Franz is one of those ballet heroes loved for his vices as well as his virtues. As the village flirt in Coppelia, Franz galvanises the comic energy of the stage around him with his moral shortcomings. He has to be too swaggeringly sure of his own macho appeal, too slack about his drinking limits and too short on brain cells if the jokes in Coppelia are to fly. And one of the reasons Friday's performance fell flat was that Yohei Sasaki, standing in for an injured Johan Persson, was altogether too nice in the role.
We never felt that his roving eye could be a threat to his engagement to Swanilda, nor did we feel he had become too full of himself to be the deserving butt of her mockery. For all that Sasaki is an alert actor, the wattage of his personality remained the wrong side of steady. This was, however, one of his first appearances in a principal role, and in dance terms he acquitted himself with conviction. He made a precise, attentive partner, his compact physique framing Miyako Yoshida's delicate body to flattering effect; in his solos he revealed an engagingly sure and graceful technique.
Yoshida danced with her usual easy brilliance. Her quick, bright footwork seemed to bubble along the rise and fall of Swanilda's giggles, while the dauntless reach of her small limbs effortlessly signalled her character's naughty self-confidence. But her performance lacked any romantic or erotic chemistry with Sasaki; instead, her deepest relationship on stage was with the mad inventor Doctor Coppelius, danced by Alastair Marriott.
Marriott does a very good line in fantastical camp, and his portrayal of the Doctor's craven worship of the doll he has created (which he believes to have come alive through Swanilda's impersonation) unleashed wicked devils in Yoshida. As she led him a taunting dance through the workshop and incited him to daft, capering imitation, you were made aware not only of the Doctor's repressed emotional life but of Swanilda's potential power as a woman. These larger hints of drama underlined the routine quality of the rest of the evening. The Royal's production of Coppelia has an inbuilt dusty quaintness that can dim even the best performances.
