Myrtha is the role everyone warns you about. Queen of the Wilis, cold as moonlight, and on stage for what feels like the entire second act without a single moment to hide.
This season I stopped trying to play her as angry. She is grieving, and grief has a stillness that reads far colder from the back row than any amount of glaring. The arms got slower. The jumps stayed big.
Rehearsals start at nine with a full barre, then two hours on the Act II solo before the corps joins. By the time we reach the run, my calves are telling stories of their own.