Christopher Bruce

No ballet dancer has been a ‘household name’ in Britain for more than a generation now – even mention of Darcey Bussell would draw a blank on the Clapham omnibus were it not for her post-retirement stint as a judge on Strictly. The days when the likes of Margot Fonteyn and Moira Shearer were splashed over front pages have long gone. But Marianela Nunez and Carlos Acosta seem to have enough traction in the metropolis to sell about 11,000 seats each for week-long seasons at Covent Garden showcasing their artistry. (In other words, they could just about fill Wembley Arena once.) Both are without question enormous talents, celebrated internationally, their Hispanic origins reflecting a global trend in ballet demographics.

Even if Schoenberg’s song cycle Pierrot Lunaire is never going to feature on anyone’s Desert Island Discs, it stands as a work of rich and complex resonance shot through with all the neurotically introverted obsessions behind expressionism. Through Albert Giraud’s 21 opaque lyrics, scored atonally for a soprano who declaims rather than sings them, accompanied by seven instruments, it presents some sort of parable of the tormented artist adrift in a hostile world. Perhaps one can’t be charmed by the result, yet its power is undeniable: it grips even when it baffles and repels.