Welcome to my annual repost of Nutcracker hell.

I wonder if “Nutcracker season” is to a dancer what family holidays are to me:  a terrible obligation one must drag themselves through, no way out, no way out.

But for a 3 minute fabulous peacock in “the movie” and a french acid trip, The Nutcracker is TORTURE.  Especially in Boston.  Which is where I am.  

Maurice Bejart, guilty of nailing “Le Sacre du Printemps” to the cross of choreographic atrocities, in some miracle of redemption does what no one else could:  he makes The Nutcracker a funky fuck-you ballet. 

I don’t like The Nutcracker.  I don’t think Bejart did either. He may have liked BDSM…

What he did with this ballet has nothing to do with Nutcracker princes, little girls in Christmas stupors or  Chinamen. I think there may be a few drag queens and I know for certain that there is, at last, a very, very dark, hypnotic and erotic choreography to this sleepy and secretive piece of magical music. 

The Arabian Dance: the most exotic thing Tchaikovsky ever composed which he then jammed into a boring symphonic sandwich, crazy Russian, has FOR YEARS been squandered sitcom-style.

Bejart  pulled out a plum with this  jewel.  Best Arabian dance ever.  IT IS.   A dancer in a trance, in total submission, kept in a box, being circled by a dominatrix and striking what could be considered vulgar poses were it not for the fact that they are brief and angled slightly away from the viewer is so extremely ANTI-Nutcracker that for a moment you forget something as ridiculous as a Sugar Plum Fairy was ever attached to this Christmas shit show. 

And when you throw the prefix ANTI into just about anything, I am captivated. 

Come now, tell me this confusion is not a fabulous punch to the face of a  tired but trusty choreography and a few haymakers at the some others.  Bejart takes the Nutcracker derails it and just ties it all up in a big wrinkled and frayed bow! Joyeux noel wackos!

This is no “almost”.  This is spot on, absolute fun shit and it won’t come to Boston and is likely performed very little because, damn it, those Flowers gotta Waltz.

No way out.  No way out.

-Fatova