Sometimes the revival of an old work can make it, and us, feel revitalised: if it speaks to the present, for example, or refreshes our sensibilities, or just because its artfulness endures. Other times it stays in the past, like a historical curiosity, a museum piece, even a relic. Glen Tetley’s 1962 Pierrot Lunaire, a pivot point in dance history, is an odd conjunction of these disparate aspects.
Drawing from commedia dell’arte iconography, it tells the stylised story of moonstruck innocent Pierrot (Marcelino Sambé), the awakening of his desire through an encounter with many-faced Columbine (Mayara Magri), and the intervention of the dominant, manipulative Brighella (Matthew Ball). The set is sparse – just a scaffold, centre stage – and the dance style is a bold, efficient alloy of the long, lean lines of classical ballet with the gravitational pull, tensed angles and visceral gesticulations of Martha Graham.
Glimpses of the moon abound – in the many fleeting crescent shapes, in Pierrot’s upward tugs as if catching moonbeams. The choreography is clear, finely wrought, and purposeful: witness Pierrot and Columbine’s highly constructed duet in which they keep looking outwards, upwards, around, but not at each other. All three dancers, inscrutable in face makeup, embody their roles superbly, inhabiting the mood set by Schoenberg’s composed yet highly strung score, all atonal anxiety and sliding hysteria.
Which brings us to the somewhat hysterical and certainly antiquated Freudian iconography that drives the drama. There’s a key moment when (there’s no way to put this nicely) Pierrot parps Columbine’s boobs, and she slaps him and flounces off. It gradually becomes clear that Pierrot is Boy, shamed and punished for his burgeoning desires; Columbine is Woman, variously living doll, bow-wrapped bride and scarlet harlot; and Brighella is Man/Daddy, big and bad, and poking his wooden sword from between his legs. The combination of retrogressive crudeness and sadistic tone with high style, refined design and powerful performance is indeed strange – and creepy.
• At Linbury theatre, Royal Opera House, London, until 20 February
