Soul Food

“Coppélia”
Czech National Ballet
The State Opera
Prague, Czech Republic
May 26, 2024 (matinee)

by Ilona Landgraf
Copyright © 2024 by Ilona Landgraf

Arthur Saint-Léon’s comic ballet Coppélia premiered on May 25, 1870, at the Théâtre Impérial de l’Opéra in Paris. Two months later, on July 19th, Napoleon III declared war on Prussia. The opening night featured a military dance portraying twelve Ottoman Janissaries fencing against twelve Austrian Hussars. It concluded with a ballerina holding an olive branch heralding peace. Times were anything but auspicious during the descent of the Second French Empire, but that wasn’t reflected in the ballet. To the contrary, Léo Delibes’s vibrant score infused the comedy with a buoyant joie de vivre. Might it be a stroke of fate that now of all times, as the political landscape darkens with mind-boggling speed and social cohesion is worn down (at least in my home country, Germany), the Czech National Ballet premiered Coppélia? The Prague audience’s warm reception proved that the ballet still conveys what people are yearning for in times of crisis: togetherness, good humor, generosity, and a romance with a happy ending.

The Czech National Ballet’s artistic director, Filip Barankiewicz, chose Ronald Hynd’s version of Coppélia, which is based on Saint-Léon’s original and later choreography by Marius Petipa and was initially created in 1985 for the London Festival Ballet. It is less sophisticated than Alexei Ratmansky’s recent adaption for La Scala but is much closer to the audience as a result. Laughs and giggles from adults and children alike accompanied the shenanigans on stage, and the audience’s warranted good vibes boosted the dancers’ performance. In short, the rapport was exemplary.

The adventures that preceded the wedding of Swanilda (Ayaka Fujii) and the notoriously unfaithful Franz (Paul Irmatov) unfolded on the square of a quaint Galician village (set and costume design by Roberta Guidi di Bagno), whose central church testified to the significance of faith in the community. The square was surrounded by the vine-covered porch of the innkeepers’ (Miho Ogimoto and Fraser Roach) tavern and the house of the dapper burgomaster (Mathias Deneux). From its facade, a modest version of the Parisian imperial clock oversaw the Waltz of the Hours.
Ironically, the figure of Mary with the child Jesus on the square’s fountain stood directly opposite the workshop of the weird Dr. Coppélius (Giovanni Rotolo). Presumably, it was the Holy Mother who couldn’t stand his sinister experiments transferring human life forces on humanoid automatons any longer and decided that it was time to lead him back to the path of righteousness. In any case, the moment the village youth forced baptism on Coppélius in the well water, he lost his latchkey. It enabled Swanilda and her friends to sneak into his workshop and—after some brouhaha—bust the automaton scam that Franz had fallen for. He was saved from a monstrous apparatus sucking his vital energy and, as a side effect, cured from having a roving eye.
Suddenly sobered, Franz made up for his immature foolery by showing off his jumping prowess on the village square. It’s unclear, however, if he realized the caliber of his bride-to-be. Swanilda combined a generous heart with a savvy mind, and, though they shivered from fear in Coppélius’s workshop, her legs sliced the air decisively when she called the shots. Fujii’s accentuation of her steps in line with the music was especially effective.
The brio and punch with which the corps performed the folk dances—a Polish mazurka, Hungarian czardas, and Czech polka—kept the spirits on and off stage high. During the Waltz of the Hours, the solos of Nina Fernandés (Dawn) and Romina Contreras (Prayer) electrified the air.

Václav Zahradník and the State Opera Orchestra gave a gloriously colorful rendition of Delibes’s score, the dash and momentum of which were infectious.

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