Giselle
Giselle (French: Giselle, ou les Wilis) is a romantic ballet in two acts. It was first performed by the Ballet du Théâtre de l'Académie Royale de Musique at the Salle Le Peletier in Paris, France on Monday, 28 June 1841, with Italian ballerina Carlotta Grisi as Giselle. The ballet was an unqualified triumph. Giselle became hugely popular and was staged at once across Europe, Russia, and the United States. The traditional choreography that has been passed down to the present day derives primarily from the revivals staged by Marius Petipa during the late 19th and early 20th centuries for the Imperial Ballet in St. Petersburg.
The ballet is about a peasant girl named Giselle, who dies of a broken heart after discovering her lover is betrothed to another. The Wilis, a group of supernatural women who dance men to death, summon Giselle from her grave. They target her lover for death, but Giselle's great love frees him from their grasp.
Librettists Jules-Henri Vernoy de Saint-Georges and Théophile Gautier took their inspiration for the plot from a prose passage about the Wilis in De l'Allemagne by Heinrich Heine, and from a poem called "Fantômes" in Les Orientales by Victor Hugo.
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Morodo
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by Murray Attaway
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by Merit
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by Miratti
Mademoiselle
by: Murray HeadMademoiselle remembers too well
How once she was belle of the ball
Now the past she sadly recalls.
Mademoiselle lived in grand hotels
Ordered clothes by Chanel and Dior
Millionaires queued at her door.
Oh, she pleased them and teased them
She hooked them and squeezed them
Until like their empires they'd fall
She very soon learned
That the more love she spurned
The more power she yearned
Until she was belle of the ball.
Oh, Mademoiselle, such a soft machiavel
Would play bagatelle with the hearts of young men as
they fell
Mademoiselle would hide in her shell
Could then turn cast a spell on any girl
That got in her way.
She would crave all attention
Men would flock to her side
Woe betide any man who ignored
For she'd feign such affection
Then break down their pretension
When she'd won she would turn away.
Turn away, thoroughly bored.
Mademoiselle, long ago said farewell
To any love left to sell, for the sake of being belle
of the ball
Mademoiselle knows there's no way to quell
Her own private hell, just a shell,
With no heart left at all.
Poor old Mademoiselle.