Morris Neighbor

I will certainly second PP's comments on the Taylor types, and add an interesting comment on Merce. I once had the pleasure of being part of a "Friends" events (when it only cost $40 to be a "Friend of Merce") and had the opportunity to ask him about the changing builds (and skills) of dancers. As usual with Merce, his face lit with fascination as he noted, "They can do things we never imagined in my time." This recognition has probably led him to replace his failing body with computer simulations, to the reported dismay of his dancers, who don't always accept the computer's definition of human possibilities. But, like Mr. B, he has come to value dancers with strength, technique, flexibility and a long, beautiful line. I'd point to another way in which Cunningham and Balanchine are similar: the effortless fascination of their best works has proved largely impossible for their acolytes to imitate. I cannot afford enough coffee to stay awake through the earnestly pointless works of former Cunningham dancers. Mr. B's followers at least deliver music worthy of our attention, but only occasionally steps we want to see again. But I'm showing my age....

The more I read this thread, the more I appreciate the historical interests of its participants. We have, perhaps, become too comfortable with the institutionalization of ballet -- home theatres, home studios, video records, illuminating books -- to appreciate the amazingly evanescent nature of dance in the '30s and '40s. My own mother, who studied ballet with Edvard Caton, was offered an apprenticeship with the Ballets Russes de Monte Carlo -- the only possible route to a professional career in that pre-war era. But neither she nor her parents could accept the idea of a 15-year-old girl joining the gypsy life of what was then the world's leading classical dance company. So she would later become a housewife, and much of the company's history would be lost. Thank heaven for The Red Shoes, which at least preserves cameos of the great dancers of the '40s.

The more I read this thread, the more I appreciate the historical interests of its participants. We have, perhaps, become too comfortable with the institutionalization of ballet -- home theatres, home studios, video records, illuminating books -- to appreciate the amazingly evanescent nature of dance in the '30s and '40s. My own mother, who studied ballet with Edvard Caton, was offered an apprenticeship with the Ballets Russes de Monte Carlo -- the only possible route to a professional career in that pre-war era. But neither she nor her parents could accept the idea of a 15-year-old girl joining the gypsy life of what was then the world's leading classical dance company. So she would later become a housewife, and much of the company's history would be lost. Thank heaven for The Red Shoes, which at least preserves cameos of the great dancers of the '40s.

Duly chastened, I hereby withdraw the word "plump" in all contexts related to Patricia MacBride. (The last time I heard this adjective, alas, it was from a veterinarian trying to sell me very expensive cat food.) Let's just say that MacBride was shorter and more rounded than the archetypal Balanchine ballerina. She was no taller than Villela or D'Amboise when she rose on point, she had small but prominent breasts (she even bore a child, when such an act was regarded as disastrous for a dancer), she loves the company and its founder. Let's just say that she didn't fit the stereotype, yet enjoyed his favor. In other words, that she proves my point about the irrelevance of body types.

Duly chastened, I hereby withdraw the word "plump" in all contexts related to Patricia MacBride. (The last time I heard this adjective, alas, it was from a veterinarian trying to sell me very expensive cat food.) Let's just say that MacBride was shorter and more rounded than the archetypal Balanchine ballerina. She was no taller than Villela or D'Amboise when she rose on point, she had small but prominent breasts (she even bore a child, when such an act was regarded as disastrous for a dancer), she loves the company and its founder. Let's just say that she didn't fit the stereotype, yet enjoyed his favor. In other words, that she proves my point about the irrelevance of body types.

Roma's comments are a warning about audience expectations as defined by style. If people are expecting classical dance -- with technique, style, musicality, and emotion -- they are likely to reject self-indulgent displays. Classical companies who stray into avant-garde non-dance have earned the scorn they get. But we do need to keep an open door here, and classic technique is unquestionably essential. There are many ways to legitimately expand the classical vocabulary. (NYCB's Diamond Project is a case in point.) There are differences in national styles and tastes (truth be told, I have never understood the parallel that Nureyev saw between Henry James and Charles Ives), but we can all benefit from exploring the differences, the simililarities, the drama, and the humor of this situation, and from exchanging our views.

Roma's comments are a warning about audience expectations as defined by style. If people are expecting classical dance -- with technique, style, musicality, and emotion -- they are likely to reject self-indulgent displays. Classical companies who stray into avant-garde non-dance have earned the scorn they get. But we do need to keep an open door here, and classic technique is unquestionably essential. There are many ways to legitimately expand the classical vocabulary. (NYCB's Diamond Project is a case in point.) There are differences in national styles and tastes (truth be told, I have never understood the parallel that Nureyev saw between Henry James and Charles Ives), but we can all benefit from exploring the differences, the simililarities, the drama, and the humor of this situation, and from exchanging our views.

I agree that body types have become less important over time, if only because the pool of dancers and dance-goers has become increasingly diverse. At the same time, however, I can't help noting the many exceptions in the past. As we all know a "Balanchine ballerina" must be tall, slim, and fair, with long legs, great flexibility, and a small head atop a long neck. But Alexandra Danilova, an early romantic interest and a long-time collaborator, fits almost none of these qualifications. Patricia MacBride, similarly short and plump, enjoyed a long and rewarding career dancing exclusively for Balanchine's company. Even Darci Kistler, the last ballerina personally groomed by Mr. B, is somewhat shorter and rounder (though no less talented) than the archetype. At the same time, some choreographers have made a career of avoiding "type" casting. Robert Joffrey used to boast that his company consisted mostly of people who had "the wrong body for any other company." And Eliot Feld's career was surely advanced by the fact that he avoided type-casting the gamine Christine Sarry, winning the loyalty of a genuine star for his own company. It would be much harder to define types today than it was in the past -- mostly, I think, because standards of training and judgement have drawn closer together over the years. Even modern dance companies seek young dancers with classical training. There are clearly differences of style, taste, and presentation among companies, but this has more to do with design and choreography than the physical build of company members.

I agree that body types have become less important over time, if only because the pool of dancers and dance-goers has become increasingly diverse. At the same time, however, I can't help noting the many exceptions in the past. As we all know a "Balanchine ballerina" must be tall, slim, and fair, with long legs, great flexibility, and a small head atop a long neck. But Alexandra Danilova, an early romantic interest and a long-time collaborator, fits almost none of these qualifications. Patricia MacBride, similarly short and plump, enjoyed a long and rewarding career dancing exclusively for Balanchine's company. Even Darci Kistler, the last ballerina personally groomed by Mr. B, is somewhat shorter and rounder (though no less talented) than the archetype. At the same time, some choreographers have made a career of avoiding "type" casting. Robert Joffrey used to boast that his company consisted mostly of people who had "the wrong body for any other company." And Eliot Feld's career was surely advanced by the fact that he avoided type-casting the gamine Christine Sarry, winning the loyalty of a genuine star for his own company. It would be much harder to define types today than it was in the past -- mostly, I think, because standards of training and judgement have drawn closer together over the years. Even modern dance companies seek young dancers with classical training. There are clearly differences of style, taste, and presentation among companies, but this has more to do with design and choreography than the physical build of company members.

I like Robria's comments on cultural differences, which are clearly visible even in American audiences. I recall an interview with Virginia Johnson, Dance Theatre of Harlem's first prima ballerina. Describing one of the company's first performances, she said that the audience stood and cheered when she and the corps first rose on pointe. "We've got a lot of educating to do," she told herself, though she and her colleagues obviously came to enjoy the immediate and candid feed-back from their public. No doubt, this response helped shape the flamboyantly theatrical house style of DTH. At the same time, total silence can be a tribute. I recall an exceptional performance of Concerto Barocco with Farrell, Martins, and Watts in the principal roles. The Adagio ended in total silence; Suzanne and Heather surely knew, as they extended elegantly sculptured palms, that some 2,000 people were sitting in them, spellbound. On the downside, politesse demands applause for any new work. All those people spent so much time, the logic goes, so they deserve recognition, even if they really were wasting their time and ours (sigh).

I like Robria's comments on cultural differences, which are clearly visible even in American audiences. I recall an interview with Virginia Johnson, Dance Theatre of Harlem's first prima ballerina. Describing one of the company's first performances, she said that the audience stood and cheered when she and the corps first rose on pointe. "We've got a lot of educating to do," she told herself, though she and her colleagues obviously came to enjoy the immediate and candid feed-back from their public. No doubt, this response helped shape the flamboyantly theatrical house style of DTH. At the same time, total silence can be a tribute. I recall an exceptional performance of Concerto Barocco with Farrell, Martins, and Watts in the principal roles. The Adagio ended in total silence; Suzanne and Heather surely knew, as they extended elegantly sculptured palms, that some 2,000 people were sitting in them, spellbound. On the downside, politesse demands applause for any new work. All those people spent so much time, the logic goes, so they deserve recognition, even if they really were wasting their time and ours (sigh).

An excellent point, FF. In ballet, almost as much as at the opera, audiences arrive with very specific expectations -- related to the work scheduled, the dancers scheduled, their relatives scheduled -- and protest if those precise expectations aren't met. Such demands are, for the most part, unfair to the dancers, the choreographers, and others involved in the production. On the other hand... I went last night to the new production of The Elephant Man, a play that ran on Broadway, to great acclaim, 23 years ago. The new production is much more abstract (or, if you will, "post-modern") in its staging, but it remains the story of a Victorian man, his body hideously disfugured by disease, whose spirit and wit came to be admired by London's elite. Billy Crudup, in the title role, wears no protheses (though he does shave his head). As the clinician who became his protector describes the title character's deformities, Crudup distorts his body, his pace, and his speech. Later, at the moment of his death, he simply relaxes his face, and stretches out calmly onstage. The gesture draws gasps from the audience. As Stephen Sondheim wrote, "It's the little things...." And (judging by the buzz around me) audience members accepted both approaches as illuminating interpretations of the same play. Similarly, there must be room for interpretation, and room for failure, if we want to see innovation in dance. I never heard Watermill booed, but then again, I've never seen it with more than a handful of fans rattling around the State Theatre. Thank you Mr. B., thank you Mr. R., for persevering, the one essential step from "flop" to "masterpiece."

An excellent point, FF. In ballet, almost as much as at the opera, audiences arrive with very specific expectations -- related to the work scheduled, the dancers scheduled, their relatives scheduled -- and protest if those precise expectations aren't met. Such demands are, for the most part, unfair to the dancers, the choreographers, and others involved in the production. On the other hand... I went last night to the new production of The Elephant Man, a play that ran on Broadway, to great acclaim, 23 years ago. The new production is much more abstract (or, if you will, "post-modern") in its staging, but it remains the story of a Victorian man, his body hideously disfugured by disease, whose spirit and wit came to be admired by London's elite. Billy Crudup, in the title role, wears no protheses (though he does shave his head). As the clinician who became his protector describes the title character's deformities, Crudup distorts his body, his pace, and his speech. Later, at the moment of his death, he simply relaxes his face, and stretches out calmly onstage. The gesture draws gasps from the audience. As Stephen Sondheim wrote, "It's the little things...." And (judging by the buzz around me) audience members accepted both approaches as illuminating interpretations of the same play. Similarly, there must be room for interpretation, and room for failure, if we want to see innovation in dance. I never heard Watermill booed, but then again, I've never seen it with more than a handful of fans rattling around the State Theatre. Thank you Mr. B., thank you Mr. R., for persevering, the one essential step from "flop" to "masterpiece."

First of all, my apologies to Estelle: I was indeed thinking of Cocteau, not Genet, and I thank her for the correction. As for men in classical dance, I agree that they're in short supply, but I urge caution in changing the established canon. Every addition and modification to "create" more male dances is a distortion of the historic record. To cite an extreme case, "Les Sylphides" was not conceived for the Trocs!

As I mentioned elsewhere, no less an artist than Alexandra Danilova once offered this advice on comparing modern and historic performances: "If we do not PROgress, we RETROgress." Brava Choura! One of the unique beauties of dance is that it is ephemeral. A brilliant performance is gone forever after the curtain call. And the great dancers and choreographers understand this simple fact, even if legal eagles miss the point. Like dedicated birding enthusiasts, we fans flock to the place where a rare species was seen, hoping that history will appear again. Sometimes it does. Unsually it doesn't. Chasing a ghost offers precious few chances for joy. But chances no dedicated enthusiast can afford to miss. Is it any wonder that Balanchine once considered a ballet called "Birds of America"?

As I mentioned elsewhere, no less an artist than Alexandra Danilova once offered this advice on comparing modern and historic performances: "If we do not PROgress, we RETROgress." Brava Choura! One of the unique beauties of dance is that it is ephemeral. A brilliant performance is gone forever after the curtain call. And the great dancers and choreographers understand this simple fact, even if legal eagles miss the point. Like dedicated birding enthusiasts, we fans flock to the place where a rare species was seen, hoping that history will appear again. Sometimes it does. Unsually it doesn't. Chasing a ghost offers precious few chances for joy. But chances no dedicated enthusiast can afford to miss. Is it any wonder that Balanchine once considered a ballet called "Birds of America"?

This will sound strange, but my choice is Liebeslieder Walzer. Yes, yes, I know it's already 75 minutes long. Yes, yes, I know there is even a "pause" in the middle of the ballet. Yes, yes, I know it's a bunch of Brahms waltzes written as hausmusik to amuse amateur musicians. Nonetheless, I always become so enveloped by the mood the piece creates, that I feel a genuine pang of nostalgia when I see the first couple come back in gown and gloves. (Well, truth be told, I know the last duet very well, but I resist accepting the end until I have to.) A summary for people who have never seen the work. It's set to two suites of chamber music written for an era when "home entertainment" meant playing the piano and singing. Both are scored for piano four hands (Balanchine places all the musicians on stage and insists that the pianists be one woman and one man), plus the usual modern vocal quartet (baritone, tenor, mezzo, soprano). The text consists (with the exception noted below) of Hallmark-style poems about love. Brahams wrote the second suite entirely at his publisher's insistence, to cash in on the popularity of the first. The ballet is set in a ballroom of the Hapsburgh era, which may or may not be real. The first suite is clearly set in a literal ballroom, and draws almost entirely on the traditions of ballroom dancing. The women wear near-flat ("character") shoes, long gloves, and long tutus; the men are in formal wear with white gloves. The women's gowns are similar in hue but different in cut and decoration. (Alas for the budget, only silk looks right.) They dance in various groupings, and the dancing is, for the most part, quite formal. Eventually, the dancers run out the doors, exposing the ballroom to moonlight. The curtain drops for a few moments, then rises again. In the second suite, the dancers reappear only in couples. The dancers have all shed their gloves; the men have doffed jackets, the women have replaced flats with pointe shoes, and dancing becomes more complex and resonant. After the last couple leaves, the musicians start to sing the last waltz, a setting of a Goethe poem that begins, "Now, muses, cease..." Candlelight replaces moonlight. Dancers return, in full costume from the first part, and assume seats watching the musicians on stage. There is no dancing. When the music ends, the dancers appauled, quietly, with their gloved hands. When the magic stops, the rest of us keep on cheering. Harry

I'm a bit confused: are you an aspiring choreographer dealing with potential scenarios, or are you writer hoping to imitate Jean Genet? In the latter case, you will soon starve from lack of work (Diaghelev being long dead), so I will deal with the former. I can offer one essential directive, from Balanchine himself: "There are no mothers-in-law in ballet." Keep it simple, focus on the emotions that can best be expressed in movement, rather than words, and structure the plot in an arc. And oh yes, work it out with a company of brilliant dancers!

Like other members, I never boo a dancer, on the grounds that he or she had given a "best effort," though I have withheld applause. Heather Watts is a case in point. She rose to prominence as what baseball calls a "utility player": she could dance almost any ballerina role with great skill if not total mastery, and on very short notice. As she matured as an artist her gift for modern and dramatic roles became clear, and her performances in other roles deteriorated. For instance, I once saw a Swan Lake she more or less phoned in. [sentence deleted by Alexandra] Add her mercurical temperament, and you have the recipe for a controversial star. But I digress. I might withhold applause from an inadequate performer, and (in cases where such folks appear onstage) boo a conductor who lost all co-ordination with the stage, designers who left performers in the dark, or a director who pursued a wildly wrong-headed concept (like Carmen in Franco's Spain). On the proper occasion, I will stand and cheer. But I insist on keping a sense of proportion.

Like other members, I never boo a dancer, on the grounds that he or she had given a "best effort," though I have withheld applause. Heather Watts is a case in point. She rose to prominence as what baseball calls a "utility player": she could dance almost any ballerina role with great skill if not total mastery, and on very short notice. As she matured as an artist her gift for modern and dramatic roles became clear, and her performances in other roles deteriorated. For instance, I once saw a Swan Lake she more or less phoned in. [sentence deleted by Alexandra] Add her mercurical temperament, and you have the recipe for a controversial star. But I digress. I might withhold applause from an inadequate performer, and (in cases where such folks appear onstage) boo a conductor who lost all co-ordination with the stage, designers who left performers in the dark, or a director who pursued a wildly wrong-headed concept (like Carmen in Franco's Spain). On the proper occasion, I will stand and cheer. But I insist on keping a sense of proportion.

Just a quick note on the Fourth Ring Society. As Leigh points out, you do get great sight lines to the stage. Philip Johnson, the architect, saw to that. But, as one of the theatre's elevator operators used to joke, "oxygen masks and nosebleed treatments are under your seat." As a former marketing executive, I see the Fourth Ring Society as a classic "sampling" campaign. Give people a chance to sample the company at a steeply discounted price with an added value -- an explanatory chat with a member of the company -- and, if they come to love the company as much as we do, they might become regular buyers at standard prices. In my student days, on more than one night with vacant seats, I did my own research and discovered that the Third Ring is close enough to make faces recognizable but high enough to save a substantial amoung on a subscription. This is my recommendation to Fourth Ring Society members.

I accept the main thrust of Dale's criticism: in particular, I would like to see a longer life for Diamond Project works. Those that get strong audience response, those that are part of an aritst's long-range view, and even those that that critics admire should come back in a year or two so that we can all see if we were drunk or sober. Dispensing with elaborate production values is, to me at least, a sign of strength. If you need machinery to prove your point.... At the same time, I would endorse Dale's idea of two or three new works per season. It would give them a better chance at fitire life, even though it might cut off current funding

And there, Star 18, you have hit the very nub of the question. Which instructions are essential to the work, and which are inevitably evanscent? I think back to my conversation with Danilova and her injuction that "If we do not PROGRESS, we RETROGRESS." Is "re-creating" Petipa's Odette even possible? Is the fact that master choreographers like Balanchine often told dancers, "Here you do something that makes public applaud" a license to change embellishments from what might appear on tape? Does the fact that Suzanne Farrell never danced the same role the same way twice make it impossible to stage ballets created on her? If you asked leading choreographers -- like Mark Morris or Twyla Tharp (I choose them since I see their work just down the street) -- how they would want their work staged in the future, would they insist on some "definitive" performance? (In both cases, I fell confident in saying, the answer is "NO!") The simple fact is this: dance is the most fleeting and subjective of arts. Performances exist only in the moment and in our memories. To be sure, the law in the US, and many other countries, offers protection to choreography and music, largely as an instrument for channeling revenue to the creator and his or her family. With nothing but love and respect for my warrior colleagues, I retreat to a conservative "Good night."

The classic test is "durability" -- i.e., does the dance continue to appear in the repertory for one or more seasons after its premier, or is it adopted by other companies? Clearly, this is a subjective choice by the director, for reasons that may not be artistic. For instance, Alvin Ailey eventually chose to stop staging Revelations, simply because audiences stopped looking for anything else. Paul Taylor suffered a somewhat similar fate with Esplanade, the first work in which in did not dance, owing (IMHO) to the brilliance of Carolyn Adams, whose bouree convinced us she never touched the stage, whose off-balance turns defied the laws of physics, and whose leap into the arms of the (invisible) Nicholas Gunn always elicited gasps. But durability also implies acceptance across company lines. ABT hires Taylor, Ailey, Tarp , et al; this builds an audience for their work. But what about more eccentric choreographers? What about dancers at regional companies? Clearly, this is a very steep hill to climb, and we may be losing important work. But in our market-oriented society, there are few options. The subjectivity of these judgements is also troubling. But having enjoyed the re-creation of Sousa's The Glass Blowers at the NYC Opera, I live in hope that works of real value will, on way or another, never be lost.

Hey, pick a date and a program and go for it. The cheapest seats in the house (5th ring) are amazingly close to the stage, though your perspective is mostly straight down. (This is experience speaking.) I have two additional suggestions: buy the cheapest seats you can find, then do an "instant upgrade" at intermission. Few performances sell out, so you can probably find empty seats toward the back or side of other seating areas. Hint: if you have an overcoat (or a large package or anything that might be conspicuous), check it. It's worth the $1.75, plus the quarter tip. I've always assumed that this was passed on in the student folk culture, but I'm not sure today. Alternatively, arrive half an hour early and ask for tickets from the nice ladies at the NYCB Guild desk. They have access to unused subscription tickets. While they give you no discount, they give you prime locations. There's no discount, but the locations are prime.