We all love Acosta the dancer, with his super-gentlemanly manners and super-ungentlemanly twinkle. It’s tempting to set aside his clunky 2013 Don Quixote (and a few other things), and just think about all the parties we’ve had with him on stage as he takes his final bow this month. But he has been proving he is no good at dramatic choreography for quite some time. The disaster of his Carmen has been written in the cards, en vain pour éviter.

Watching it is very confusing, as if its maker had thrown in every influence he’s danced or seen, a sort of Instagram of choreographic selfies and diary mash-ups. Here are step motifs from favourites like Diana and Actaeon and Mayerling, Cuban-style Fame-school ensembles, an opening scene nodding neatly at The Full Monty, a 30-second flash of a fabulous floor of plastic roses like Pina Bausch’s Nelken meets the Tower of London installation. Apparently on opening night Escamillo had a pink-and-red toreador suit too, but when I went along to see Acosta in that role rather than the weedy José, he was in shirt and tie like a frat boy. Perhaps accountants were already starting to cut losses.

http://new.spectator.co.uk/2015/11/carl … -disaster/