Screen Machine

Review: The Red Shoes

Fragments of The Red Shoes surface vividly in my memory, along with other luscious Technicolour images from films like The Wizard of Oz, Lili and The Bluebird.

These are all movies my grandparents encouraged on a Sunday afternoon because they were from the ‘Golden Years of Cinema’ of their salad days, presented with reverence on TV matinees by dear old cinephiles such as Bill Collins or Ivan Hutchinson. The almost surreal painted stage sets of The Red Shoes, and the ballerinas in their elegant, fluffy tutus, appealed to my girly whims. The striking gash of the red ballet shoes, alarming close-ups and Hans Christian Anderson’s freakish story of uncontrollable dancing frightened me in the most appealing way.

Victoria Page is a brilliant ballerina who is accepted into the Ballet Lermontov by the formidable impresario Boris Lermontov. Simultaneously, the talented young composer Julian Craster is also admitted. Their relationship is forged as their stars rise during the production and subsequent success of Lermontov’s daring new ballet, “The Red Shoes”. But when Boris smoulders in his Oriental-style smoking jackets – which he wears with incomparable dignity – we quickly sense he does not approve of blossoming love between his minions. As life imitates art, the control Boris and Julian exert over Victoria’s life and creativity unravels dramatically.

As a child, the idea of a pair of shoes that force a girl to dance to her early grave was frightening on a primal level, as fairytales can be. Now, as a feminist who tends to intellectualise fairytales, I am more inclined to see the red ballet shoes as symbols of patriarchal binding and control of female talent and creativity. The film is a product of its time and displays the presumption of patriarchal power in the most brutally magnificent way. Take the scene in Monte Carlo where Victoria is summoned by Boris.

Victoria thinks it’s a date and shows up to the mansion wearing a bedazzling ball gown, long shimmering cape, all topped with an oversized tiara. She is eager and glorious as she climbs the stairs. As director Michael Powell said: “I knew exactly where to go for the big staircase where she mounts, not only a tower in her own career, but in a way towards heaven” (Michael Powell: Interviews).

But when she arrives, she’s mortified to see all the male creatives milling about in their casual finery. Boris asks why she’s all dressed up and Victoria quickly lies that she was on her way to a party. He then changes her life, announcing that she will play the lead role in his next ballet and sends her straight home to bed, passively on her ‘way towards heaven’.

After Victoria leaves, her future lover and fellow newcomer Julian barges into Boris’ creative inner circle and starts brainstorming on the piano. And so all the men create and create into the night, Victoria merely a prop to their genius. As in art, so it is in life. Powell said to his screenwriter Emeric Pressburger:

“And so we’ve got to find a girl who can dance the part and open her mouth and speak the words.” He said, “Where?” I said, “That doesn’t matter. If we create the part, the opportunity for the girl, the girl will turn up.”

- Michael Powell: Interviews.

Victoria Page, played by dancer Moira Shearer, possesses an incredibly earnest star presence that stops her being a passive or uncomplicated foil to the plot. Her fate could be read in a number of ways, with or against a feminist reading. But you must go and contemplate this angle for yourself. The Red Shoes is running for a limited season at The Astor in St Kilda. Think of it as a tour: the print you will see has been meticulously restored with the backing efforts of Martin Scorsese, Thelma Schoonmaker (Michael Powell’s widow and Scorsese’s editor) and UCLA Film & TV Archive. It’s a film worthy of such attentions; the surreal artistry of the set and the 17-minute choreographed ballet within serve the Technicolor richness and cinematic scale that it must be seen in. Pure spectacle. Take a date if you want to be seen as a mysterious romantic.

Maggie Scott just finished her first feature screenplay and writes eclectically about pretty much anything to do with the arts because she has a big gap in her knowledge of science.

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