REVIEW: ‘Aquila’ and ‘Morbus’ - Brisbane Ballet

I had the pleasure of attending the dress rehearsal of Aquila, the brand-new ballet by 23-year-old Brisbane composer Stanlee Harris, presented by Brisbane Ballet and choreographed by Emrys Goldsworthy. It was performed alongside Morbus, and together, these works formed a bold, intimate, and deeply evocative double bill of contemporary and classical dance that both challenged and delighted me.

This was not your usual night at the ballet. The entire performance was stripped back — just three dancers and three live musicians — yet it felt all the more emotionally impactful because of that minimalism. Both pieces were staged at the lovely Talbot Theatre — which, by the way, doesn’t seem to have a single bad seat.

The performance opened with Morbus, a thrilling and visceral work. The word itself means disease, sickness, plague, illness, malady — and the ballet embodied all of it. Performed to a strikingly beautiful recorded score of Vivaldi, Bach, Handel, Purcell, and Rameau, Morbus was a sensory punch to the chest, full of raw power and contemporary movement. The stage was stark and captivating — black costumes, bright red socks, a black backdrop and harsh white overhead lighting.

Dancers Jordan Lennon, Tahlia Goldsworthy, and Rose Maloney moved through the light and darkness with astonishing quickness, their physical control and emotional expressiveness leaving me wide-eyed. Sharp, angular gestures gave way to slower, fluid sequences — every movement seemed to speak of pain and disconnect. Rose and Tahlia barely paused for breath. Their stamina was extraordinary, and they carried much of the emotional weight of the work with both grace and fury. They moved like ghosts around each other — synchronised but never connecting; sharing the same space yet existing in separate emotional planes.

Jordan Lennon, shirtless and lit from above, radiated intensity. Every visible muscle told a story beneath his skin, and his performance was a study in tension and anguish. His pas de deux with Tahlia was heartbreakingly raw. At one point, he screamed silently, his entire body contorted in pain. It was a gut-wrenching moment of full-body storytelling.

The lighting design was especially striking — harsh and oppressive, it created a sense of emotional claustrophobia. The dancers disappeared into shadow and re-emerged like flickers of thought — haunting, ungraspable, and fleeting. This sense of isolation was amplified by the dancers' lack of eye contact, their shared suffering only becoming truly apparent in the final moments. The choreography by Emrys Goldsworthy played with presence and absence beautifully. Recurring movement motifs — head rolls, twitching arms, rippling spines — created a visual language that was both unsettling and mesmerising. At times frantic, at times eerie, the choreography held me captive.

As the cello wept and the women pressed fists into their mouths, stifling silent screams before collapsing in surrender to Morbus, the work took on a theatrical, almost operatic feel. It felt like grief. Like madness. Like the invisible weight we carry but can’t name. A striking metaphor for both physical and mental illness. I may not speak the technical language of dance, but I do know theatre — and Morbus was deeply theatrical. It stirred something visceral in me — and that, in any art form, is a triumph.

Then came Aquila — and I was absolutely transported.

This new work, composed by 23-year-old Brisbane talent Stanlee Harris, is an interstellar love story told through stars, colour, and soaring strings. Set in a fictional galaxy, the story centres on three stars caught in a web of friendship, betrayal, heartbreak, and love. It’s an abstract concept, yet it lands — largely thanks to how grounded and emotionally expressive the performers are. It’s cosmic in concept, but deeply human in feeling.

I was lucky to be seated up close, where I could see the delicate play of the costume fabric and the glimmer of emotion on each dancer’s face. The lighting design was divine: washes of pinks, blues, and purples gliding across a cosmic backdrop, creating a world that shimmered with both beauty and tragedy. The music — performed live by three brilliant musicians on piano, cello, and violin — was an absolute triumph. Stanlee Harris’ score is lush, lyrical, and brimming with emotion. It began bright and sweet — a major key love theme full of warmth — for Rose and Jordan to dance their first tender duet. The choreography here was soft and sweet, a beautiful depiction of young love — innocent, hopeful, brimming with possibility.

Stanlee’s score gradually darkens as the emotional landscape shifts. The lighting followed suit, transitioning into yellows, greens, and reds as we moved deeper into a more fractured, volatile galaxy. Tahlia’s 'rejection' solo was breathtaking, set to a sorrowful, trilling piano that ached with longing — like regret made audible: delicate, haunting, and unforgettable. Her heartbreak was almost too visceral. I recall thinking, I wish I could express my own pain through dance like that. 

Rose’s solo was another highlight. It built from soft vulnerability into something bold and fierce, echoing her character’s transformation. And when the love theme returned, and she and Jordan reunited in a final pas de deux, the emotional energy made me audibly sigh (in a wishful way). The way she collapsed into his arms, again and again, was poetic — a star dying in the arms of someone who never stopped loving her. Their partner work felt like a bittersweet love letter: sweet, fragile, and achingly sad.

As the anguished male figure, Jordan was magnetic, once again bringing something truly special to the role. He has this special ability to express deep emotion through movement. I noticed it when he played the Prince in Snow White for Ballet Theatre Queensland, and it’s even more resonant here. There’s something old-world cinematic about his performance — like a dancer from a noir film — every glance, every gesture laced with unspoken longing.

Aquila and Morbus made for a gripping double bill. They are so different — one futuristic and romantic, the other dark and primal — but together, they showcased the incredible power of movement and music to tell a story without a single word spoken. This was local, heartfelt storytelling with universal themes — all told in under an hour.

As someone who doesn’t often attend contemporary ballet, this experience was such a gift. I adored the stripped-back nature of it — just three dancers, three musicians, no elaborate sets or spectacle. The intimacy made every movement matter. Emrys Goldsworthy’s choreography was detailed, emotive, and inventive — I sincerely hope I see more of his work. Thank you to Brisbane Ballet for inviting me to this beautiful dress rehearsal. If you were lucky enough to catch the performance, I’d love to hear your thoughts too. For me, Aquila and Morbus were a stunning reminder of how dance can move us beyond language — and how the smallest, most intimate performances often leave the deepest impact.