Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow: PNB's 'Roméo et Juliette' Round Two
- Louise Greer
- Apr 25
- 11 min read
Updated: 21 hours ago
“I dreamt a dream tonight.”
-William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
Something rather magical happened at each and every performance of Pacific Northwest Ballet’s Roméo et Juliette as the curtain fell on the balcony pas de deux: the applause refused to end. Lights often snap an audience out of their trance, and applause fades quickly, but at the end of Act One, there we sat, in the full light of the theater, still clapping as though perhaps, with enough collective effort, we might raise that curtain again and let the transcendence go on. The end of Act Three prompted a similar response: in the aftermath of shock, the full roaring house leapt to their feet out of urgent necessity to, in some tiny, insufficient way, make our deep appreciation known.
There have been countless ballet adaptations of Romeo and Juliet since Leonid Lavrovsky’s influential 1940 production, yet once you’ve seen Jean-Christophe Maillot’s accentuation of the story’s humanity, nothing can possibly conjure the same inspired feeling. Whereas other Romeo and Juliets rely on classical structuring of a ballet, Maillot has found a world where you forget about choreography, forget about ballet as an idea at all. As he said in 2008: “The steps, they excite me when I create them…and now let’s talk about the soul”. No other gesture could fit Prokofiev’s modernist character as well as Maillot’s. Music and movement are closely intertwined, carrying the other, elevating the splendour of drama and soul with every note. The depth of true emotion and complexity show in the smallest of intricacies: a spiteful glance, physicality which tells us everything, movement that depicts the score’s character so exactly that it appears to command it, Friar Laurence’s turmoiled hindsight, hands that reach and reach and reach. It’s not a ballet at all, it’s the vast truth of life in a different hue.
Broad strokes of foreshadowing resound: Friar Laurence’s opening pose that shapes a cross, already pointing to the beams of light that will crawl their way across the stage and up the wall in the tomb scene; the nurse wrapping her towel around her neck in the same manner as Juliet later will as she strangles herself with Romeo’s scarlet wound; the first fight that ends in a Capulet, and then, moments later, a Montague meeting their end; and Lady Capulet’s foreboding worry as she senses that something is not right just moments before the balcony pas de deux. These unfolding scenes are larger than life, so potently full of movement and beauty that it seems it couldn’t possibly be contained by the walls of a theater. There is real life interwoven there, and all the sniffles and taut breaths permeating the dark made that evident.
It was during Saturday’s matinee that I realized that the torch has truly been passed from those who first brought this work to life at PNB, to the hands of Dylan Wald and Angelica Generosa, who threw themselves into these roles with such intuitive authenticity that for two precious hours, they suspended reality with unforgettable potency.
Wald’s Romeo is one who truly believes Shakespeare’s line: “What light through yonder window breaks? It is the East, and Juliet is the sun!”, for it shows in every gleeful glance and abundance of wonder. His youthful eagerness for life and exuberant vim fill Maillot’s choreography with exquisite intensity and clarity. He brings Romeo to life at the epitome of expression, not just in the grandeur of his expansive, purpose-driven movement, but in the vibrant joy and adoration that consumes him (one beautiful detail, though there’s too many to share: as he lay on the floor with Juliet’s foot presented beside him, he rested his head on his arms, looking up at her in giddy awe, dumbfound by his luck). He consumes space as though it were his destiny to do so, imbuing every gesture, reach, and reaction with larger than life feeling. What a beautiful thing to see someone do exactly what they were born to do: dance with their full soul soaring.
When his eyes at last find his golden sun, it’s a startling sight. Amid the swirling crowd, they stand transfixed, seeing only each other as the world turns around them, astonished at the pure feeling growing between them. Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet recite sonnets about hands when they meet (“For saints have hands that pilgrim’s hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers kiss”), but Maillot brilliantly takes that text and weaves what he called in 2008: “the famous motion that becomes an emotion”. Hands meet with soulful desire, and there already in the warm honey-hued glow, fate winds itself tighter.
Angelica Generosa’s Juliet is endearing from that first clever smile that she shares with her nurse. We see her grow from the timid girl whose mother puppeteers her at the ball to a self-assured young woman who knows exactly what it is that she deserves. The gestures of her character: sly wit and cheery joy, the radiant glimmer of youth’s hope in her eyes, a whimsical glint in every joyful flutter, are brilliantly captured. Her sustained balances in the ball scene do something similar to Aurora’s tests of balance in The Sleeping Beauty; it shows us her remarkable character, and Generosa stretches these moments until they glow.
The balcony pas de deux opens with the quiet wonder of a lullaby, and a melody that melts away all other cares until all is well, there is the heathered blue. Wald soars as if there’s no tomorrow, flooding the stage with sweeping ease, and profusing it all with rising necessity. And once Juliet has landed in his arms, Generosa and Wald billow like silk in their heavenly connection and lyricism, weightless with the divine grace that they depart with every inch of their hearts. Their sincerity is astounding, a thrill of delight. And oh, that profoundly tender moment when their hands part, when space grows between them and we forget how to breathe, you could have heard a pin drop in the wake of such awe.
Reality is a hazy thing in Juliet’s scene with Friar Laurence, and the bewitched look in Generosa's eyes made the woozy, haunting state a mad scene in itself. In the aftermath, there is no greater devastation than the sight of Romeo charging into Juliet’s tomb, pain rippling through him as he drops to his knees. Wald and Generosa were deeply entrenched in the story throughout, but in their final scene, what echoed from every expression was frightfully real. I’ll never be able to forget the sight of Wald haunted by his hand retracing their motions, his chilling deep-souled silent scream, the harsh pain coiling through Generosa as she held Romeo’s still-warm hand, her eyes seeming to see it all and collapsing back into the grief of the present, or the sight of her face drained of color as her hands covered Romeo’s lifeless face…there was nothing left, the world had gone dark, and we believed it fullheartedly. What I wouldn’t do to watch them break our hearts again.
Occasionally, a dancer steps onto the stage with an overwhelming reminder of all the tales they’ve told in their life, all the wonders they’ve let us see and feel. That happened during the balcony pas de deux on Saturday night as Lucien Postlewaite soared through the blue as though it was still 2008. His effortless levity, in both body and spirit, makes this pas de deux look like the most natural expression of his soul, and he falls into its embrace with the peaceful exhilaration of someone returning to their dearest friend. With Clara Ruf Maldonado at his side, the full swell of their passion rises with captivating profundity.
But during the second weekend, it was not the balcony pas de deux that seemed to declare the most, but rather, its melodic reprise when they must reconcile after Tybalt’s death. Those hands that find their way back to each other, who have no choice but to do so, who grapple with forgiveness and acceptance through each high-thrown toss and lift, through every reaching hand, and eyes that can barely hold the other’s yearning. As they find their way back to each other, the knotted complications fall away, and all that matters is this last golden moment that they share, brimming with youthful hope that perhaps all can be forgiven.
Not long after, Juliet finds herself thrown to the ground. Left alone, we see her inner turmoil uncurl, and Clara Ruf Maldonado threw herself into this startling articulation of pain and despair with such intensity that I could have sworn she was begging Friar Laurence to stop the story in its tracks.
To watch Christopher D’Ariano as Friar Laurence is to be bewildered by the fluidity and holy sacredness he weaves. He possesses both the moments of contorted agony and entrancing stillness with the solemnity of seeing the tragic end even through the most carefree moments. Friar Laurence must earnestly see the end, for how else can we feel it long before it shatters before us? D’Ariano moves as though in meditation, with hands that winnow and wind with the heavy weight of his turmoil. Perhaps nothing is more haunting than that final image: a body held taut by remorse, who cannot bear to watch the scene unfold, who tries without success to melt into the wall away from it all.
The second weekend found Miles Pertl sauntering in as a Tybalt who already owned the place. Pertl, who recently announced his departure from PNB, demanded attention in this menacing role; not just in the height of his soaring jumps, or the striking image of his threatening physicality slicing through the air, but in every detail of character. In his hands, Tybalt was not purely dark-gazed and malicious, but rather, amused by how he frightened others in his sheer intimidation. Mercutio’s threats were but the game of a little fly to him, and delight flickered through his eyes at the thrill of such a tourney.
As Mercutio, Kuu Sakuragi is an extravagance of momentum. He pushes Tybalt’s buttons with delight and possesses a boundless, mischievous energy. Through all the troublemaking and youthful glee, Sakuragi’s crisp humor and power seemed to call out “you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!”. I only wish that Shakespeare hadn’t killed off this lively character so early on, for he fills the stage with captivating vigor.
When the Nurse first enters, it is in the haunting stillness of airy strings that already foreshadow the loss that will someday fill the Capulet house. Maillot’s Nurse walks the line of caricature, but, particularly in Sarah-Gabrielle Ryan’s rich portrayal, the character was so soulfully imbued with integrity that she was real before us in all of her bold expressivity. From that first delightful dance with the bench, we instantly know her vivid charisma. We see her keeping Juliet’s secrets, protecting her from her mother’s intensity, and all too soon, creeping into the frigid, starlit scene where the simple act of two hands clasped together, quivering as they lift to the heavens, begging and pleading with all she has, conveys more universal ache than words ever could.
Since Pacific Northwest Ballet last presented Roméo et Juliette, changes have been made to the Nurse’s choreography, removing some unnecessary groping that may have been viewed as humorous by some in 1996, but is, as Peter Boal put it, “not landing the same anymore”. This change, made by Jean-Christophe Maillot and Bruno Roque for this 2025 staging at PNB, will continue onward to the companies performing Roméo et Juliette around the world. This respectful change is much appreciated. Thank goodness for choreographers who are willing to see the necessity of a ballet’s ability to evolve over time.
With no Lord Capulet in sight, we assume from Lady Capulet’s first declaring entrance that she’s the (mighty) head of the house. In Maillot’s rendering, she’s more than Shakespeare’s words possibly could have contained, and all the details of her character, brought to life so authentically by Elle Macy, paint her vividly. She finds the intimidated Nurse humorous, carves the air to make space for her chiseled forms, recoils from her daughter’s love, and in her headstrong command, demands respect. All Lady Capulet wants is refinement. We see it in her contained, precise hand placement, in her joy as she dances with the young Capulets who, unlike her daughter, will imitate her, and in the levity that these moments give her. Macy lets us see her amusements, her cares, the sharp-edged temper that sends her legs kicking clouds from the sky, a glimmer of warmth, a dark prowess of physicality, and a motherly care even amidst the relentless dominance.
Every ballet needs a mad scene, and as Tybalt lies lifeless, Lady Capulet delivers one. All fine-tuned appearance is gone, replaced by visceral disbelief and fury roaring through every fingertip, raging in uncontained agony. Her death march is one of Martha Graham-like guttural contraction and expansion, wild flung with terror until her stricken eyes find Romeo's, and in the high-strung space between them, all consequences of his actions are laid bare. But when she believes her own daughter is dead, a different kind of torment fills her limbs. In Macy’s long reach slinking down the door frame, tear drops falling with achingly beautiful sorrow, the arms that want so desperately to envelop Juliet in all the love she never gave, a mother’s lament is painfully evocative.
Tybalt’s death, and Juliet’s apparent one, both provide dramatic opportunity, but there’s a scene which isn’t Shakespearean at all, a balletic invention that by the end of its brief whirl, leaves Juliet with no choice but desperate measures. It brings a layered complexity to these characters far beyond the archetypal story that we know, and makes it clear that for Juliet, there is much more on the line than just Romeo’s love. Moments after the Nurse has found Romeo and Juliet together, and he’s been ushered out the door, Lady Capulet enters on the winds of classical sophistication, eyes aglow with zealous intention. The tender Juliet wants nothing more than her mother’s love, but there’s only a cold shove towards Paris to be had. Here, Miles Pertl was a perfectly grotesque Paris, looking at Juliet as though she were livestock and pushing her to the edge of revolt. In an instant, any remnant of kindness or good intention vanishes from Lady Capulet, and she erupts in swift, threatening command.
So much unspoken pain lies there in the Nurse’s begging, and in the way Lady Capulet throws Juliet to the ground, shaking her with relentless menace until at last, she’s startled by how far she’s gone. Even Paris knows it isn’t right. All Juliet wants is her mother’s understanding. She reaches for her mother, searching her eyes for an answer or a bit of empathy, but instead Lady Capulet recoils, a hand drawn behind her back, eyes heavy with scorn. It’s the scene that brings each one of them to the brink and pushes the story towards its tragic end: the Nurse with anguish burning in her eyes, Lady Capulet’s apathetic withdrawal, and the poor, devastated Juliet thrown to the ground, believing she’s just lost everyone but her Romeo.
Maillot trusted Prokofiev’s score to not only show us leitmotifs of character and culture, but to carry the story, particularly in that final scene, when the dancing falls away to leave pure emotion to be ushered in by the score’s raw grief. Nothing can compare to hearing this intricately masterful score performed live. The flurry of flighty strings, all the dark drama and richly poetic serenity…the beauty of Prokofiev’s score is overwhelming in the hands of Pacific Northwest Ballet’s exquisite orchestra. As I overheard one patron say, you could close your eyes and still be brought to tears by the earnest heartache sweeping through it all.
In a time when everything is captured, preserved, shared, and retained, there’s something potently beautiful about the temporality of the performing arts. To let your eyes see something, adore something, feel something, knowing that it will never appear just that way again. It’s devastating to know that even as it glows before you, it is already slipping from your fingers, but all the familiar faces returning again and again to soak up these eight performances confirmed the priceless gratitude and awe that such an experience ushers forth. A live performance as intensely emotional and beautiful as PNB’s Roméo et Juliette is one of those blessings that appear before us vividly and briefly, and then, like the wind, is gone, nowhere to be found. Yet it lingers somewhere, does it not?
Until next time, dear Verona…“That I should say goonight till it be morrow”.
Roméo et Juliette streams through Monday, April 28th for digital subscribers. Learn more here.
Jean-Christophe Maillot's quotes are taken from Where Snowflakes Dance and Swear by Stephen Manes
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