The Crow Experiment
When ballet takes flight and falls.
Bye bye, blackbirds — is what I felt like saying during the first few minutes, and the last. The choreographer of the Blackbird Ballet I saw last night had a vision that convinced me birds have no place in choreography.
They didn’t just choose any bird, either. No, they picked crows. Crows! Out of all the birds. The nastiest, ugliest, spookiest ones. I don’t care about their supposed strength, their ancient mystique, or their intelligence. None of that matters when you’re watching people writhe across a stage pretending to be them. Birds dancing? Birds don’t dance. And that’s exactly why ballerinas shouldn’t either—not as birds, anyway.
The stage was just as bleak as the concept — dark, colourless, with barely a spotlight to guide the chaos. The soundtrack? Johnny Cash, which felt entirely disconnected from the crow-like, convulsive dancers flailing in front of us. Somehow, though, Cash’s voice was the one element grounding me long enough to sit through the jagged movements thrown at me with such careless tact.
I did manage a smile, though, when the bird-dancing reminded me of those risky moves you’d catch at an afterparty — the kind performed by people who know they’re so far gone, they won’t remember their actions come morning.
When the performance ended, the audience erupted into applause, tapping their feet in a loud chorus that echoed through the theatre, their approval as strange as the ballet itself.
I stared at the sea of somber silhouettes in the public — mostly dressed in black, faces faintly lit by the dim theatre lights, who seemed entranced as if they’d found something profound in crows and the twisted harmony of dark, birdlike ballet.
If you decide to go to the Blackbird Ballet, here’s my advice: skip the stage. Find a seat with a clear view of the audience. Watch them instead. Let them be the show.
