My only previous experience of Ballet was three years ago when I saw the Nutcracker at Manchester Opera House. That was okay, but I wouldn’t have been too sorry if ballet turned out to be a once in a lifetime experience. It didn’t touch me.
Yet I was very keen to catch Carlos Acosta at the Lowry for the Manchester International Festival. He is the Cuban truck driver’s son – youngest of eleven – who skipped school and dreamt of being a footballer, but went on to become the greatest dancer of his generation.
More knowledgeable reviewers have pointed to a lack of spectacle, but from where I was sitting Acosta’s combination of strength and grace was plenty spectacular.
The four dances flew by, each short piece complementing the other. This was dance as mating ritual, with the narcissism of each performance playing to the voyeurism of the audience.