It’s definitely a choice to attend a show without first knowing the plot. Every ad I saw from Manon at SF Ballet made me think it was a high-end baroque romance novel; the sort of fluff with Fabio on the cover that my mom collected en masse in the 90s.
Little did I know a world of murder, foot fetishes, whoring, and ruin awaited me — and not that I’m complaining. Last year I declared Mere Mortals hands-down my most interesting and provocative night at the ballet. I don’t want to repeat myself, so I’ll say that SF Ballet’s Manon delivered the most surprising and darkly-entertaining performance I have ever seen on a fine arts stage.
I do not give these awards lightly, and in fact I often seek something to criticize in many shows. I don’t want to be a bitch, but I also think readers are little served by praise coming from reviewers with free tickets. Authenticity is, to me, the first step to winning audience trust.
Alas: I have nothing but praise for Manon. The SF Ballet delivered a performance so exquisite, so haunting, and so devastatingly beautiful that I’ll be unpacking it in my mind for weeks.
A love story that eats itself alive
Manon is a 1974 ballet that’s choreographed by Kenneth MacMillan and based on Abbé Prévost’s 18th-century novel, Manon Lescaut. It follows the rise and fall of its namesake heroine, a naive young woman who quickly enters a world of deception, lust, and opulence — before being discarded like yesterday’s Champagne. If Swan Lake is about transcendent love and Giselle is about romantic betrayal, Manon is about what happens when love and survival are at war with each other.
The plot escalates quickly: Manon is on her way to a convent but her brother has other plans. Enter the rich daddy who I swear I saw sniff Manon’s pointe shoe and then put a hand over his own junk. Then there’s the handsome and naive poet who falls for Manon. Naturally, she chooses love; Naturally, love is not enough.
The ballet follows her descent from mistress to criminal, to exile, to death. It’s a silk-laden Bridgerton-style bodice ripper — or would be if that TV show ended with its heroine dying in a swamp. But the darker Manon gets, the harder it is to turn away.
Much has been said about misogyny and the brutal realities that Manon lays bare. It’s an 18th-century story, staged in the 1970s, where love is currency and survival is a gamble. If that makes it difficult to watch in 2025, maybe that’s the point. I’m reminded of the disturbing Duke Bluebeard’s Castle last year with SF Symphony; both stories slowly peel away a woman’s pretense of control.
The physicality of desperation
Different leads enchant the audience depending on the night you go. I felt blessed once again to witness Harrison James with just a few more garments on than the opening gala. I am not one to crush on dancers, but maybe this is a small one. James served us so much body in January; Now he transforms into something achingly sincere in Manon, molding Dores André into long, seamless extensions — like calligraphy on an invisible page. He also loves rocking a suited ballgown.
As Manon, André captured a woman who never stops running, slipping through the hands of fate as quickly as the men who pass her around. She’d be featherlight one moment in James’ arms, and the next curling in on herself like a caged animal. When she stumbled back onto the stage in exile, André became something raw and almost unrecognizable.
It is hard to ignore Victor Prigent, who could charm a room while also knocking over a candelabra. As Lescaut, he delivered a man who spent years perfecting the art of functional drunkenness, moving like his body had betrayed him — stumbling, collapsing, clawing his way back up. Yet each step was too perfectly placed to be anything but intentional.
I will say that without knowing the plot, I quickly scribbled in my notepad, “So I guess we’re doing threeways now??” when Lescaut handed his sister over to a man whose entire vibe screamed wealthy villain with questionable hobbies.
When fashion and tragedy collide
If the costumes in Manon teach us anything, it’s that wealth looks fantastic until it gets you killed. Nicholas Georgiadis’ original 1974 designs are still in play, meaning that every corset, coat, and cravat has witnessed more betrayals than Taylor Swift’s entire discography. This is one of those moments I might argue the ruffles and layers of costuming cover up the dance movement. And sure that’s true but also: Could it be any prettier? No — it all was exquisite.
So, too did I love the entire aesthetic on Saturday at the War Memorial Opera House, from corseted women posing in many corridors, holding feathered fans and sporting ruffled nightgowns, to the red light spilling through the hallways like a baroque fever dream. I go to the theater to escape, and that’s especially true in the current political climate. SF Ballet always delivers.
Manon closed the night I went, but San Francisco Ballet isn’t done serving looks. Next up is Within the Golden Hour on February 13, this time with new costumes designed by Zac Posen. The show is part of Cool Britannia, a trio of British-choreographed works that highlight modern interpretations of classical ballet.
I’ve admittedly been down a Posen clickhole as his presence grows in San Francisco. Through the grapevine, I learned his company will host a fashion show the same night as the Golden Hour premiere. I wonder if Posen will pull double duty.
Saul Sugarman is editor in chief of The Bold Italic.
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