Matthew Bourne's Swan Lake
Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake: The Next Generation / New Adventures, 2024, Plymouth, Royal Theatre Plymouth © Johan Persson
Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake at Sadler’s Wells is as much a reimagining as an act of rebellion. First staged in 1995, Bourne’s version has returned to London to ruffle the classical ballet canon. For some, it remains an audacious triumph, stripping Tchaikovsky’s revered work of its Victorian delicacy and recasting it in stark, muscular terms. For others, myself included, the question arises: does the boldness of Bourne’s vision sacrifice the transcendent beauty that made Swan Lake endure in the first place?
At its core, this production replaces the swan maidens with an ensemble of male swans. Gone are the gentle bourrées and fluttering arms that evoke fragility; in their place are stamping feet, sinewy torsos, and a choreography that exudes primal aggression and sensuality. The decision to reimagine the swans as male is provocative—a clear departure from the fairytale origins of the ballet. Bourne’s wild and untamed swans seem more symbolic of inner torment than otherworldly grace. The effect is striking, yet it raises a crucial tension: is this an evolution of the art form or a dismantling of its essence?
n interviews, Bourne has described the inspiration behind his male swans as stemming from his childhood, when he viewed swans as powerful, imposing creatures rather than delicate icons of beauty. His approach deliberately rejects the fragility often associated with ballet and instead reclaims the swan as a symbol of strength and danger. This context adds depth to the work but also underscores its divergence from the original’s ethos. Bourne has also spoken of his desire to challenge the ballet’s inherent heteronormativity, crafting a narrative that centers on male vulnerability and intimacy. While this ambition is laudable, it sometimes veers into the realm of spectacle, where the sheer force of the reinterpretation eclipses the subtlety of its themes.
The narrative, too, is radically altered. Bourne’s Prince is no hapless romantic but a young man caught in a storm of psychological turmoil. His oppressive royal environment is rendered with a satirical sharpness that verges on camp. His girlfriend—played with exaggerated comic flair—is garish and brash, a caricature of modern vapidity. Meanwhile, the Queen’s icy detachment sets the stage for the Prince’s descent into despair, culminating in his hallucinatory encounter with the swans.
The production’s aesthetic oscillates between grandeur and grotesque. There is undeniable power in the swans’ ensemble scenes, their synchronized movements evoking a force of nature. But the raw, almost violent choreography—all flexed muscles and animalistic gestures—can feel like an overcorrection, a deliberate erasure of the ethereal qualities that once defined the ballet. Where Petipa and Ivanov’s original choreography sought to transport audiences to a realm of tragic beauty, Bourne’s approach plants us firmly in the muck of human frailty.
This is not to suggest that Swan Lake should remain frozen in time. Art thrives on reinvention, and Bourne’s willingness to challenge convention is admirable. Yet, one wonders if a middle ground could have been found. Must "reimagination" always be synonymous with provocation? Could the themes of alienation and desire not have been explored within the framework of the ballet’s existing grace? Bourne’s interpretation, while daring, at times feels like it is shouting over the original rather than conversing with it.
My bias in this matter isn’t incidental. My grandmother, Irina Baronova, debuted as a prima ballerina in Swan Lake at Covent Garden opposite Anton Dolin. She stepped into the role aged fourteen with the kind of grace and precision that ballet purists dream of—a moment that, I’ve been told, hung in the air like the suspended notes of Tchaikovsky’s score. Her performance was not just a career milestone but a declaration of what Swan Lake could be: an otherworldly blend of elegance and emotional depth. Perhaps because of this legacy, I yearn for a bridge between past and present, for innovation that doesn’t feel like a repudiation of the original.
The audience at Sadler’s Wells was entranced. Many rose to their feet, a testament to the visceral impact of the production. Yet, I left the theatre conflicted. For all its innovation, something essential seems to have been lost: the fragile balance of sorrow and beauty that makes Swan Lake resonate across centuries.
Ultimately, Bourne’s Swan Lake asks us to confront our expectations of what ballet can and should be. It challenges us to look beyond tradition to embrace the raw and the real. But for this reviewer, the primal power of Bourne’s swans comes at a cost. The question remains: is this Swan Lake a flight of genius, or has it clipped its wings in the pursuit of reinvention?
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