Moonlight, sweet perfume on the breeze, the passionate
melodies of a waltz, and ... sheer idiocy. The familiar strains of Chopin's music artistically accompanied by the unfamiliar straining of a menagerie of misbegotten mutants and metamorphs.
Les Sillyphides was motivated by the presence of a recording
of the familiar classic in a rehearsal studio we were renting, the need to rest from the ponderous profundity of our usual work, and a visit to a Big and Tall Menís Shop. Les Sillyphides
bears no resemblance to Fokine's original -- except, of course, in its heart-rending (or is it side-splitting?) pathos.