To burn like cedar, I request another dream, I need a forest fire…

When the curtain rose and James Blake’s echoey beats leaked out, I became aware of every sense.  Jet-lagged as I was, my eyes widened, ears hallowed, body tilted forward- quite literally I sat on the edge of my red velvet seat.

The dancers were lined up and still. Clad in that quintessential, elementary French blue, they looked more like paper dolls than actual humans, each more perfectly cut than the next.  At the snare’s first kick, in unison they ticked a ronde de jambe to B+ and snapped up to elongé.  It was unmistakable Serenadian goodness, a current choreographic genius’s nod to old world classicism.

The four lines moved separately from one another, but in decided consonance, each painting its own layer of the music.  Forsythe’s choreography braided steps together effortlessly, showcasing technique and timing in a celebration of 21st century dance.  Movements were bright and loud, but never boastful.  The ladies tilted hips and flexed hands between turned-in footwork while the men maintained Blake’s syncopated baseline with precise profiles and brisés on the upbeat.

The six movements which followed were pure balletomane bliss.  Much like the soulful, poetic electronica, Forsythe’s neo-classical choreography ranged from spritely to wrenching.  A la Jerome Robbins, much of the ballet felt like it was being danced by the dancers for each other, rather than for the audience.  Parts of it looked like the most fun anyone could have on stage, ever.  Others were magnificently tender.  Blame it on the lack of sleep if you will, but a haunting pas de deux between Léonore Baulac and François Alu nearly brought me to tears.

And how I told you what I’d do, if one day I woke and couldn’t see the colour in anything…