Tag: Hans Christian Andersen

The Little Mermaid dates back to 1837, the year that author Hans Christian Andersen published it – well before the 1989 animated film ushered in a Disney Renaissance. Since 1837, the story has inspired countless adaptations around the world, including John Neumeier’s The Little Mermaid, which premiered in 2005. Lucky for Houstonians, Neumeier’s ballet is now making its premiere here, as it opens Houston Ballet’s 2024-2025 season.

The ballet opens with a man, known only as the Poet, on board a ship. His friend, Edvard, has just married a woman named Henriette, and it’s clear the Poet is devastated. Below the water, a little mermaid rises, seemingly awakened by the Poet’s longing. On another ship, a Prince dives into the water to retrieve a golf ball and has to be rescued by the Mermaid. But he never sees her, and when he awakens on the beach, he sees a Princess, who just so happens to look like Henriette. Sparks fly between the two, and the watching Mermaid makes a desperate decision: She decides to visit a Sea Witch, who turns her into a human. Unfortunately, just as Edvard did not love the Poet, the Prince still does not love the Mermaid. As the Prince prepares to marry the Princess, the Sea Witch returns to give the Mermaid a choice. She can have her tail back, but only if she kills the Prince.

The Little Mermaid is the work of a visionary, and that visionary is John Neumeier. To say it is Neumeier’s baby feels like an understatement; from his brain came not only the dual narrative and choreography, but the costume, scenic and lighting design. The fairy tale may seem as old as time, but Neumeier’s perspective is fresh, his production modern not only in its look and feel, but its themes. Specifically, the decision to layer the familiar children’s tale with the story of the Poet, who is essentially a stand-in for Andersen, creates a heightened emotional landscape for Neumeier’s characters and the audience. That the Poet is a queer character, a nod to Andersen’s real-life unrequited affection for Edvard Collin, and that The Little Mermaid can and has been read as a queer allegory for years, only deepens the ballet’s poignancy.

And by choosing to double (i.e. having the two performers who play Edvard and Henriette also play the Prince and the Princess), Neumeier explicitly draws out the parallels between the Mermaid and the Poet in the most heartbreaking of ways. When the Mermaid holds a dress directly in front of the Poet, for example, implying that maybe she (and he) can become someone who the Prince (and Edvard) could love only for the plan to fail, it emphasizes the futility of the Poet’s love for Edvard. Ultimately, even in the Poet’s fantastical tale, the Mermaid can’t win the Prince’s love any more than the Poet could win Edvard’s.

Speaking of the Poet, though the word “tortured” is missing from his character name, Connor Walsh embodies the phrase. Between the black top hat and coat he wears and his saucer-like eyes and expressive, perpetually stricken face, Walsh looks as though he’s jumped straight from the silent screen onto the stage. He often finds himself a wide-eyed spectator, trying to intervene and alter the direction of the story but seemingly at the mercy of his own creations, like when he tries, unsuccessfully, to force the Prince’s attention in the Mermaid’s direction.

González, like the underwater world Neumeier has designed, is ethereal and enigmatic. There’s an alien-like quality to Neumeier’s mermaids, including González, who is lifted and carried, limbs undulating and fabric tail flowing to simulate underwater movement. In the sea, represented by wavy tube lights in electric blue and white that cross the stage, González is graceful and open, but later, she is a heartache on legs. She is clumsy and childlike, and so vulnerable, first sitting in a wheelchair with her conch shell clutched to her chest, and then in her hunched over, flat-footed, shuffling attempts to walk.

As The Sea Witch, Harper Watters is as extra as the white paint and heavy, kabuki-like makeup that covers his face. He is visually captivating and legitimately scary, a menacing figure that stalks around the stage with a sneer and a wagging tongue. It’s impossible to look away when he is on stage, whether he’s brutally and ritualistically taking the Mermaid’s tail and leaving her naked and shaking on a beach or turning up unexpectedly (and glittery) to put on a bizarre show.

Whether as Edvard or the Prince, Gian Carlo Perez is the object of unrequited love – the keyword there being object. For much of the piece, Perez’s Prince is on display as the representation of a fantasy, and it’s not until late in the second act that we spend time with the Prince being himself, without the threat of drowning hanging over his head or the pretty-in-pink Princess (played by an aloof but not unlikeable Beckanne Sisk) nearby.

Lera Auerbach’s score is curious and haunting, providing the perfect playground for various movement styles. From a jolt of testosterone from a group of officers and sailors on deck, their punchy, physical moves reminiscent of Jerome Robbins, to an otherworldly, almost eerie underwater pas de deux, Neumeier makes great use of the soundscape and even embraces long moments of silence (the you-could-hear-a-pin-drop kind of silence). Though Auerbach’s ingenious use of the theremin and romantic violin parts were definitely musical highlights, the heroes of the night were the percussionists of the Houston Ballet Orchestra under the baton of new conductor Simon Thew. They conjured up a thunderstorm, along with the brass section, for several wildly dramatic scenes that became chill-inducing with their contributions.

Neumeier’s The Little Mermaid captivates with its visuals and compels with its storytelling, and the result can only be described as a modern masterpiece.

Performances will continue at 7:30 p.m. Friday, September 13, and Saturdays, 1:30 p.m. Saturday, September 14, and 2 p.m. Sundays through September 15 at the Wortham Theater Center, 501 Texas. For more information, call 713-227-2787 or visit houstonballet.org. $25-$160.