Advertisement
Stay in the Loop
BSR publishes on a weekly schedule, with an email newsletter every Wednesday and Thursday morning. There’s no paywall, and subscribing is always free.
It was only a dream? Then give me my money back
Myth vs. dreams in Wheeldon's "Swan Lake'
Jim Rutter
Darren Aronofsky's film Black Swan opens on a ballerina's legs moving across a shadowed stage as Natalie Portman's character Nina intones the first line: "I had the craziest dream last night about a girl who has turned into a swan, but her prince falls for the wrong girl and she kills herself." (To view a video of the scene, click here.)
This initial reference to a dream leaves open the possibility that Portman's character may not die at the end of the film. Indeed, many elements of Nina's progressive psychosis hint that, beyond a certain point, the majority of the film's horrific hallucinatory action transpires in her head.
Aronofsky intended his film as an adaptation of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. But if Nina only dreamed the events— and more to the point, if she didn't die— then Black Swan renders an inadequate (or at best, incomplete) adaptation of the ballet. This principle also applies to Christopher Wheeldon's recent adaptation of Swan Lake for the Pennsylvania Ballet.
Every girl's father?
Although the story's origins remain unclear, since its 1876 premiere Swan Lake's story has acquired the status of a universally applicable myth. Does the wizard Rothbart represent every girl's father? Is Odette's curse the curse of virginity and sexual innocence? Must every man choose between steadfast virtue and hedonistic vice?
It no longer matters whether or not a man has taken a boat ride before reading Homer's Odyssey. A genuine myth provides a mirror in which men and women alike can see a reflection of their experience— in Swan Lake's case, that of amorous longing, hope, enthrallment, frustration, betrayal and despair.
Myths may originate in historical events, but like works of fiction, they don't exist in reality except via our collective, intentional participation and retelling. Dreams, on the other hand, are a different animal altogether.
Where's the forest?
This distinction matters for Wheeldon's version, which frames the majority of the Swan Lake story as a reverie. Instead of a forest full of swans, we see an unnamed male dancer rehearsing the role of Prince Siegfried in a 19th-Century ballet company's forthcoming production of Swan Lake. He's anguished over a wealthy patron's droit de seigneur intentions toward the ballerinas.
Instead of accosting the patron directly, the male dancer falls into a dream in which he imagines himself the Prince in the traditional Swan Lake story. In his mind, the pederastic patron transforms into Swan Lake's villainous Rothbart, and the rehearsing ballerinas become the flock of swans.
The remainder of the original story plays out in the male dancer's head while he daydreams or enters some anguish-induced catatonic state— it doesn't matter which, because we never see its resolution. In falling back on the framing device of a dream, Wheeldon's adaptation squanders the power of Swan Lake.
Lessons from King Arthur
Dreams, hallucinations and the distorted perceptions of mental illness do occur in reality— but only as figments of the subconscious mind. These subjective mental states yield no objective or verifiable correlative representation in reality. They offer no opportunity for a shared experience (except when we communicate them through speech, artwork or other means—in which case, they cease being dreams).
Waking up in the morning assures us that what took place in our minds didn't actually occur. Myths, on the other hand, sidestep the question of truth entirely. Even when they're debunked by historical research (King Arthur, say, or the Iliad's siege of Troy), these stories still provide a framework for interpreting and understanding our own human experience.
Yet a myth's lack of "truth value" only bolsters its psychological power: Disentangling our minds from questions of truth gives art its power and liberates us to indulge in its effects. Dreams carry neither the same sense of consequence nor the psychological impact.
What rational person (outside of a Shakespeare character) would make important life decisions based on a dream? But a myth (or any literary work) can give us pause and reason to consider our actions. Seeing our own lives through the action only intensifies the myth's effect.
Three endings— plus a fourth
I've seen three different endings to the original Swan Lake: (1) Odette dies; (2) she and the Prince both perish; and (3) both of them survive. Each has affected me deeply. Of course, the power of Tchaikovsky's music drives the emotion in any version. The Pennsylvania Ballet seduced me further with Natasha Katz's lighting and the moving characterizations danced by Brooke Moore and Francis Veyette.
But all this powerful music and drama count for nothing in Wheeldon's ending, in which we discover that the Prince was only dreaming. In the final scene, the "Prince" and "Odette" reunite as dancers in the practice room; they're not heroes and swans after all— just performers. If the whole thing was only a dream, what does it matter who lives or dies? And why should anyone get excited about Swan Lake?
This initial reference to a dream leaves open the possibility that Portman's character may not die at the end of the film. Indeed, many elements of Nina's progressive psychosis hint that, beyond a certain point, the majority of the film's horrific hallucinatory action transpires in her head.
Aronofsky intended his film as an adaptation of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. But if Nina only dreamed the events— and more to the point, if she didn't die— then Black Swan renders an inadequate (or at best, incomplete) adaptation of the ballet. This principle also applies to Christopher Wheeldon's recent adaptation of Swan Lake for the Pennsylvania Ballet.
Every girl's father?
Although the story's origins remain unclear, since its 1876 premiere Swan Lake's story has acquired the status of a universally applicable myth. Does the wizard Rothbart represent every girl's father? Is Odette's curse the curse of virginity and sexual innocence? Must every man choose between steadfast virtue and hedonistic vice?
It no longer matters whether or not a man has taken a boat ride before reading Homer's Odyssey. A genuine myth provides a mirror in which men and women alike can see a reflection of their experience— in Swan Lake's case, that of amorous longing, hope, enthrallment, frustration, betrayal and despair.
Myths may originate in historical events, but like works of fiction, they don't exist in reality except via our collective, intentional participation and retelling. Dreams, on the other hand, are a different animal altogether.
Where's the forest?
This distinction matters for Wheeldon's version, which frames the majority of the Swan Lake story as a reverie. Instead of a forest full of swans, we see an unnamed male dancer rehearsing the role of Prince Siegfried in a 19th-Century ballet company's forthcoming production of Swan Lake. He's anguished over a wealthy patron's droit de seigneur intentions toward the ballerinas.
Instead of accosting the patron directly, the male dancer falls into a dream in which he imagines himself the Prince in the traditional Swan Lake story. In his mind, the pederastic patron transforms into Swan Lake's villainous Rothbart, and the rehearsing ballerinas become the flock of swans.
The remainder of the original story plays out in the male dancer's head while he daydreams or enters some anguish-induced catatonic state— it doesn't matter which, because we never see its resolution. In falling back on the framing device of a dream, Wheeldon's adaptation squanders the power of Swan Lake.
Lessons from King Arthur
Dreams, hallucinations and the distorted perceptions of mental illness do occur in reality— but only as figments of the subconscious mind. These subjective mental states yield no objective or verifiable correlative representation in reality. They offer no opportunity for a shared experience (except when we communicate them through speech, artwork or other means—in which case, they cease being dreams).
Waking up in the morning assures us that what took place in our minds didn't actually occur. Myths, on the other hand, sidestep the question of truth entirely. Even when they're debunked by historical research (King Arthur, say, or the Iliad's siege of Troy), these stories still provide a framework for interpreting and understanding our own human experience.
Yet a myth's lack of "truth value" only bolsters its psychological power: Disentangling our minds from questions of truth gives art its power and liberates us to indulge in its effects. Dreams carry neither the same sense of consequence nor the psychological impact.
What rational person (outside of a Shakespeare character) would make important life decisions based on a dream? But a myth (or any literary work) can give us pause and reason to consider our actions. Seeing our own lives through the action only intensifies the myth's effect.
Three endings— plus a fourth
I've seen three different endings to the original Swan Lake: (1) Odette dies; (2) she and the Prince both perish; and (3) both of them survive. Each has affected me deeply. Of course, the power of Tchaikovsky's music drives the emotion in any version. The Pennsylvania Ballet seduced me further with Natasha Katz's lighting and the moving characterizations danced by Brooke Moore and Francis Veyette.
But all this powerful music and drama count for nothing in Wheeldon's ending, in which we discover that the Prince was only dreaming. In the final scene, the "Prince" and "Odette" reunite as dancers in the practice room; they're not heroes and swans after all— just performers. If the whole thing was only a dream, what does it matter who lives or dies? And why should anyone get excited about Swan Lake?
Sign up for our newsletter
All of the week's new articles, all in one place. Sign up for the free weekly BSR newsletters, and don't miss a conversation.
