Rupert Christiansen

Leave Bizet’s Carmen alone

18 June 2022 9:00 am

I’ve always felt uncomfortably ambivalent about the work of Matthew Bourne. Of course, there is no disputing its infectious exuberance…

I suspect this was a rush job: Like Water for Chocolate reviewed

11 June 2022 9:00 am

How much weight of plot can dance carry? Balanchine famously insisted that there are no mothers-in-law in ballet, and masters…

Touching, eclectic and exhilarating: Rambert Dance is in great shape

28 May 2022 9:00 am

Rambert ages elegantly: it might just rank as the world’s oldest company devoted to modern dance (whatever that term might…

Impressive interpretations marred by cuts: Scottish Ballet's The Scandal at Mayerling reviewed

30 April 2022 9:00 am

Sneer all you like at its prolixities and vulgarities but Kenneth MacMillan’s Mayerling remains a ballet that packs an exceptionally…

A fitting swansong from Tamara Rojo: The Forsythe Evening reviewed

9 April 2022 9:00 am

One wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of Tamara Rojo. The most fearsome figure on the British dance…

Why is dance so butch these days?

2 April 2022 9:00 am

For an art form that once boldly set out to question conventional divisions of gender, ballet now seems to be…

Liam Scarlett's enduring legacy: Royal Ballet's Swan Lake reviewed

19 March 2022 9:00 am

Without fanfare or apology, the Royal Ballet appears to have rehabilitated Liam Scarlett, but what a tragic balls-up it has…

The first patrons of Modernism deserve much sympathy and respect

25 September 2021 9:00 am

If Modernism is a jungle, how do you navigate a path through its thickets? Some explorers — Peter Gay and…

La Bayadère was first staged by Marius Petipa at the Bolshoi in 1877, to the music of Ludwig Minkus

Where would ballet be without Marius Petipa?

27 July 2019 9:00 am

Should the man on the Clapham omnibus ever turn his mind to ballet, he is bound to envisage the work…

Florence Foster Jenkins entertains at home

When opera singers can’t sing

7 May 2016 9:00 am

Were Florence Foster Jenkins and her fellow culprits touchingly heroic, cynically fraudulent or just plain bonkers? Rupert Christiansen reports