Ballet Shoes - National Theatre
This is what flying would feel like. Dance is probably the most beautiful art form to witness, with a group of people moving across a stage in harmony. Especially in Ballet Shoes at the National Theatre, directed by Katy Rudd, the experience felt extraordinary. To have these dynamics on stage and to be connected to a child’s dreamlike world feels like something truly special.
Before the show even began, little kids watched as ballerinas circled the auditorium and began teaching some ballet moves. Even from the balcony, a little girl behind me started to practice and wave to the dancers. This was a show about being a child.
The Olivier Theatre is large enough to fit the London Eye, but when it was filled to the brim with dinosaur art, suitcases, and little figurines, it became a whole new world. The rooms were separated by stage doors, which themselves felt like part of a child’s playground, beautifully designed by Frankie Bradshaw.
Moments with projection felt complete and purposeful — from a dinosaur stretched across the stage to images that flashed like a deck of cards. Even through changes in age and time, nothing took away from the bond between the three girls. The men were there, but the women shined — especially the three adopted sisters, Pauline, Petrova, and Posy — who devoured the stage with their dreams.
Pearl Mackie, whom I had followed previously in Doctor Who as Bill, already showed that she could play whimsical and lovable characters, but seeing her live was something else entirely. Everything Pearl Mackie does as Sylvia, the guardian and sort of older sister, feels whimsical and kind. The stage lighting, from Paule Constable’s spotlights to the twinkle in Samuel Wyer’s costume design — especially the fluffy spinning skirt — captured the essence of timeless childhood.
The tone shifted from beauty to heartbreak through Madame Fidolia, which grounded the entire piece. The reflections in mirrors, the spotlights, and the feeling of time standing still and then rushing forward made it all the more poignant. The music by Asaf Zohar twinkled and spun, and without it, the show would still be beautiful, but his compositions created a world where everything felt effortless. This piece marks Asaf Zohar’s first credit at the National Theatre, and I hope it will not be his last.
Every intricate detail — from the car-riding scenes to the little scarf held on a stick by an ensemble member — echoed pure magic. It never felt repetitive because the motifs returned with intention rather than exhaustion. The show explored the fear of growing up too fast, and how children often take on what adults try to shield them from.
Even the ending, bittersweet as it was, resonated because of the love the sisters had for one another and the adventures they wished to pursue as their own people.
