The Royal Winnipeg Ballet’s Nutcracker opened last night at the State Theatre at Playhouse Square. It’s the second year the Canadian troupe has made the holiday trip to Cleveland, and with an orchestra of 46 local musicians and a slew of young dancers-in-training culled from area schools, it was a warm, welcoming reunion.
Brian Perchaluk’s glorious painted sets made delicious backdrops to Paul Daigle’s frothy costumes seemingly crafted from miles of tulle, bushels of brocade, and enough sequins and sparkles to make a serious dent in the world’s supply. While bland choreography left some scenes feeling overlong, the dancers executed their moves with aplomb.
Sure, a first-act hockey game and dancers dressed as Mounties gave the Russian classic a vaguely northern spin; but since no one shouted out “It’s a nutcracker, eh?” (there is no dialogue, after all), the Canadian accent seemed moot.
On the other hand …
This article appears in Dec 7-13, 2011.
In a city like Cleveland any event or play with words like nutcracker should not be publicised. It makes me think of all the wanna-be mafia guys who would say ‘hey! You bustin my balls?’ What a fucked up thing to ask a guy. Why would anyone want to bust someones balls? There is no way busting someones balls can be pleasant. No fucking way. ‘Cause if your bustin my balls I don’t like it.’ Well no shit. Who in the fuck would like someone ‘bustin their balls.’ But this stupid question was often asked when any joke which went contrary to the dominant egos in ear shot was raised. “Hey! Quit busting my fucking balls. You want to bust some budies balls, bust, go bust your uncle’s fucking balls.”