Fun Ballet Tutu News 2799

Darling, you wouldn't believe the utter chaos that unfolded at the Royal Opera House last night. The air was thick with tension, glitter, and a distinct whiff of Eau de Sweat – a potent perfume exclusive to ballerinas after a particularly gruelling rehearsal. You see, my dears, it all started with a seemingly harmless query, "Where are all the tutus?"

A question that would trigger a chain reaction of panic, intrigue and a whole lot of backstage drama. You see, dear reader, it wasn't just any old tutu, this was a highly coveted vintage pink tulle number, an heirloom from the late, great Dame Esmeralda Tutu, the queen of ballerinas, considered by some as the epitome of a certain... *je ne sais quoi*. Its rightful place was centre stage, the grand finale of the evening's performance, *Swan Lake*. But alas, this exquisite creation, this beacon of ballerina elegance, this... *tutu* (if you will) had disappeared! The scene was something out of a theatrical soap opera.

A seasoned ballet veteran, Mrs. Poppy Plumtart, the head seamstress and custodian of all things sparkly, with a hairstyle resembling a well-maintained bird's nest and eyes like sparkling emeralds, had summoned all the prima donnas (and one very embarrassed, but surprisingly stoic male dancer named Chad, who insisted he was just there "to lend moral support," whatever *that* means) to the back room.

Now, let's be honest, ballerinas can be notoriously competitive, not to mention utterly dramatic. With their impossibly sleek buns, impossibly long limbs and impossibly perfect, flawless porcelain faces, they are walking embodiments of graceful beauty and utter poise. (But don’t be fooled by that demure exterior, my dears. There is fire and ferocity under those elegant skirts. Don’t believe me? You should see the backstage banter after a bad review.)

There was Miss Perfect, the undisputed queen bee of the stage, whose perfectly arched eyebrows shot up to her perfectly sculpted hairline at the mention of a missing tutu. She declared the whole thing “utterly scandalous" with a voice as high pitched as a tuning fork before dramatically pulling out a perfectly-folded, hand-embroidered hankie.

There was young Millie, who, as if she were the protagonist of a tragic romantic drama, swooned over the loss of such an “iconic” costume. (Apparently, the vintage tutu inspired her “to dance like a swan,” whatever that means).

And then there was little, pint-sized Lily, who was actually just there for moral support (she’s only a little understudy at this point in her career and her tutu was definitely not of vintage importance.) but, as you do, she became so wrapped up in the melodrama that she promptly burst into tears. “The *swan*!" she sobbed, wiping a perfect teardrop away with a beautifully manicured finger. “The swan is naked!”

Well, the scene, my dear readers, became even *more* ridiculous (and chaotic) with a particularly agitated guest ballerina, a French national by the name of Madeline, frantically flipping through a tattered book entitled “101 Tips For Achieving a Ballet Body.” It is worth noting that the cover of this book (not to mention the tips) have been thoroughly criticised, as they advocate a near starvation diet and daily workouts resembling military training. One might say Madeline was "obsessed," especially since, to her horror, she discovered that her tutu – an equally lavish (but not vintage) creation, was no where to be found either. It turned out Madeline was in such a rush (and obviously, totally stressed out about getting to the opera house on time) that she accidentally packed the vintage tutu in her handbag – it's probably for the best as I can't imagine that *white* tulle tutu would have suited her Swan persona.

Mrs Plumtart announced with an exasperated sigh that a quick and discreet fashion emergency required immediate attention (because clearly, even though the actual play might have been disrupted, there's nothing worse than an “un-tutu’d ballerina”), and so, she and her team made their way to the back room. Armed with an emergency bag containing various shimmering fabric scraps and a hefty pair of shears, she got to work, whipping up a replacement tulle creation that managed to pass as a semi-passable replica. This feat involved not only her superhuman seamstress abilities but the assistance of several assistants and a couple of hastily re-purposed props, like a roll of duct tape. You'd think those creative souls had done it a million times!

Finally, at around the time that an extremely agitated Mrs. Plumtart managed to secure the last pin into the last bead of her creation, a very surprised and utterly relieved ballerina entered the back room with the *real* vintage pink tutu. Apparently, the bag, as she confessed (sheepishly and with a nervous laugh), was a “little heavy" and “accidentally" fell to the ground somewhere on her way into the opera house (oh dear, *such* an unfortunate *accident*). It appears a few feathers and some pink tulle were all that needed to complete her outfit.

In a bizarre twist, this embarrassing ordeal did little to detract from the sheer majesty of the performance. In fact, *Swan Lake* turned out to be a dazzling spectacle. (Despite the small, and rather comical tutu “faux-pas.”) This incident reminded us that no matter how serious (and glamorous) the occasion, even those involved in the world of classical ballet, those beautiful beings with a penchant for the stage, have the capacity for (perhaps unintentional) ridiculousness and are definitely not afraid of a little good, old fashioned dramatic flair.

Oh and the highlight of the evening? When the swans took to the stage with a graceful choreography of pirouettes, grand jetés, and pointe work ( not to mention a well-executed sequence of swanlike fluttering!), I could not help but marvel at these extraordinary female athletes in their perfectly-constructed and impossibly glamorous tutus (especially when one particular dancer executed an elaborate pirouette, a breathtaking movement of pure grace and strength. For just a moment, I was transported back to another time, another world, a place of pure theatrical magic. I confess I *was* secretly tempted to run onstage and try to catch the tulle, as it swished around the dancer's legs – but the urge passed after the ballet’s final bow and after a sip of champagne and a piece of delicate cake.

I can't help but think that the audience might have enjoyed seeing Madeline in that stunning white tulle tutu but she obviously couldn’t carry it off – after all, my dear readers, when it comes to elegance and class, *no one* can quite manage to execute that ‘ballerina’ aesthetic like our very own Dame Esmeralda Tutu.