J Paul Johnson
A behind-the-scenes look at one of the world’s leading ballet companies as it mounts an ambitious new production of Swan Lake, the documentary Swan Song follows the troupe’s director, choreographer, and dancers through the creative process from its inception to its opening night. Director Chelsea McMullan and co-writer/creator Sean O’Neill use a mix of verité-style intimacy and direct-address interviews to weave brainstorming and rehearsal sessions with details of their subjects’ personal lives, in the process illuminating the risks, sacrifices, and challenges of the ballet artists’ commitment to their work.
Ballet icon Karen Kain, perhaps Canada’s most recognizable and renowned ballerina from her acclaimed 1971 performance as Odette/Odile in the National Ballet of Canada’s performance of Swan Lake—which led to her later fame as ballet partner to Rudolf Nureyev—is the film’s primary subject. The National Ballet is planning its comeback from the Coronavirus lockdowns with an unconventional take on Swan Lake with Kain at the helm as she concludes her 16-year tenure as the Ballet’s artistic director with what she hopes is a legacy-defining triumph. Seemingly preternaturally calm and composed, Kain communicates as fluently with her body language and icy stare as she does verbally.
Kain has entrusted the show’s choreography to the affable young Robert Binet, seen often endearingly checking in on his troupe members’ health and soliciting Kain’s feedback. The production is taking some liberties, in particular in Kain’s conception that the Swans are humans trapped and enslaved by Rothbart and liberated by Odette. Its choreography is influenced by, but hardly adherent to, that danced by Kain herself as Odette decades ago, and Binet imports a few nonconventional ideas of his own. He and Kain are both the subject of several staged interviews as well as on-camera during dozens of un-throughs, rehearsals, and production meetings.
Some of what the troupe faces is what one imagines any production might entail, but there is in this the additional pressure of drawing audiences back to the theater in the wake of the Coronavirus restrictions and the National Ballet’s then-flagging attendance. For Kain, it’s a production that may well cement her legacy, especially after her post-Nureyev dancing career stalled. A simple decision that one might take for granted—for instance, whether the company dancers should or should not wear tights—becomes a treatise on race and gender for the culturally diverse troupe and highlights the precarious mental health of one dancer in particular who not too recently subjected herself to cuts on her legs and still bears visible scars.
Over two years in the making, the production features lead dancer Jurgita Dronina—who rose from homelessness in Lithuania to become an internationally renowned star—as Odette, a young woman enjoying an adventure in the woods when she is entrapped by Rothbart (Spencer Hack) and cursed to live, like his other captives, as a swan during the day, until Prince Siegfried (Harrison James) happens upon Odette in her human form and falls in love; together, they plan to rescue the others and escape Rothbart’s reign.
McMullan and O’Neill’s film is as graceful and illuminating as a ballet performance itself, smoothly integrating verité footage of rehearsals and the opening-night performance from multiple perspectives alongside Kain’s, Binet’s, and Dronina’s interviews. The three do not always see eye-to-eye-to-eye but communicate dissensus more with body language and nonverbal signals than words; even so, the camerawork and editing deftly communicates what each principal is thinking even when they’re not saying such out loud. McMullan and O’Neill also spend time with several of the dancers, especially Shae Estrada, whose chain-smoking and biker-jacket-wearing persona contrasts with her precarious mental and physical wellness, and Tene Ward, who explains the relationship between white tights, outdated traditions, and ingrained racism in a way Kain had never anticipated—yet, it should be noted, unquestioningly accommodates.
Swan Song, which after its TIFF debut ran also as a four-part mini-series on CBC, seamlessly connects all these complex dots, from pre-production meetings to the opening-night debut, with excellent cinematography and deft editing of nearly 500 hours’ worth of footage. Executive-produced by Neve Campbell (who trained at the National Ballet), its intent is clearly to recognize the commitment and talent of those who sacrifice for their art, especially with high stakes. It may seem at times—in its depictions of rehearsals and especially in its sentimental conclusion—a little too glowing in its endorsement of Kain, the troupe, and the production, as it was highly successful if not necessarily universally well received. Yet even so, Swan Song serves as a fitting testament to the artistry it so richly depicts.
