There is Beauty, There is Goodness: PNB's Cinderella, Round Two
- 15 hours ago
- 12 min read
Updated: 8 hours ago
It is the stories we tell ourselves the most that reveal what we urgently need to hear, and the kindness of a Cinderella tale lands potently today. Some ballets carry an essence that confirms what a sacred place this art form touches, a place ungrazed by words where beauty prevails, and Cinderella is indeed a ballet that reminds our own hearts what they so dearly cherish. This Spring will mark thirty-two years since the premiere of Kent Stowell’s Cinderella, but it arises in fresh and sacred hues, despite how much has changed within the company since then. The repertoire and identity of Pacific Northwest Ballet has evolved greatly since Cinderella’s premiere in 1994, and yet here it is, still expressing some vital characteristic of the company’s intentionality.
Cinderella is one of the many 19th-century ballets that did not survive to see the 20th, let alone the 21st century. Countless documented productions arose throughout the 1800s, including a 1893 premiere at the Mariinsky Theatre by Lev Ivanov and Enrico Cecchetti to the music of Baron Boris Fitinhof-Schellas, which attempted to capitalize on the success of The Sleeping Beauty. But, as with the story of Romeo and Juliet, no score stood the test of time until Prokofiev gave it new life. One could say that Kent Stowell’s 1994 production incorporates many elements that have much in common with a 19th-century envisioning: a large, ethereal corps de ballet, fairy variations for soloists, and the symbolism so prevalent in gothic and late 19th-century ballets. At the balance point between classical attributes and the influence of neoclassical liberty, Stowell’s production finds a wealth of storytelling potential.
The sweet innocence of the first vision pas de deux, the Theater of Marvels, the whir of the seasons corps de ballet, the connection between Memory Mother, Godmother, and Good Fairy, the melancholic half-bug children who wander through the top of Act Three when the magic is all worn out…it is these supplemental symbols and connected threads in Stowell’s Cinderella that make it uniquely potent.
There are many moments in Cinderella where Stowell lets musical rephrasing weave his story tighter. After the momentous overture, Stowell keeps the stepsisters at bay for a moment to let Cinderella dream to a picturesque melody. In Act Two, this same charming bliss returns for Harlequin and Columbine’s pas de deux, brilliantly using echoes of that choreography to connect an image of idealized love to Cinderella’s original dream. In his reenvisioning of Prokofiev’s score, Stowell also used Cinderella and the Prince’s second pas de deux as the harmonious memory of Cinderella’s childhood (also formed by echoes of that memory’s choreography). The visions she recalls of her parents’ happiest days paint her first moment alone with the Prince with an undertone of having waited her entire life for such happiness to return.
Though these familiar melodies may go unnoticed without multiple viewings, those connections are there regardless, bringing an unprecedented depth in theme and symbolism that even Prokofiev himself did not envision. The composer once said: “The main thing that I wanted to convey in my music is the poetic love of Cinderella and the Prince, the birth and flowering of feelings, obstacles on their path, the realization of a dream.” Prokofiev’s musical storytelling capacities are greatly strengthened by Stowell’s reshaping. Despite a mosaic of true Cinderella hues mixed with visions of Eugene Onegin, The Love of Three Oranges, The Tale of a Stone Flower, and a work that Seattlelites will recognize from Jean-Christophe Maillot’s Roméo et Juliette, it seems inconceivable that the story could reach its full potential without these additions.
Past impressions of this fairy tale character vanish when Kent Stowell’s Cinderella is before us. In her threadbare dress, there are moments where circumstance lands heavily upon her shoulders, but she turns to dreaming, and in her dancing, is freed from the cares of her days. Never a reciprocal unkindness, only forgiveness and resolve fill her good heart. Fortitude and generosity arise through every gesture of character. Kent Stowell has painted her before us with such clarity that, although it’s not a tragedy, the ballet brims with incomprehensible emotion simply because we know her dearly.
Sarah-Gabrielle Ryan is so deeply present within the character of Cinderella that any thought of her as a character slips from the mind. As I’ve seen in her shaping of Swanilda in Coppélia and Aurora in The Sleeping Beauty, Ryan has a particular gift for making these beloved characters genuine before us. She paints Cinderella in a most endearing hue: an innocent, beaming soul who coils under her Stepmother’s eye, who tries so diligently to help her sisters, whose lyrical barre work during the dance lesson declares everything about her resilience. There is a spontaneity that fills her dancing, some gleeful manner that overtakes any thought of prescription. Her heartfelt expression after being barred from the ball was enough to bruise any heart, but in a ball of her own, the visions dancing before her eyes are vividly real, woven of magic threads. All the soft wonders of her singing port de bra, the extension of gesture, and her musicality reveal Cinderella radiantly before us: dreaming, hopeful, and glowing with jubilation.
Beside her Fairy Godmother, Ryan’s enchantment swells the air, so overwhelmed is she by the magic of generosity. At the ball, she blossoms from uncertainty–barely making eye contact– to the disbelief of her wildest dreams coming true. Holding on to Cinderella’s dubiety as she turns to the Prince with fear of what she sees in his eyes, makes Ryan’s Cinderella particularly unfeigned amidst the scarlet swirl.
Her character never wavers. She is there in the flourish of every marvelous step, in the pure liberation she expresses with the freedom of her upper body, in the meticulous footwork bursting forth as smitten delight, and the felicity that fills every pique turn, gaining momentum to declare the strength of her character. In the pas de deuxes, Ryan’s mellifluous soul and Luther DeMyer’s expansive need to consume every inch of the stage, not to mention the devotion that sang in their hands, were a vision of heaven on Earth. As the future spun itself into fate, Ryan’s Cinderella forgot every care in the world, and we, too, were spellbound in the present.
Clara Ruf Maldonado’s Cinderella is a precisely chiseled character, reactive and genuine in every minuscule expression. She is flighty and lively, innocent and caring, as light as a nymph in her stepping. Memories tinge and sweeten her days, and in her dreaming dances, she comes back to reality with great disappointment. She cannot believe her eyes as she follows after her Godmother in the flurry, for she has never seen such wonders. At the ball, the feathery weightlessness of her bourees are an ethereal sight that captures the awe-struck eyes of Kyle Davis, and soon unfolds into vivid articulation.
Davis is a prince who, in his unpretentious interactions with the Jester, and in his reverence, we keenly come to know. As I’ve observed many times, his partnering is of such attentive quality that all other sights are swept from the room. The way he looks at her hands as he circles them, the bewilderment at the stroke of midnight, and the anguish of watching her disappear from sight make his Prince as equally full-blooded as Cinderella.
The morning after the ball, all is so beautifully light in Maldonado’s full-hearted expression. She’s enchanted by memory, lifted by the night’s marvels. The spirit of her character sings in her honest concern for her sisters, and in those lovely, quickening steps and her pure delight woven into their web. And yet, even once the shoe fits, she cannot seem to comprehend that she is deserving of such a blessing. The final pas de deux stands out for the weight it holds in Maldonado and Davis’ hands. It is not some light frivolity, or even purely joyous, but rather, full of a deep understanding of what has led to this moment–all the hardships, hope, and answered dreams that come to gleam in the swirled moonlight.
If there was ever a Cinderella who leapt right from the pages of a fairy tale, it is Elizabeth Murphy’s delicate expression. She is lighter than air in each resolution and dear concern. She is solemn, yet knows just how to brush herself off, and brightens beside her father as though his presence can wash away all the injustice of her days. At the ball is where Murphy’s Cinderella truly shines. Her dream-like manner of movement, with line extending emotion in itself, and her variation rushing forth as a rising tide of confession, all reveal her in a new light to us.
Murphy and Christopher D’Ariano are exquisitely paired, for they both dance with great virtue (how else can one name such purity of line and gesture, of musical intention and breath?). In D’Ariano’s effortless flight and pervasive calm, in the bold freedom of his expression, his uprightness immediately names him a prince. He hangs in the air like a leaf lifted by the breezes, reaching absurd heights, but always in a manner that makes such a virtuosic disagreement with gravity fall before us as a byproduct of feeling, never as a purposeful technical demonstration.
Together, Murphy and D’Ariano are filled with sensitivity for each small molecule of blessed beauty. In her willowy grace and fluidity, in his facile suspension, their sweeping grandeur of feeling is intoxicating as they dance past the cares of the world and on to some place that’s most intimately their own.
Very young and grazed by her reality, Angelica Generosa’s Cinderella is a most tender little soul who we can’t help but adore from the first glimpse. She’s wistful, yet hopeful even in the way she views her stepsisters’ dancing attempts. The comfort of happier memories lift her days, and in her imagined ball, the strength of her passion is enough for us to somehow see her vision as well. Generosa’s precision gleams through the character that invades the smallest of glances and steps. At the ball, radiance floods from her, and though she’s unsure at first, once she begins to dance, her soul gleams. Like her Aurora in The Sleeping Beauty, Generosa’s Cinderella exudes a remarkable bounty of gratitude. She reveals her entire character in her variation: all frozen sustain, spirit, technical delight, and charm. Later, her attention to nuanced detail–acknowledging the return of her mop cap and threadbare dress, and each enchanting glimmer of character– is the work of a masterful storyteller. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: the lasting impact of dancing Juliet is an unmistakable hue that blossoms in Generosa’s potently rich portrayal of character.
What is so beautiful about the intimate pas de deux at the ball is that the dancers seem to lose themselves in it, enchanted in some daze within the steps, and, in the final performance, Generosa and Jonathan Batista were fully there, spellbound, and entangled within the magic of the tale. Batista abounds with powerful necessity and exaltation, with a beautiful drive to find the limits, though perhaps there are none. Between them, there exists a deep understanding, and in the final pas de deux, their velocity, desire, and heavenly reach were a declaration of freedom that seemed it would be flooding across the stage even without a single eye to see.
Stowell’s eye for meaning is woven deeply into the role of Fairy Godmother. Repetition creates a web of meaning that exceeds what the eye can catch in a single glimpse, yet it lays the groundwork for potency, whether the details are caught or not. In the memory scene of Cinderella’s childhood, the young Cinderella clutches her mother’s hand to her cheek in the exact way that Cinderella will with her Godmother. Later, Cinderella sails through the very steps as the memory of her mother, and be led, unknowingly be this figure of goodness.
Melisa Guilliams’ Godmother carries wisdom with an overflow of serenity. Like dawn’s first rays of light, her presence is a reassurance, a prevailing faith that displaces all evil with silken limbs. In her wise ushering, the spell of the Good Fairy’s variation hung suspended in awed silence night after night, not a regular breath in the house.
With an innate sincerity, Madison Rayn Abeo’s Godmother is an unfolding prayer of peace. Heavenly sustains that still the breath, lyrical soft graces, and an assurance of wisdom in each treasured gesture fall like a silken blessing upon the earth. Her velocity in beats of exactitude, and the integrity of her presence, guide Cinderella with unwavering warmth that simply beams from her generosity.
Like the fairies in The Sleeping Beauty, the variations for the Fairies of the Four Seasons reveal their nature through the careful constellation of choreographic traits. The Spring Fairy abounds with renewing strength in syncopated step, toe taps, and a flourish of bright novelty. Summer is a sweltering waltz, full of soft swept turns and sustained breath. The Autumn Fairy exudes pure unrest and feverish passion in her rapture. And musically, Winter is a vision of apricity, with tranquil unfolding presentations of port de bra and each balance surely frozen by frost itself.
In Spring, it was Yuki Takahashi’s bright exactitude and delightfully crisp prick accenting the gaity, and the inconceivable height of Rosalyn Hutsell’s Italian pas de chats that let all the joy sing through the lively steps. Summer falls like a vision of some ethereal place, and Lily Wills’ tender breath, and Ashton Edwards’ soft renderings of such gentle warmth were a vivid respite. Juliet Prine’s enthusiasm and radiant conviction mark the Autumn Fairy’s variation with mettlesome passion, while Emerson Boll holds a notable aptitude for fiery tempi, and Melisa Guilliams gleams with clarity through all the brisk fervor. In Winter, Madison Rayn Abeo’s presentation of gesture and reach unfurl with unearthly ethereality, and Juliet Prine, too, is airily refined within Winter’s dream-like spell.
When crafting a character, especially a sharp-edged one, there must be a balance that lets us see another side, for otherwise she falls into empty caricature. Elle Macy’s Stepmother is blunt, controlling, and boils with anger, but we also see her little joys. The delight in hearing the Prince is on his way, the thrill of pushing her daughters towards opportunity, and the lively pleasure that dances along her more polite interactions make her more than just an evil Stepmother. When all three daughters circle her, there’s a smile for her own two that quickly falls before Cinderella, nearly startled to still find her there. Macy’s intensity and timing in the shoe-fitting scene, as her eyes flicker with zeal, is, even after two weekends of performances, still one of Cinderella’s greatest moments of comedic and musical arrangement.
The Stepsisters: all elbows and twisted feet, childlike antics, and uncontained chaos, were once again a masterful interpretation in the devoted hands of Amanda Morgan and Kali Kleiman. Watching them have a ridiculously good time is a glee that never fades, for each and every time, their hopeless-case buffoonery and eagerness were a feat of nuanced crafting.
Though the second weekend of Cinderella was full of too many delights to mention, a few unforgettable executions include: the wild exacerbation of Ryan Cardea’s tolerance finally breaking as the Father in Act Three, Mckenzie Wilson as Harpsichordist with her gleefully buoyant hat, skittery nerves, and sailing hands, and once again, Joh Morrill as a perfectly pinpointed and rattled dance teacher.
As Harlequin and Columbine, Yuki Takahashi and Mark Cuddihee are a pair of buoyant precision. Takahashi, full of joy in every endearing glimpse of sprite and nimble levity, finds a brilliant pairing with Cuddihee’s fresh vitality defined in sharp bursts of velocity. Juliet Prine and Ryan Cardea also radiate with charm, and one can’t help but smile at all the marvelous inventions that they run through so gaily. Their pas de deux is a bright treat, where charisma and ease make all the tricks of Stowell’s choreography look like nothing more than splendid fluency and vim.
The jester, with his daring flight and “Beautiful NOT” mime, found a host of brilliant interpretations during Cinderella’s run: a very jocose Noah Martzall with a bag full of tricks, Kuu Sakuragi- a lightning bolt of speed and momentum, and Lucas Galvan, who somehow propels himself to impossible heights without seeming to use an ounce of effort to do so. Some dancers truly find a home in the air, and Galvan’s unearthly Jester debut was a proclamation of the future’s luminosity.
There are ballets where one watches the mechanics of choreography, where you can and should see the intricate technicalities for what they are. The genius of George Balanchine’s Rubies, Crystal Pite’s Emergence, or Harald Lander Études lies in their structure. There are other ballets, like Kent Stowell’s Cinderella, that consist of similar tightly engineered craft, and yet, what one sees is the expression born from the technicality, rarely the technicality in itself.
In an incredible array of steps that flow with intuition from one to the next, in his relentless directionality shifts, in partnering that seems to turn itself inside out, in the seamless blending of classical and more human elements, there runs a thread of Balanchine-like novelty. Swung counterbalances, inversions, moments of busyness that fall into focused clarity are all defining Stowell characteristics.
In the seasons corps de ballet, we see such mastery of vision, and it is easily the most beautiful addition to Cinderella. The breathless swirl he builds (which, might I add, moves clockwise), a flurry of revolving patterns, pivots, circled arms, and watery curlings, put meter and step in perfect harmony. The layered texture of Stowell’s choreography resounds as limbs form defined patterns while tulle blurs like swirling waves below in synchronicity’s delight. Both steely flights of fancy and the heavenly reverence that returns in Act Three, like a Renaissance painting, bring the ballet to the level of other classics. In that final scene, there are no words that one could conjure, only tranquility touching and healing some deep place, while breaths lie guarded, lest we disturb such a harmonious vision.
The run may be over, but Cinderella streams through February 16th for digital subscribers. Learn more here: https://www.pnb.org/season/subscriptions/digital-sub/