Rebels On Pointe

21 Dec

Rebels On Pointe – directed by Bobbi Jo Hart. Dance Documentary. 90 minutes Color 2017.
The Story: A backstage collage of history, performance, wedding, family, training, rehearsal of Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo, the celebrated all-male classical dance company which has toured and entertained the world for forty years.
They are all the same fruits as all the other fruits.

If they were not performing on the stage they would be stoned.

We are told they evince “gay sensibility” as though that sort of sensibility were the only sensibility homosexual life had.

And why do they do it?

Because if they do it they will be accepted in the nest?

The senseless giggle behind which there is nothing funny whatsoever. The mincing moue. The hyperbolic flare. The glare of a Paris washwoman. Eyelashes long enough to unbalance them. Bitch Queens in tutus.

They are allowed all this and, like all dancers, so much less.

And every one of them has fought for it. Every one of them have striven to legitimately embody the goddess grace and fanatical virtuosity of the dancer of white ballet, the ballerina.

No professional athletic training reaches the strenuousness of that required for toe-shoes.

So what we see is bravery under fire like no other. Doll within doll within doll, now male, now female, now both at once, now neither.

Each of these males dances an unwitting statement in the sensibility and deep knowledge of each member of the audience of the mediation of gender.

Each physical utterance contradicts and disproves the givens and doxologies of an aeon of cultural history. A pirouette revises custom to its core. An arabesque exceeds the rules of expectation.

That which would merit the exile of derision is here apotheosized.

The Ballets Trocadero de Monte Carlo is a sex church. Because every ballet they perform is a sex ballet. All white ballet is. That is why it is white. Their narratives are actually talking about the gestures, the moves, the graces, the physical encompassment of gorgeous mating. But they are doing it in the nunnery of classical ballet, no art form being more chaste. The entire featherbrained rigmarole of male/female reproductive presentation topples.

Parody means the song parallel to the ode. Can be below it: can be funny and mocking. Can be above it: can be inspired and adulatory. But it must include the ode. And thus their dance includes the dance, classical ballet done seriously, in the ease of its difficulty. But sometimes with a cherry on top. With a male Maestoso.

The fortitude, perseverance, stamina, rigor for toe-shoes aims each life towards this flittering devotion as adamantine as steel.

What a good time I had! What a changed person I found myself exiting the theatre!

I don’t bow to them. I bow to what lies inside and behind each one of them that impels them, through movement, to embody this truth. There’s an oracle in it that, for our own peace of mind, all of us want to hear.

It is, at unexpected times, of course very, very funny.

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