Yesterday I went to the ballet with Bandaid. :) It was great - she was all sexy (RAAAAAAAR!) in her pink fuzzy shirt. I wore all black, but I had a dragon motif and I looked good. (But of course. Am I not always gorgeous?) We arrived downtown early, so we wandered around for an hour, up one street and down the next. We tried to go in the art museum; but it was closed. St. Joseph's cathedral was locked. (In the movies, churches are always open! Why isn't it like that in real life?) I remembered there being a graveyard somewhere on St. Joseph's campus, so we spent a good ten minutes scouring the grounds for it. Apparently, it's a phantom cemetary, for there was none to be found.
As always, the seats were perfect. Dad always gets them smack in the middle. It turns out that this was a tribute to choreographer Donald McKayle, who was actually there at the performaces, and introduced each of his ballets before they began. It made one feel special to have him there, but I am not much for his style of choreography. I will go into why momentarily; but the fact that he was there made everything seem a little bit more special.
The first ballet of the evening was "House of Tears." House of Tears was created specifically for the Cleveland San Jose Ballet and was set to the Nuevo Tango rhythms of "Concerto for Bandonéon" by Astor Piazzolla. It reveals the dark days of the military government in Argentine, where thousands disappeared without a trace. House of Tears offers "stirring proof that a ballet with a provocative political theme rightfully qualifies as mainstage theater." (Lifted from BSJSV's website.) It is nice enough, I suppose, but I don't care for it. I like ballets to tell stories, like Copellia and Swan Lake do. Ballet like this just doesn't do anything for me; the dancing seems contrieved and the rows of soldiers leaping about (simulating marching my ass!) was distracting. The 'gaydar' was wailing loud and clear every time the soldiers pranced by. At the very end, when photos of missing women and children were lowered and everyone was dancing below them, it was momentarily beautiful. But overall (to me) it reeked of mediocrity.
Death of Eros, at least, had an interesting story behind it. It was labeled a "symbolic folk tale of an Inuit fisherman’s confrontation with death." The main character was actually a woman, who had been cast by her father into the sea as a punishment for something terrible. She died and the flesh was stripped from her body by hungry fish. Her spirit remained trapped in her bones; and the years past. A fisherman catches her bones one day and hauls them up to the boat. As he flees in terror, the skeleton follows him. He runs all the way home and lights a fire, only to discover the skeleton traced him all the way and collapsed at his doorstep in a heap of bones. He feels pity, and straightens her bones out and promises to bury her in the morning. He then strips down to a thong (I bet that wasn't in the legend!) and lays down to sleep; as he dreams, he weeps. The skeleton woman senses the salty tears, and drinks them as they fall. (eeeeeew...) She grows her flesh back, becoming one hot naked chick in the process, and has wild monkey sex with the man for the rest of the ballet (which, naturally, is longer than the rest of the ballet combined.) My question is this: His salt tears bring her back to life. She was in the FREAKIN' OCEAN - SALT WATER! Why couldn't that revitalize her? Honestly...
The third ballet, District Storyville, was probably going to be the best; they always save the best for last. But Bandaid was exhausted and I'd seen Storyville before, years and years ago, so we just went home. Inbetween the light rail stop and her house, we had a heap big bitch session, and it was good. ^_^