Pëtr Il'ic Cajkovskij
Lo schiaccianoci (The Royal Ballet @Londra; e io @Milano al cinema)

The Nutcracker.

You know it if you are a fan of classical ballet, and you have almost certainly enjoyed it in the theater; maybe years ago you even danced it.

You know it ever since you probably watched it on television because you love the Christmas atmosphere.

You know it even if you don't realize it; because if you hear some overused musical passage of it by chance, you might even start to whistle it.

I belonged to the third category until some time ago when I truly got closer to that fantastic melting pot that is classical music; and, with it, ballet.

This happens to many: you re-watch – this time with at least a bit of insight – Fantasia, you listen countless times to the orchestral suite (which by the incredible composer Tchaikovsky, is opus 71a); finally, you see it.

In London. In Milan.

Cinema manages to fill the heavy absence of the magic of the theater, of its overall vision, of its atmosphere, with a privileged view of the stage – details and faces, muscles and costumes. And the Royal Opera House production, currently on the bill in the English capital and – last night, in cinemas of twenty-nine countries –, has so, so much to offer.

The beautiful faces and perfect bodies of Francesca Hayward and Laura Morera, for example: an enchanting Clara the first, a graceful Sugar Plum Fairy the second. Or the great expressiveness of Gary Avis in the role of Drosselmeyer, whose charisma and movements make him a sort of bright counterpart to Rothbart from the equally famous Swan Lake.

And then colors and lights; snowflakes and wooden toys; an impeccable orchestra that, being so much in tune with what you see, you almost forget it's there, in that pit, giving you chills with violins and tears with celesta.

But it is ballet we are talking about; and everything, from the rich and enveloping set design to the dramatic pathos, can only rely on the skill of the dancers and the choreography of the well-aged Peter Wright.

And I, who have seen two ballets, what should I tell you other than that The Nutcracker made me dream?

I watched calves, arms, legs, and hair twirl in the snow and among the pipes; I admired with awe the perfect abdomens of Arabian dances and the variations of sugar plums.

I dreamed of Clara's smile and eyes, incredible counterpart of legs never touching the ground.

My breath remained suspended on pointe shoes.