Things we learn from Rasta Thomas’ Rock the Ballet: real men grab their crotches; real men hit their chests in primal elation; real men do grand pliés in second - a lot. Delving further into the land of the stereotypical, we are introduced to the notion of the female as a sex object. Radical. The only onstage presence lacking a Y chromosome is displayed as something is to be desired and won. She struts, she kicks and she flirts. Then it’s time for some more man-dancing. Dubious gender representations aside, the dancers themselves are exceptional. Great virtuoso performances are delivered by artists who excel in both classical technique and acrobatics. Balletic traditions are variously augmented and subverted in an attempt to bring the style into the 21st century. Paired with awesome music from the likes of Queen and Michael Jackson, the choreography seems to show potential. The result, however, is an unconnected and incoherent mix of song and dance. The problem with Rock the Ballet is its lack of depth. The piece does not possess the soul or personality that the music exudes. The power of dance to convey so much in a language without words is lost to artificiality. Yes, the spirit of rock often capitalises on facade, but these guys feel more like members of a little boy band than boundary-breaking icons. Perhaps if they stopped trying to assert their manliness and instead committed to providing the great spectacle that the show aims to, they would be doing more than just pleasuring themselves.
