Chapter 249: A Date with Carlos Acosta: Myths and Modern Masters

A last-minute family holiday to Belgium, staying with cousins and finding circus everywhere, whether eating ice cream in the garden of an École de Clown or having an impromptu diabolo lesson. Life is full of surprises, but the next trick was getting home. The first flight was cancelled, then the replacement the following day was cancelled too, so we jumped on a Eurostar because I had a date with Carlos Acosta...

Here's the thing. I've been teaching Spanish at secondary school for six years, and sharing the biopic of Acosta's life Yuli has always been a highlight because of what it can inspire. Take this year, a student's face lit up at the scene where Acosta's father says prayers to his santo. I paused the film. "Is there something you want to share?" "Miss, it's Yoruba, my parents speak it." And he translated for the class, sharing his own Yoruba heritage and discovering a new connection to Cuban Santería, something he could take then home with him. I carry all my students with me. So, yes, I was going to move mountains to get home in time to see Carlos Acosta and to witness a journey that has been inspiring me, and them, for years. Myths and Modern Masters promised an eclectic programme with something for everyone, from classical ballet to contemporary dance, Cuban strut and joie de vivre.

I first saw Acosta's semi-autobiographical fusion of dance in Tocororo, when it smashed the Sadler's Wells box office in 2003, the year I got married, just as I was embarking on postgraduate research in Cuban theatre. What a gift. The following year I met Acosta en passant at the Royal Court, during a week of Cuban play sharings (see previous post). The year after that my son was born, and on my parents' VCR I watched their recording of the BBC screening of La Fille Mal Gardée, with Acosta dancing opposite Argentine ballerina Marianela Nuñez as Lise, and Will Tuckett playing the eccentric Widow Simone. I've always particularly loved The Clog Dance, a beautiful lesson in clowning. Years later, during lockdown, I posted a clip on Instagram to describe the experience of juggling home education with three kids. We had the video of the ballet on repeat ever after. I still have the tape. The following year we made it to the Royal Opera House to see the ballet, with another cast.

So when Myths and Modern Masters came onto my radar, it felt like yet another siren call. I still hesitated, though, and by the time I made up my mind there was only one ticket left in the stalls, none in the circle above. That decided me. I wanted to be in that space again, transported back to those moments when my parents were still next to me. I just wanted to sit with them again.

So when it was announced on the Eurostar on the way back that the train would be held at Lille because the station was being evacuated, I tugged at the mermaid and sea shell around my neck. Yemayá, mother goddess of the ocean and my patron “santa”, as decreed by the conch shells thrown for me once in Havana, had got us safely round the world on our boat, La Cigale, accompanied by her dolphin messengers. She would not let me down now. And she didn't. I made it home in time for a 12-minute power nap and a quick shower and change before heading into town.

The journey itself can be half the fun. So, en route to Covent Garden, I took a detour through a passageway bedecked in lights that twinkled at me. A passer-by insisted a photo wouldn't do and gave me sashay instructions for a video. I felt a bit like a colt finding her feet, and arrived at the Opera House in a playful mood, taking a glass of bubbles out onto the balcony. In for a penny, in for a pound.

There I gravitated towards a table with an older woman, also on her own, and we got chatting. She had made an epic effort to be there too, travelling down from Swansea for the day. She had three children, all grown up, and was here with her husband's blessing, if not his presence. She had never seen Carlos Acosta live before, drawn by the online videos people had shared and by his reputation. She knew an awful lot more than me, and we met up at both intervals, where she shared even more insights.

First up was The Moor's Pavane, a whole ballet compressed into a single act. I hadn't read the programme (no space in my clutch for glasses), and learned from my new friend afterwards that it was loosely based on Othello, featuring dancers from Birmingham Royal Ballet, which Carlos directs. It was a ballet about the dynamics between recognisable archetypes: Acosta as the proud Husband with a wandering eye in rich burgundy; Beatrice Parma the innocent Beloved in pure white, floating a handkerchief of surrender; Max Maslen's best Friend; and, a whispering snake in gold, the apparent voice of reason, less Iago than a traitorous ego taking the reins of Othello's id. Miki Mizutani was the bedazzling scarlet Seductress. I picked up on the Shakespearean undertones, at least, in the baroque music and the initial quartet formation. But it was modern too. José Limón choreographed the dance in 1949, and I later learned from Max, aka Iago, whom I met outside the stage door, that a consultant from the José Limón Foundation had flown over from Boston to work with the cast.

I was simply transported by the sumptuousness of the colour against a monochrome backdrop. No scenery necessary: the movement spoke for itself. Tease, torture, abandonment. The whole human tragedy of illicit desire played out through synchronicity. Each pair, each gender. Two sides of a coin, yet each mirroring the other. I was struck by the physicality of it all. That's a daft thing to say, I know. Maybe what I mean is the impossible physicality of it all. The grace, the range of movement, the precision seared itself into my mind's camera, frame by frame.

The Second Act opened with an excerpt from The Nutcracker. Clara was a delight as she took in the gifts presented by the Sugar Plum Fairy, all grace, breeze, lightness and fun. I loved the variety of the programme. Mum would have loved this, I thought.

It brought back a memory of watching The Nutcracker with my parents at our local Chichester Festival Theatre, and from there came the thought that I'd just had my last Christmas in Petersfield with her. No more. In next to no time I felt punched in the chest, breathless, my eyes welling up, as they are now as I write this. Each time I think I should be prepared, but nothing quite prepares you. The grief crashes over me, but at the same time comes a huge wave of reassurance as I feel their presence and company so acutely. I was glad to be on my own in the dark, able simply to soak up the bittersweet beauty of it all.

I was grateful too for the change of tempo as the dancers donned wooden-soled sandals for a Cuban take on The Clog Dance, without the clowning, which snapped me into another mood. By the end of the act, as the young girl jumped into Acosta's arms, my heart was jumping for joy again. Even more so when I learned afterwards from my well-informed friend that the girl was Acosta's own 14-year-old daughter, Aila Acosta Holland, the same age as my stage-embracing youngest. I stopped short of making any further comparison. That way madness lies...

A classical pairing followed next, Diana and Acteon, with Katherine Ochoa and Yasiel Hodelín Bello. Oh, that was funny. As Acteon took to the stage in a super-mini leather hunting kilt, there was a collective and audible gasp from the audience. I was laughing too, as it reminded me of Cal Harris playing Hercules in Head First Acrobats' Godz (see Chapter 241) on stage at Sadler's Wells earlier this summer. But that quickly segued into marvel at the height and spread of the leaps and bounds, showcasing the virtuoso talent and chemistry between the couple. No wonder some people I later spoke to had assumed that was Acosta as Acteon. Pas de deux. Pas de soucis. As with The Moor's Pavane, it felt like an entire ballet condensed.

After that came the most emotionally charged piece of the evening for me, in the intimacy of its dynamics. Nosotros. Us. Carlos Acosta and Amisaday Naara (pictured above, in rehearsal) portrayed the frustrations, miscommunications and coincidences that push and pull romantic love. It was tender, it was poignant, and the muted tones and creative use of lighting cast a spell over the audience. The intimacy was tangible.

I needed a double espresso after that. Well, I had wanted something stronger, but they don't serve espresso martinis at the bar.

Coffee in hand, flicking through the programme, I woke up to the fact that the last act, Rooster, was not an excerpt from a farmyard scene in La Fille Mal Gardée, as I had assumed way back when, but a chance for young Cuban cockerels to strut their stuff to the Rolling Stones.

That really took me back to time out in my twenties in Havana, being serenaded by guitarists strumming Silvio on the Malecón, and romanced with poetry under flamboyán trees by would-be lovers who needed to keep hold of their heartfelt poems in case things didn't work out and they were needed for the next conquest. I could more than hold my own, as could the female dancers here, watching the boys with sardonic smiles and serving up their own sass.

The music was banging and so were they. It was so much fun. It had all the colour of West Side Story, each Rooster wearing a shirt of a different colour, Carlos in flamboyant flamingo pink, the girls in black with flashes of crimson flaring out from the seams. A visual feast. I could just imagine Carlos, my age give or take, as a teenager living those songs out on those streets.

Cuba was where I learned to dance, and while I would have loved to have had the raw talent to really let rip, it was simply a joy to be staying with a family in a country where the rhythm of everyday life keeps its own clave beat.

The talismans had done their job and the theatre gods had worked their magic once again. ¡Aché!

Photo credit: Helen Maybanks click here for website: helenmaybanks.com