread. It was difficult for him then. He hadn’t actually told anyone else at that point. I left the shop with my treasures and went less than one block. I felt ill. I went into one of those alcoves that introduce those chic gated mews terraces you find in the Village. I tossed my bag to one side and knelt down at the bottom of a crevice and wretched into it. Violently. ‘Are you OK?’ he said. I looked up and there was this square jawed young man – beautifully attired – like out of a film - looking down at me. I remember he spoke with a sense of Massachusetts regality. I nodded ‘yes’. He knelt down and put his arm around me. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ll be OK. I know.’ I smiled meekly back at him, again nodding. He handed me his business card. He was a vice president at Merrill Lynch when that was still an honour. ‘If you want to talk, call me,’ he said. Me being British, I didn’t. I would never go back into that shop. I couldn’t. It’s not there any more. The world has moved on. There are protease inhibitors. It – and we – are simply a product of our time. I now, once again, more or less daily wear the same thing. I once remember my late mother looking askance at me and – shaking her head – saying: ‘You have to be rich to do that’. But my story … my title … my association: That day in the 80s when I bought those mementos of Joel’s there was in the window of that shop quite the largest basket of roses I had EVER seen. They had obviously been brought from a memorial service. (It had to be memorial service – rather than a funeral - for in those days young men had to be burnt without ceremony as soon as possible after their deaths.) The flowers were obviously there to be now sold to support the cause. The basket I vividly recall was white. It was ENORMOUS. It took up the full centre of the shop’s front window. The roses were of the deepest red. It seemed to as if they would cover a cricket pitch. I remember while waiting for the store to open I was trying to count them. Indeed, there were several of us waiting. We were all trying to make a competition out of it. No one won. Beside that arrangement of fat stems was a picture of a handsome – lithe - young man. It was obviously the headshot of a young actor. Below it the words ‘My Son’ were proudly inscribed in black ink. I only wish there could have been something like that for Joel. Heaven knows he deserved it. Now you mush flash forward decades and thousands of miles. It is now 21st Century London. We are inside the Royal Opera House and I am standing at T43 – a number now forever emblazoned in my memory – in the Amphi standing room. It’s the end of a very fine performance and suddenly the curtain rises on a VAST white basket of red roses. How lovely I thought to myself … and then my stomach – with a mind to itself – began to churn. VIOLENTLY. It was, I guess, sense memory. I dashed up that small flight of darkly wooden stairs, out the door and down several carpeted others. I could still hear people cheering as I ran into the gents and incarcerated myself in the panelled toilet. Again I wretched. VOILENTLY. I came out of the toilet and washed my hands. A man came into the loo. I smiled. I was still ‘being British’. He went to the urinal. I left. I wasn’t worried. I knew all too well why I had been so suddenly ill. It was but a reflex from long ago. It had been actioned through that basket of flowers presented on the RB stage. Still, it was Joel I thought of as I left the Opera House that evening; not the performance. Somewhere in my mind those roses had been for him. Ironically perhaps, that made me feel better. “Patrick made me strong,” Kirkland’s handwritten letter to me still reads. I know what you mean, Gelsey. Joel did the same for me.

if it's not broken why .... (not) break it? LOL

I have written on another BcoF board about my experience - while working it must be confessed for the Metropolitan Opera - of several leading ballerinas (among them Makarova, Gregory and Kirkland) who requested that the money that people would spend on flowers on their behalf be presented to specific charities (in America called 'non-profit organisations') that they, themselves, supported with in turn a credit on that donation in their behalf and a note from the artists themselves to the gift maker. This may well have arisen out of Balanchine's determination with New York City Ballet that flowers ONLY be presented on a dancer's retirement (much as they might be in the so-called 'real' world.) I am well aware that these traditions were fostered in the US and that the culture is very different to that in the UK. (There have been some remarks here of rather recent late which have made that division very clear.) I wonder am I alone in feeling that the bouquets being now presented at the Royal Ballet seem to be sometimes more numerous in number and oft times more elaborate than in the past? I can of course - in a way - understand the reason for this. So many of the current UK's fervent balletic supporters have come to their cultural maturity in the 80s; that period where the very idea of 'greed' itself seemed so often to be prioritised - as far as I could see at least - as a mark of achievement. I only now wish - after the banking crisis - and a substantive period where the folly of those earlier unfortunate practices have become highlighted - that the largest cultural institution in this country (i.e., the ROH) might find a more substantive key to twist - nay, to hold as a mirror up to our current natures as t'were - as a reflection for its concern/commitment in favour of the society at large (e.g., ours) that is - at least still in some significant part - investors in its own creative pursuit. I have a feeling - or is it just a hope? - that many of the leading artists in the Royal Ballet and other significant companies might well be supportive of such endeavours. (Yes, perhaps it is but an ill founded folly on my part. Please know there have been others.) Certainly some of the key RB artists have done SO much good in specific support of key outreach incentives close to their hearts. It would be wonderful I think if for a month all monies given in lieu of flowers might go toward to, say, the Anne McGuire fund or some such. I know it would ... well, could over time ... make a significant difference much as those practices at the turn of the dance boom did. It allowed both the artist and their audience to share in that pride. Still, perhaps it is just me and the leftovers from my 'American' period. (This may well just be a personal reflection. Although I started working in this country when I was nine - and continue to do so - and next year I will turn 60, I will not get a British state pension because I took 20 years out to get a PhD and to much work in a foreign climb. The irony - of perhaps ALL ironies - is that I will get an American state pension - for even more money and available to me anywhere in the world - for that much shorter period of employment. In respect of such, I, myself, have made a personal commitment to see that a substantive amount of that gift goes to a fund supporting American performing artists in need. I am I promise deeply grateful.) I don't want to upset anyone by this verbiage. It's just a suggestion. The traditions I mention above I saw framed long ago and far away. The world, of course, it does move on. That is, I know, .... well, am told .... a good thing. I still - somehow - manage to keep faith.

The above video clip but in English .... pull through to about 3.20 .... here

Another opening of another show .... replete with a small video clip here. L. Cope reputedly tweeted that she 'was having the time of her life'. So looking forward to seeing this (sandwiched between the POB school presentation and a performance of POB's La Source both at the Palais Garnier.). That's my idea of an ideal Sunday in Paris. Rain certainly won't make any difference to my parade on 7th December.

There are two AiP video clips embedded in this article in French here ... The video clips have some of the same footage ... but they are substantially different in places .... and, yes, are en Francais. Enjoy ... L. Cope looks divine ...

Joan I have sometimes sat with a critic friend who is in a wheelchair at the back of the stalls on the sides at the Peacock ... and I've never had any trouble seeing .... You get a full stage view (close ups with field glasses in my case - opera glasses for the poor I call them) and benefit from a slight rake which lower down in the stalls is much less noticeable ... especially if you have a tall head standing in front of you. I think you'd be AOK with the £18 side specials. (Plus if it is not full ... which it often hasn't been in my experience ... you can seek a better alternative at the interval.) Just my take, Joan. Take it as you will. Cheers, Bruce

See you there, Alison. SO looking forward to it. Cheers, Bruce

There is an interview with ENB principal, Bridgett Zehr here. In it she notes that she has been seriously ill for some time but has now recovered. It appears she recently danced in a gala in Pisa.

The broadcast of the Bolshoi's Nutcracker is to star Anna Nikulina, Denis Rodkin and Andrei Merkuriev. http://bolshoi.ru/en...#20141221180000

Just wondered if this was the best forum for this item ..... Might it not get the most response from the 'doing dance' category? I may, of course, be very wrong. (Indeed, I frequently am.)