The Origins of Coppelia

A few weeks ago the Secret Victorianist was back at the New York City Ballet (see my thoughts on the NYCB’s Nutcracker here) for a production of Coppelia, the perennially popular story of a man who believes his doll has come to life. The ballet premiered in Paris in 1870, with music by Leo Delibes, libretto by Charles-Louis-Étienne Nuitter and choreography by Arthur Saint-Léon. The New York City Ballet uses Balachine and Danilova’s 1974 choreography.

The NYCB's Coppelia

Coppelia plays with many of the tropes of European folklore and fairy-tale. Lovers fight and are reunited, youngsters trick old men, reality isn’t always in line with appearances. But watching the NYCB’s production made me wonder about the origins of this nineteenth-century ballet, conceived in a time when clockwork toys were all the rage, not quaint reminders of a distant past.

Coppelia was in fact inspired a story penned by E.T.A. Hoffmann, whose novella The Nutcracker and the Mouse King inspired Christmas-favourite The Nutcracker. In 1815 short story Der Sandmann, protagonist Nathanael turns away from loving childhood sweetheart Clara, enraptured by the beautiful Olimpia, who turns out to be an automaton.

There are multiple similarities here. One of Olimpia’s creators goes by the names Copellius and Coppola, directly influencing the names used in the ballet. The dolls in both stories sit on balconies, apparently reading, while watched by pining lovers. And in both cases a man abandons his former love for a fantasy, calling into question the fragility of reality and the fickleness of masculine desire.

But the differences are even more revealing. In the ballet abandoned fiancée Swanhilda steals the show, mimicking the movements of a doll to trick lonely inventor Dr Coppelius and her untrustworthy lover. In Der Sandmann Clara merely suffers patiently and can only enjoy her happy ending after Nathanael’s death.

In the comedy it is the inventor who must be humbled by the end, with order returned to the village and youngsters dancing off neatly in pairs. But in the unnerving and Gothic story, Nathanael’s fate changes the nature of relationships between men and women, with lovers now doubting not only their partners’ sincerity, but also their humanity.

Finally a central theme of Hoffmann’s survives into the NYCB’s choreography in just a couple of moments, where Swanhilda mocks the blinking of the doll’s mechanical eyes. In Der Sandmann the idea of sight is ever present. The threat of the sandman blinding them is used to scare children to bed, a telescope allows Nathanael to ‘see’ Olimpia, without really understanding what she is, and the devastating revelation that she’s just a toy comes when he finds her eyes discarded on the ground.

'Ava' in Ex Machina

It’s easy to think of modern equivalents for these two very different approaches to the idea of women designed for men. The doll Coppelia is the precursor to the fem-bots in Austin Powers, the ballet equivalent of the blow-up doll carried around at a bachelor party. But Olimpia has more kinship with Ava in Ex Machina or an army of Stepford Wives.

Audiences will continue to delight in the unabashed silliness of one of the world’s most popular ballets, to revel in the quaintness of the toy store set, the nostalgia of Germanic villages decked out by ribbons and flowers. But I couldn’t help wishing for a modern take on Coppelia in a world of AI, sex-bots and catfishing.

Do you know of any NYC productions you’d love the Secret Victorianist to watch? Let me know—here, on Facebook or by tweeting @SVictorianist.

10 thoughts I had watching The Nutcracker as an adult

With Christmas just around the corner, the Secret Victorianist went to Lincoln Center this week for the New York City Ballet’s production of The Nutcracker.

Tchaikovsky’s 1892 work was the first full-length ballet I saw as a child and watching the excited children arriving for this performance, decked out in dance clothes and party dresses, brought back many fond memories.

But what goes through your head when you’re watching The Nutcracker as a much more cynical adult, and without a child in tow? Read on to find out…

Image from the NYC Ballet's production

1. I wish it was acceptable for me to dress like Clara. Could I get away with a large pink hair bow? I could definitely get away with a large pink hair bow. Maybe I should embrace Lolita fashion.

2. I’m glad I didn’t have to decorate that Christmas tree — it’s huge.

3. The adults don’t seem to be having much fun at this party. Where’s the punch?

4. These toys are very gendered. Somebody complain to Target.

5. And now the tree is even bigger? Ain’t nobody got time for that.

Image from the NYC Ballet's production

6. Call the exterminator! Are they mice? Are they rats? Either way, somebody kill them quick.

7. Clara is outside in a nightgown? While snowflakes are dancing around her? Give that child a coat!

Image from the NYC Ballet's production

8. Clara, you’re too young to find a prince. Wait a few years. Keep playing with your dolls before you play the field.

9. A strong female leader? Who gets to wear a tiara and tutu? I’m very pro-Sugar Plum Fairy. This story is more feminist than I thought.

Image from the NYC Ballet's production

10. So much Christmas. Casual racism. Overwhelming nostalgia. All the feels.

Do you know of any other NYC productions you think the Secret Victorianist would enjoy? Let me know – here, on Facebook or by tweeting @SVictorianist.

Merry Christmas from the Secret Victorianist – Holiday Entertainments in New York City

There’s something undeniably Victorian about Christmas entertainments—both musical and theatrical—especially when they have multigenerational appeal.

In the last week, the Secret Victorianist was lucky enough to attend two productions often performed during the festive season and designed to appeal to the whole family—one with nineteenth-century, and the other with eighteenth-century, origins.

First up was Christmas ballet The Nutcracker, performed by the Gelsey Kirkland Ballet company in DUMBO, Brooklyn. The premiere of Tchaikovsky’s masterpiece was in 1892 at the Marinsky Theatre in St. Petersburg, but the ballet didn’t enjoy consistent repetition in the early years.

With Russia’s ballet dancers fleeing the revolution in the early twentieth century, The Nutcracker wasn’t performed in Europe until 1927, when it was danced in Budapest, coming to London in 1934. With the release of Disney’s Fantasia in 1940, the now ubiquitous score became recognisable to American audience, but the first New York Nutcracker wasn’t until 1954.

In the Gelsey Kirkland Ballet’s production, the girl at the centre of this festive fairy tale is Marie, as in E.T.A Hoffman’s 1816 story The Nutcracker and the Mouse King, rather than the now more common Clara (I blogged two years ago about the name ‘Clara’ and its Victorian history).

Dawn Milatin stars and does a beautiful job capturing the character’s childlike excitement in Act One, before progressing to be a fully-fledged and more adult prima ballerina in Act Two. In this production, there is no Sugar Plum Fairy, no Land of Sweets. The focus is firmly on Marie and her Nutcracker Prince, danced by Erez Milatin – Dawn’s husband.

The central pair excels and there are also captivating performances from the dancers playing the various ambassador dolls, but the standard of the lesser performers varies slightly (as you’d expect with the number of young dancers who are still in the Academy).

Overall, despite some creaks in the set and the huge size of the collective company, the ballet was a joy – brimming with character and emotion and clearly delighting the hoards of young ballet-goers gathered for the occasion, arraigned in their tutus and excited to experience a Christmas classic for the first time.

Next up was the Manhattan Opera Studio’s rendition of Mozart’s The Magic Flute at the Weill Recital Hall at Carnegie Hall.

The opera premiered in Vienna in 1791 and enjoyed immediate popularity, racking up 100 performances in the first year alone. With its magical subject matter and array of colourful characters, the work continues to be loved by opera fans and those new to the art form, acting as a gateway opera, just as The Nutcracker is a gateway ballet.

Weill Recital Hall

The Manhattan Opera Studio’s performance was a celebration of the organisation’s 125^th anniversary and brought the magic of the story to life, even in the intimate recital hall, without the elaborate sets I’d seen in the Met’s production earlier in the year. The costuming however nodded to the work's rich performance history, with Sarastro (Hans Tashijan) in particular decked out so extravagantly he had to move sideways through the exit.

The standard of singing was high, with Kyle van Schoonhoven as Tamino and the three ladies (Bridget Casey, Angela Dinkelman and Brittany Catalano) giving particularly good performances. And Nina Kassis, as the Queen of the Night, succeeded in hitting the high notes of the opera's famous arias. The acting however was definitely clunky, most noticeably in the more comic moments with Pagageno (Siddharth Dubey). I felt a little relieved every time the cast resumed singing.

The recital-style performance in the gorgeous setting of the Hall (in use since the Carnegie’s opening in 1891) was a wonderful experience. Seeing the singers so close is something you don’t get exposure to in the cavernous Lincoln Centre and I also enjoyed being able to watch pianist and conductor Michael Wittenburg, who was onstage alongside the actors.

I’d love to hear what entertainments you and your family are enjoying this Holiday season, in New York and elsewhere. Let me know – here, on Facebook or by tweeting @SVictorianist. Merry Christmas, and thanks for following!

'Can you mention Clara's name, and that woman's name, in the same breath?'

‘Nice name. Clara. You should definitely keep it.’, The Doctor, Doctor Who: The Snowmen (2012).

Matt Smith as The Doctor and Jenna-Louise Coleman as Clara Oswald

I recently reviewed Wilkie Collins’s Basil (1852) for this blog and mentioned the character of Clara – the virtuous sexless sister whose pure love serves as a redemptive antidote to the dangerous and destructive sexuality of Margaret Sherwin. So far, so standard. Clara, from the Latin, meaning ‘famous’, ‘clear’, ‘bright’, seems an obviously symbolic choice of name for the fair and angelic woman who tries to save Basil in his dreams and in reality, and who is spoken of throughout in the language of praise (‘My sister!—well may I linger over your beloved name in such a record as this!’).

But on reflection, I noticed that Basil’s Clara isn't the only fictional Victorian sister named Clara to have these qualities. Sticking to the world of sensation, there are two more – this time in the novels of Mary Elizabeth Braddon. First up, Clara Talboys, in Lady Audley’s Secret (1862), who is another woman defined by her relationship with her brother. She says:

‘I have been allowed neither friends nor lovers. My mother died when I was very young. My father has always been to me what you saw him today. I have had no one but my brother. All the love that my heart can hold has been centred upon him.’

And, like Basil’s Clara, her beauty and worth is located firmly in her capacity for self-sacrificing suffering:

‘His cousin was pretty, his uncle's wife was lovely, but Clara Talboys was beautiful. Niobe's face, sublimated by sorrow, could scarcely have been more purely classical than hers.’

Using the classical figure of Niobe, the archetypal suffering mother, highlights the sexlessness of Clara’ passion here – and it is this purity, conversely, which Robert Audley finds so attractive. Throughout the novel, the other figure Clara is compared with is her brother George (it is the first thing Robert notices about her: ‘the whole length of the room divided this lady from Robert, but he could see that she was young, and that she was like George Talboys’), so much so that Robert’s eventual union with her has been read as a surrogate for his homosexual longing for his friend. The marriage between these two – whose passions have been more focussed on Clara’s brother than each other – is similar to the conclusion of Basil, where the hero’s life alone with his sister, both unmarried, has incestuous undertones, and also to Collins’s The Woman in White (1859), where Marian’s presence in Walter’s household sets up a strange three-way union where the boundaries between sibling and sexual love are not clearly determined.

Second, Braddon’s Black Band; or the Mysteries of Midnight (1861-2) deals with the trials of ballet-girl Clara Melville, whose purity in the face of attempted rapes, seductions and kidnaps serves as a foil to the immorality of the sexually loose and murderous Lady Edith, just as Collins’s Clara is contrasted with Margaret, and Clara Talboys is compared with Lady Audley. Clara is also a sister, who works long hours to support her family, but, with a sleight of hand which gestures towards a more controversial viewpoint, Braddon actually goes so far as to suggest that women who fail to live up the ideal of sexual purity could have similarly familial motivations. The narrator says of the ballet-girls who succumb to prostitution:

‘Weep for them; pity; but do not harshly blame them! Poorly paid at the best, with perhaps a drunken father or an invalid mother to support- perhaps the only provider for a band of helpless little sisters – sorely tempted by base and cruel men who hold the ballet-girl only as a toy made to minister to their amusement , and to be cast aside for some newer fancy.

‘Weep for them, poor erring sisters! and remember that frail though many of them may have been, yet in the ranks of the ballet are still every day to be found devoted daughters, self-sacrificing sisters, and true and affectionate wives.’

Braddon professes to maintain a distinction between girls who ‘fall’ and those who do not - her conclusion that ‘in the ranks of the ballet are still every day to be found’ examples of female virtue, can be read as suggesting the continuance of some of the performers’ chastity. But the whole force of the passage works against this distinction.

The repetition of the word ‘sisters’, along with pathetic adjectives, for the fallen women (‘poor erring sisters’), the chaste women (‘self-sacrificing sisters’),  and the households both groups support (‘helpless little sisters’) suggests that there is no difference between the ballet-girls. Domestic feeling can lead to prostitution as these women struggle to help their families, and, even more directly, the qualities attributed to those who are ‘true’ - being affectionate, devoted and self-sacrificing - can be the very qualities which lead to becoming a man’s mistress.

As we see Braddon and Collins playing with the figure of the pure and selfless sister to different effect, the question remains about why they choose the name Clara to do this, beyond its obvious symbolism. The increasing popularity of the name in the nineteenth century could prove a clue – how fashionable it was across Europe is suggested by the use of the name in Tchaikovsky’s ballet The Nutcracker (1892) for the heroine, who in Hoffman’s source story (1816) had been called 'Marie'. But if you come across any more self-sacrificing nineteenth-century Claras, let me know – this pattern makes the choice of the name Clara for the Doctor Who companion who has been a Victorian governess and was ‘born to save the doctor’ particularly apt. 

Clara in The Nutcracker

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