Still Nuts About The Nutcracker: Celebrating 25 Years of a Holiday Tradition at the National Ballet of Canada

Heather Ogden and Christopher Gerty in The Nutcracker. (Photo: Karolina Kuras. Courtesy of The National Ballet of Canada)

As the curtain rose on the 25th anniversary of James Kudelka’s Nutcracker at the Four Seasons Centre, you couldn’t help but feel a frisson of excitement. This wasn’t just another night at the ballet; it was a celebration of a production that has become as much a part of the holiday season as last-minute shopping and the towering Christmas tree illuminating Nathan Phillips Square.

A Lesser Lear, and a Greater

Kenneth Branagh in King Lear. (Photo: Johan Persson)

You can see the problem with the imported two-hour-without-intermission King Lear, co-directed by Kenneth Branagh, Rob Ashford and Lucy Skilbeck, in the opening scene. Lear (played by Branagh) sweeps onto the stage of The Shed and dives into the love contest among his three daughters. Goneril (Deborah Alli) recites her stock speech declaring her bottomless love for her father, but when the invisible baton is passed to Regan (Saffron Coomber), her outpouring of affection has been cut so drastically that all she seems to be saying is “Ditto.” So when Cordelia (Jessica Revell) refuses to “heave [her] heart into [her] mouth” and Lear’s response is to divide her intended portion of his land between her elder sisters, you wonder why he’s more put out than he was by Regan’s spare offering. In fact, the king seems angrier at Kent (played, bafflingly, as a woman, by Eleanor de Rohan) than anyone else. The scene has no weight; it feels like a plot set-up.

Silent Heartbreak at the National Ballet Of Canada

Harrison James and Svetlana Lunkina with Artists of the Ballet in Giselle. (Photo:Aleksandar Antonijevic)

Giselle is more than just a ballet; it explores themes of love, betrayal, and redemption that have enchanted audiences for nearly two centuries. Originally choreographed by Jean Coralli and Jules Perrot in 1841, this latest production of Sir Peter Wright’s acclaimed interpretation by the National Ballet of Canada, performed at Toronto’s Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts on November 20, brought this classic tale to life with remarkable artistry.

Liquid Moonlight: The National Ballet of Canada’s 2024 Winter Season

Christopher Gerty and Hannah Galway in Silent Screen. (Photo: Bruce Zinger)

Last Saturday night, the National Ballet of Canada launched its winter season at Toronto’s Four Seasons Centre with a triple bill featuring works new to the company. Running until November 16, the two-hour program included Sol León and Paul Lightfoot’s evocative Silent Screen, Frederick Ashton’s sparkling Rhapsody, and Guillaume Côté’s introspective Body of Work, a solo piece expressing his personal connection to dance as he prepared to retire at the end of the 2024/25 season.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde: Five for One and One for All

Nathan Darrow in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. (Photo: T. Charles Erickson)

The Scotsman Robert Louis Stevenson wrote two of the most enchanting children’s adventure novels, Treasure Island and Kidnapped, as well as the ineffable A Child’s Garden of Verses, a collection of sixty-four poems for the young. But his most celebrated literary work is most emphatically not for kids. His 1886 novella Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, in which a scientist obsessed with the human capacity for holding both good and evil within one personality devises a potion to isolate the two impulses and ends up turning himself into a monster – evil unchecked by restraint – shares with Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray, written half a decade later, the distinction of being the quintessential portrait of the repressed Victorian Age. Jekyll and Hyde is, like Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, a work of conceptual genius framed as a great horror story. And like Frankenstein it’s continued to excite the cultural imagination without interruption since its publication. It’s been filmed repeatedly, notably on three occasions: as a silent picture with John Barrymore in 1920; by Rouben Mamoulian in 1931 with a famous Oscar-winning performance by Fredric March; and in 1941 under Victor Fleming’s direction with Spencer Tracy in his most surprising – and possibly his finest – performance. (The Fleming version is the real gem; it’s one of the best literary adaptations in Hollywood history.) Stevenson’s narrative has generated countless replicas and parodies, the most delightful of which is surely Motor Mania (1950), the Disney cartoon in which Goofy plays the placid pedestrian Mr. Walker and his demonic alter ego Mr. Wheeler, whom Walker morphs into as soon as he gets behind the wheel. At this juncture, sad to say, probably most people know the Stevenson story through the wretched Frank Wildhorn-Leslie Bricusse-Steve Cuden musical.

Cries in the Night: Children of Film Noir – Nocturnarama, A Noir Childhood

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‎BearManor Media (June 2023).

“Nailing down a coffin lid is far easier than nailing down a universally agreed upon definition of the term film noir.”  – Robert Strom

Every so often a book comes along that somehow manages to evoke our childhood and our love of films at the same time. Robert Strom’s Cries in the Night: Children in Film Noir is just such a book.

I grew up in a place I used to call Shadowland, a quiet suburb of Toronto known officially as Don Mills (the first formally designed suburb in North America) where there wasn’t much to do but listen to music and watch movies. Luckily I was also a kid in the 1960’s, a time when the best of both of those pursuits was available to us in abundance. When I was about ten years old my life was changed forever by a secret practice I used to engage in when the rest of my relatively normal suburban family was fast asleep at night. Back in those days, after midnight the public broadcasting system in Canada used to transmit overnight classic movies across the airwaves and into our homes, and I would quietly go out into our dark living room, turn on the television and start watching old films long into the wee wee hours. That was my initial and probably too young exposure to dark movies I would never have been allowed to watch in theatres or during the daylight.

Past Lives: Lives Unlived, Lives Unremembered

Teo Yoo, Greta Lee and John Magaro in Past Lives.

One of the most familiar tropes in sci-fi and fantasy narratives – especially recently – is the existence of multiple existences in different dimensions that echo each other but don’t replicate them. (That is, of course, the premise of the delectable animated Spider-Verse franchise.) In Past Lives, the debut film by Celine Song, those echoes are meant to suggest lives the characters have already led but don’t remember; layered on each other through time, they create a ghostly pyramid that leads us toward the coupling fate intended for us. After Maestro and the Japanese filmmaker Hirokazu Kore-eda’s Monster, Past Lives was my favorite movie last year. It’s not like anything else I’ve ever seen. Song was born in South Korea but her family emigrated to Canada when she was still a little girl, and as an adult she emigrated again, this time to New York, where she is a playwright and now a screenwriter and director. Past Lives is based on her own story, and the idea for it came out of an extraordinary moment when she sat in a Manhattan bar flanked by her white American husband and her Korean childhood sweetheart.