Arielle Smith – British Ballet Now & Then

Spotlight on English National Ballet’s Carmen

I have always thought you would kill me. The very first time I saw you I had just met a priest at the door of my house. And tonight, as we were going out of Cordova, didn’t you see anything? A hare ran across the road between your horse’s feet. It is fate. (Mérimée 44)

Carmen is having a moment! This year marks the 150^th anniversary of Georges Bizet’s celebrated opera, and new ballet adaptations have been created by Arielle Smith for San Francisco Ballet (April 2024) and by Annabelle Lopez Ochoa for Miami City Ballet (April 2025). As you may remember, both of these choreographers have featured in previous British Ballet Now & Then blog posts. In this post, however, we are focussing on Johan Inger’s Carmen, created in 2015 and now in the repertoire of English National Ballet.

Last year’s English National Ballet premiere was our first encounter with Inger’s Carmen. On first viewing we were mostly struck by the performances of the dancers. We had seen Minju Kang before with Northern Ballet, and of course we were hoping to see her in Kenneth Tindall’s Geisha, which was created on her, but we had no idea how feisty she was. Unsurprisingly, James Streeter received praise as Zuñiga, Don José’s commanding officer (from critics Teresa Guerreiro and Deborah Weiss, for instance), and Erik Woolhouse was sensational as Torero. Erik is our favourite ever Birbanto in Le Corsaire—another extrovert, audacious character, and we are still hoping to catch him as Hilarion in Akram Khan’s Giselle.

Minju Kang as Carmen and Erik Woolhouse as Torero in Johan Inger’s Carmen © Laurent Liotardo

The set design by Estudio Dedos is another aspect of the work that we found very satisfying on first night: sets that create different spaces in a fluid and symbolic way capture our imagination (like the black cube in Annabelle Lopez Ochoa’s Broken Wings, or the bookcases in Cathy Marston’s Victoria). As set designer Curt Allen explains, “the entire set arises out of one shape: an equilateral triangle”. Nine 3-sided prisms are moved around the stage space transporting the audience from mundane tobacco factory to glittering party venue to the foreboding mountains of Don José’s flight. Each side of each prism is different—mirror, concrete, black corrugated material—inviting parallels with the triangular relationship central to the dark tale: “three are a crowd, three stir up jealousy, three, alas, erupt into violence” (Allen).

James-Streeter as Zuniga, Minju Kang as Carmen and Rentaro Nakaaki as Don Jose in Johan Inger’s Carmen © Laurent Liotardo

Set, movement and music work together synergistically, like a Gesamtkunskwerk (total art work) that results in more than the sum of its parts. Rodion Schedrin’s 1967 orchestration of Georges Bizet’s opera (1875) has additional percussion, which adds a layer of energy, and maybe even suggests the violence that so interests Inger. But new music by Marc Àlvarez is integrated into this existing score to explore Don José’s inner world. What we found so impressive was the seamlessness of the result, a seamlessness that supports the recurring shifting between the tangible world and Don José’s inner torment.

The focus on Don José rather than on Carmen herself was something unexpected. However, given that Inger went back to Prosper Mérimeé’s 1845 novella, in which Don José tells the narrator his life story, after giving himself up and being condemned for Carmen’s murder, this focus was understandable. Yet despite Inger’s aim to explore the darkness of Don José’s psyche and expose the story’s domestic violence against women (qtd. in Compton), we found ourselves sympathising more with the tortured Don José than the deviant Carmen. It is Don José who both brings Act I to a close and then starts Act II with an unnerving running motif, and while he is clearly running from the authorities after killing Zuñiga, the vicious undercurrents of the score speak of a man desperately attempting to escape from himself and his own obsession.

Rentaro Nakaaki as Don Jose in Johan Inger’s Carmen © Laurent Liotardo

We wondered whether our sympathy was also connected to the casting. Rentaro Nakaaki, a young dancer who joined the Company in 2018 and almost still looks like a teenager, has an air of naivety about him. Critic Jenny Gilbert commented on the effect of his “loose-limbed dancing” on her sympathetic reaction to the character, stating that he “was a joy to watch throughout”. But on subsequent viewings we still found ourselves sympathising with this character. Inger himself aims to be “honest” and “very human” in his choreography “to get to the people beneath” (qtd. in Compton), and his choreography for Don José accentuates the character’s struggles, with ample solo time for dancers to explore nuances in interpretation. For example, Aitor Arrieta seemed to highlight the character’s concern for his image and his desire to “do the right thing”. There was an awareness of and anxiety about the incongruities in his behaviour, so the tension was driven by his desperate struggle to resist his urges and hang on to his sense of self. In contrast, Fernando Carratalá Coloma seemed to succumb to the inevitable with less resistance, and his desperation was more an expression of his grief at unrequited desire, and his perceived lack of agency in the situation.

Something we struggled with was what we saw as something of a disconnect between Inger’s description of Carmen as a “feminist” and the way Carmen, and indeed the other Cigarreras, were represented on the stage. When the women enter the first time and dance in unison, they appear to take charge of the space as powerful determinants of their own destiny: most of all we remember the motif of the low wide fourth position, their arms in attitude greque and their gaze directed firstly to the audience and then on repeat to Zuñiga. But they are also brazen and flirt outrageously, as well as fighting amongst themselves in a way that could be perceived as disempowering. We found it difficult not to interpret the way they strut their stuff as inviting the male gaze rather than challenging it and wondered whether a female choreographer would present them differently. On the other hand, Carmen’s refusal to play by societal rules that demand a certain behaviour from her afford her a strength of character that Don José, so bound by those rules, lacks.

Francesca Velicu as The Boy and Rentaro Nakaaki as Don Jose in Johan Ingers Carmen © Laurent Liotardo

We always enjoy ambiguity in a work, so we were intrigued by The Boy, who is in fact performed by a female dancer. Significantly, they frame the whole narrative, perhaps symbolising youth and innocence that ultimately breaks down, but possibly also representing an integral feature of Don José’s character, even a stereotypically feminine side. Here we are thinking in particular of his longing for domesticity, and the reticence of his public demeanour, particularly in contrast to the other male protagonists, and in fact to Carmen and the other Cigarreras. To us this reticence was really noticeable in Carratalá Coloma’s posture on his first entrance, and in the way that Nakaaki was at times a palpable presence on stage, but without being central to the action—more like an onlooker.

One of the scenes that stood out was a trio with Don José, Carmen and The Boy that represents Don José’s vision of domestic bliss in the middle of a vicious fight with Carmen. It was noticeable that this pas de trois, which struck us as rather humorous, even ironic, was choreographed to the music that is given to the central pas de deux for Carmen and Don José in Roland’s Petit’s 1949 choreography for himself and Zizi Jeanmaire.

Other ambiguous characters are The Shadows, dressed in black, who seemed to us to represent fate—fate that Carmen is all too aware of in Mérimée’s novella. The presence of fate manifests itself in the structure of Inger’s piece, beginning and ending as it does with The Boy and one of The Shadows. As the work progresses The Shadows multiply and visibly draw it to its climax. It is as if they are the driver of Don José’s obsession, and as if Carmen’s death at his hand were preordained by some inexorable force—maybe even societal forces that drive the way we construct gender and therefore perceive man- and womanhood.

It’s noticeable that although we see Carmen philandering with her other lovers, the only duet she performs is with Don José. And the mirroring in the choreography clearly communicates a connection between them. But despite this, Carmen’s behaviour demonstrates that she is in no way tempted to accept Don José as a permanent fixture in her life. And then again we wondered whether this connection were simply a figment of Don José’s imagination, or wishful thinking on his part.

Minju Kang as Carmen and Rentaro Nakaaki as Don Jose in Johan Inger’s Carmen © Laurent Liotardo

We are very aware that we have focused a lot of attention on Don José in this post, but that, we feel, is a reflection of Inger’s work. Carmen’s character is clear from her actions: she is energetic, fiery and independent, but also violent, rude and unfeeling. We wondered whether, if she had more solo material, we would see more depth in her character.

We found Matthew Paluch’s perspective helpful. He says:

Femicide is a deeply uncomfortable, pressingly current topic, but it doesn’t make the premise of Carmen any easier to swallow. Inger’s Carmen is very difficult to like, as her raison d’être seems to have zero consideration for others, so the audience is presented with questions as to how we approach her demise. It’s a very conflicting tactic.

We relish the wealth of possible meanings engendered by Inger’s ballet, and we appreciate the perplexing nature of the work. To us it seems to reflect Carmen’s words to Don José before he murders her:

You mean to kill me, I see that well. It is fate. But you’ll never make me give in … You are my rom [husband], and you have the right to kill your romi, but Carmen will always be free. (Mérimée 46)

Nonetheless, this is a work by a male choreographer, commissioned by a male artistic director (José Carlos Martínez), and based on a novella by a male writer, made famous by a male composer. The two recent adaptations that we mentioned at the start of this post have been created by female choreographers, and commissioned by female artistic directors (Tamara Rojo and Lourdes Lopez, respectively). Both choreographers have noted the emphasis on Don José in the original story and expressed their desire to present a work more focussed on Carmen herself:

The very basic theme, that I think is powerful, is it’s a piece about a woman … And that, for me, on the very basic level, was my job, was to make this piece Carmen’s story; otherwise we shouldn’t call it Carmen. (Smith 07:15-07:34)

I wanted my ballet to be more about a strong woman that yearns to be independent, that wants a job and that wants to go higher in the social rankings. (Ochoa 0:32-01:46)

Crucial for us is that both Carmens are involved in business: Smith’s heroine takes over the family restaurant, while Ochoa’s protagonist develops her career from card dealer to poker queen. This gives them a different kind of agency to Mérimeé’s creation: feisty and rebellious though she may be, the original Carmen does not use her wit and intelligence to better her lot in life or resist her fate, but accepts that her community can demand her life if she refuses to conform to its mores.

Carmen is clearly a seductive subject matter for artistic creators, but with its themes of violence and cultural stereotyping, an increasingly difficult one. We welcome further balletic investigations into Carmen’s character, but for starters we would love to see the interpretations of Arielle Smith and Annabelle Lopez Ochoa on a UK stage.

With thanks to Jodie Nunn for her contribution to the writing of this post

References

Allen, Curt. “Setting the Scene.” Programme for Johan Inger’s Carmen at Sadlers Wells Theatre, English National Ballet, London, 2024.

Crompton, Sarah. “Getting under the skin of Carmen: interview with Johan Inger.” Programme for Johan Inger’s Carmen at Sadlers Wells Theatre, English National Ballet, London, 2024.

Gilbert, Jenny. “Carmen, English National Ballet review”. The Arts Desk, 3 Apr. 2024, https://theartsdesk.com/dance/carmen-english-national-ballet-review-lots-energy-even-violence-nothing-new-say.

Guerreiro, Teresa. “English National Ballet, Carmen Review”. Culture Whisper, 28 Mar. 2024, https://www.culturewhisper.com/r/dance/english_national_ballet_carmen_sadlers_wells/17825.

Mérimée, Prosper. Carmen. Alpha Editions, 2021.

Ochoa, Annabelle Lopez. “Carmen: In Conversation”. YouTube, uploaded by Miami City Ballet, April 2025, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-vXgM9B8XdM.

Paluch, Matthew. “Review: English National Ballet – Carmen”. Broadway World, 28 Mar. 2024, https://www.broadwayworld.com/westend/article/Review-ENGLISH-NATIONAL-BALLET-CARMEN-Sadlers-Wells-20240328.

Smith, Arielle. “‘She never felt like the protagonist of her own story’”. YouTube, uploaded by San Francisco Ballet, 16 Nov. 2023, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lfdCAk7FbOM.

Weiss, Deborah. “English National Ballet: Johan Inger’s Carmen is chillingly topical”. Backtrack, 28 Mar. 2024, https://bachtrack.com/review-carmen-johan-inger-english-national-ballet-sadlers-wells-march-2024.

Watching with British Ballet Now and Then: English National Ballet’s New Dance Films

We are excited. This year has seen so many performances cancelled, new productions put on hold, new choreographies postponed. And now, over the weeks leading up to Christmas, English National Ballet are releasing five brand new dance films …

Take Five Blues

Photos: English National Ballet in Take Five Blues, a film by Shaun James Grant, choreographed by Stina Quagebeur © English National Ballet

Choreography: Stina Quagebeur

Filmmaker: Shaun James Grant

On a gloomy, overhung Thursday afternoon we are eager to see some positive signs of hope, even if only on our screens.

Take Five Blues begins with some of our favourite dancers entering the space … casually, as if in anticipation of the energy to come: Aitor Arietta, a long-time favourite; Fernando Carratalà Coloma, whom we admired so much as the Messenger of Death in Song of the Earth; Rentaro Nakaaki, who impressed us so much last year in Emerging Dancer; Katya Kaniukova, sassy as ever, and Shiori Kase with her joyous turns and luminous presence.

Choreographer Stina Quagebeur wants it to feel like we’re in the room with the dancers, and in fact we are reminded of watching class. The visible energy. The audible energy. Moments of relaxation to take breath. The spurring on of colleagues. Personalities gleaming through the movement. But the globes of soft light hanging over the dark stage space evoke an ambiance of a different ilk.

There is a serendipitous moment when Fernando Carratalà Coloma and Henry Dowden reach the height of a jump in complete synchrony.

Unwittingly our lecturer hats are donned and we start to admire the structure of the work: individual dancers merge into clumps of synchronous movement – they scoop down and reach forward, scoop and reach in an easy rhythm – and then peel off one by one. Breathtaking virtuosic display is juxtaposed with movements in slow motion. Roaming camera angles lend added texture to the patterns and rhythms of the choreography.

But ultimately we are captivated by the buoyant sway of the dancing to the familiar tones and rhythms of Paul Desmond’s Take Five and Bach’s Vivace in Nigel Kennedy’s ebullient arrangement. We laugh as all the male dancers collapse to the floor at the end.

The gloom of the Thursday afternoon is gone.

Senseless Kindness

Photos: Isaac Hernandez, Francesco Gabriele Frola and Alison McWhinney in Senseless Kindness a film by Thomas James with choreography by Yuri Possokhov © English National Ballet & Emma Hawes and Francesco Gabriele Frola in Senseless Kindness a film by Thomas James with choreography by Yuri Possokhov © English National Ballet

Choreography: Yuri Possokhov

Filmmaker: Thomas James

From the trailer of Senseless Kindness we know that the tone is quite different from Take Five Blues. Here darkness reflects a more melancholy and sombre mood. While the whirling turns in Take Five Blues were exuberant in spirit, here Isaac Hernández spins himself into a vortex of frantic energy.

Monochrome hues, shafts of light steaming through the darkness create atmospheric spaces evoking sites of conflict and flight, fear and anxiety; and sites of momentary peace and joy.

The two couples, perfectly matched, conveying the sense of being connected by family, move fluidly together from shape to shape like kinetic sculpture. Unison intensifies the sense of togetherness, but then the couples find their own spaces to express their own identities.

Shostakovich’s Piano Trio No. 1 catches at us with the tension of its edgy strings and percussive keyboard, giving rise to angular, staccato movement for the male dancers, performed with urgent attack and dramatic intensity. Lyrical passages bring forth movements that melt into slow motion and blurred lines, like memories passing across the mind. From time to time the dappled faces emerge and the camera hovers over tenderness, longing, sadness. But then a smile crosses our lips at the warm playfulness of a pas de bourrée.

Speaking of the meaning of his work as a reflection of life, choreographer Yuri Possokhov muses: “so many negative things and so many positive things at the same time” (documentary 5:10-5:14).

Isaac Hernández’ vortical spins swiftly unravel into an ecstatic attitude reaching for the sky.

In Senseless Kindness everything is shadows and light.

Laid in Earth

Photos: James Streeter and Jeffrey Cirio in Laid in Earth, a film by Thomas James, choreographed by Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui © English National Ballet

Choreography: Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui

Filmmaker: Thomas James

Twenty-four hours on and we are still haunted by Laid in Earth. Images of a Stygian forest and lake flit through our heads. The underworld has been recreated for us, inhabited by four beings who twist and curl like the gnarled branches surrounding them. Sometimes their limbs mutate into branches. Sometimes they fuse spookily with the forest itself, their bodies becoming sites for forest growth. Jeffrey Cirio’s character rarely moves far from the ground: he slides and spins seamlessly over it, sinks softly into it, allowing gravity to release him down. Mesmerizing costumes and make-up seal the oneness of dancers and their environment.

Erina Takahashi’s distilled energy gives an eerie glow to her being, drawing us to her as the central figure. She almost takes the hand of her shadow Precious Adams, but they seem wary. They reflect one another in the dark waters. James Streeter and Jeffrey Cirio mirror one another on the dark ground. In the duet Erina Takahashi and James Streeter coil around one another in a dance of sorrow.

Laid in Earth brings Giselle to mind – the Wilis inhabiting the shadowy forest, their hems damp from the water of the lake above which they hover, and maybe from the early morning dew as they dissolve into the morning’s mist. Hearing Dido’s plangent tones “Remember me”, we recall the rosemary branch that transforms Giselle into a Wili.

If everything in Senseless Kindness is shadows and light, then everything in Laid to Earth is shadows and darkness.

Echoes

Photo: Fernanda Oliveira and Fabian Reimair in Russell Maliphant’s Echoes a film by Michael Nunn & William Trevitt © English National-Ballet

Choreography: Russell Maliphant

Filmmakers: Michael Nunn & William Trevitt

Over the weeks we have noticed that all the new choreographies have different casts, so every week we are seeing different dancers. For us it feels like a big bonus to see a range of dancers from the Company (not to mention its egalitarian spirit). But it’s also exhilarating to watch the dancers being challenged by movement styles that are unfamiliar to them. This is noticeable to us this week in Russell Maliphant’s Echoes. In the documentary we particularly enjoy Fabian Reimar and Fernanda Oliviera talk about both the challenges and the satisfaction of working with Maliphant in the studio with his task-based approach to the creative process, the groundedness of his choreography, the liquid dynamic of his movement – “like the ocean”, as Fernanda says (1:00-1:02).

Fernanda and Fabian dancing together is like a pas de deux of the ocean waves. Moving seamlessly together as one, waves of motion repeatedly merge into one another.

Along with Fabian Reimar, Isabelle Brouwers is a dancer whom we admire greatly. Both can bring vibrant drama to the simplest of movements. This we have witnessed in Akram Khan’s Giselle when they perform the Landlord and Bathilde respectively. In Echoes we witness it once again as Fabian looms on the screen with his rich and resonant presence.

When Isabelle dances in classical pas she radiates an incandescent glow. In Echoes her glow is hushed, softly diffused, though ever present, subsumed in the hypnotic swirling of the group.

Again and again we note the soft passive weight of the dancers. Then the movement accelerates, becoming electrifying as the dancers swiftly free flow between heavier passive weight and strong active weight. The dance reaches its whirling crescendo.

As the piece moves to a close, alone on the stage, Junor Souza spirals continuously, an echo of what has passed that reverberates into the future as the image hovers in our minds …

And once again we leave our screen with optimism, not only about the survival of ballet, but even about its potential revival.

Jolly Folly

Photos: English National Ballet in Jolly Folly, a film by Amy Becker-Burnett, choreographed by Arielle Smith © English National Ballet & Francesca Velicu, Ken Saruhashi and Julia Conway in Arielle Smith’s Jolly Folly a film by Amy Becker-Burnett © English National Ballet

Choreography: Arielle Smith

Filmmakers: Amy Becker-Burnett

Boxing Day. Jolly Folly was released almost a week ago, but anything with the name Jolly Folly just seems to be made for Boxing Day. And we’re told that this piece is reminiscent of “Old Hollywood”, and what else is Boxing Day for but whiling away the hours, spinning out the nostalgia over well loved classic movies? The trailer has already revealed fantasy locations, and a single row of dancers scooting away from the line, one by one, in precise canon. Busby Berkeley comes to mind …

We chuckle at the of irony in this 16-minute dance film being divided into three acts – that iconic structure that we tend to associate with the grandeur and scale of the late 19^th century classics and the “full-length” dramas of Kenneth MacMillan. Each act is announced by the flickering sound of a film projector …

Quizzical looks and quirky walks on the black-and-white screen remind us of Charlie Chaplin. We’re not well versed in Chaplin’s films, but the dim street lighting of Act I makes us think of the waterfront in his 1931 City Lights, while the boxing ring shenanigans are an unmistakable reference to the prize fight from the same film. Dinner jackets, white tie and tails worn by the dancers are all part of the “Gentleman Tramp’s” wardrobe.

From gentle-smile to laugh-out-loud, the humour is enhanced by Arielle Smith’s use of the score – the Klazz Brothers’ Classic Meets Cuba. Joseph Caley and Ken Saruhashi sashay and pirouette to “Cuba Danube”. All nonchalance, they press up and sway from side to side in a backbend bridge, then leap and cartwheel over one another to the reworking of Johann Strauss II’s “The Blue Danube”.

Act II brings us an exquisite fulfilment of our Boxing Day thinking, as the chimes of the Sugar Plum Fairy morph into a paradoxically unsettling accompaniment to a world of grey clouds and craggy rocks, where the dancers strut across the space, hands in pockets, in a slightly menacing way, almost as if we’ve strayed into film noir territory.

But with ever-changing vistas, coat-tails flying in elegant chaînés and suspended arabesques, Act III takes us back to the safe shores of Busby Berkeley and Fred Astaire. Dancers skitter lightly across the space to the whimsical rendition of Mozart’s speedy “Rondo à la Turque”. Jolly Folly ends in a gleeful final pose.

Epilogue

We were sorely disappointed. Having booked our tickets to see these new choreographies onstage, we were “only” able to watch them on our screens. But we were wrong … or at least half wrong …

In the end we discover that it’s not “only” on our screens. These films are something to be treasured as a development in ballet making and ballet performance – they are not simply something to fill the gap left by the lack of live performances.

Nonetheless, we can’t wait to see them live on the theatre stage. That moment can’t come too soon.