Russian American in Paris

On the eve of the fortieth anniversary of the death of George Balanchine (1904–1983), the Paris Opera expanded its repertoire with two ballets from the master’s golden fund: the one-act Ballet Imperial (1941) to the music of Tchaikovsky’s Second Piano Concerto, to which the émigré choreographer paid tribute to his Petersburg past, and Who cares? (1970) Gershwin – a sparkling ode to the American present. Balanchine’s pace at the premiere was firmly held by the orchestra of the Paris Opera under the baton of Mikhail Agreste. The French accent, delivered with the participation of tutors from the Balanchine Foundation, was appreciated by Maria Sidelnikova.

The joint history of the Paris Opera and George Balanchine stretches on for almost a century, exactly from the moment when the ambitious intendant Jacques Rouche decided to restore prestige to the French ballet through the efforts of the last Diaghilev stars – George Balanchivadze and Sergei Lifar, whom the francophile impresario had by that time already “parried” in Georges Balanchine and Serge Lifar. Rush saw the first as an artistic director, the second as a prime minister. However, Lifar decided to handle both roles on his own. Pneumonia, which suddenly knocked down the opponent, helped him in this. While he was breathing the Swiss air and looking at Mont Blanc, the active Kyivian was finishing the “Creations of Prometheus” for the sick and warmed up the director’s chair. Upon his recovery, the indecisive fatalist, as Balanchine’s character is usually described, gave up without a fight, as if he knew that an incredible American career lay ahead of him as the founder of a new school and NYCB. Without becoming the ballet director of the Opera in Paris, he ended up becoming one of its most performed and beloved choreographers – both during his lifetime, when he was regularly invited to reschedule and stage, and after his death. In total, with the current premieres, there are 36 Balanchine ballets in the repertoire of Parisians.

“Ballet Imperial” appeared in 1941 at the suggestion of the US State Department. Roosevelt wanted to convince his Latin American neighbors that the United States was a reliable, cultural partner, and not a mercantile predator with a fig in his pocket. And what can decorate a political image better than ballet, especially Russian? The surnames of Pavlova, Diaghilev, Petipa caressed the ear even in distant Brazil. Thus, with financial support from the state, the impresario Lincoln Kerstin assembled a temporary troupe of the American Ballet Caravan, and Balanchine staged three ballets, including Ballet Imperial. The world was already completely bursting at the seams – after the end of that diplomatic tour, Pearl Harbor would happen, but Balanchine’s world collapsed even earlier, in 1917 in Petrograd, where the high canons of the imperial ballet school, the waltzes of Tchaikovsky, his musical double, bouncing off his feet, forever remained bayadères, raymonds and sleepers, the brilliance of court theaters and measured life. (The carriage rides to school alone are worth it!) He put all these memories into the slender, compact structure of the Ballet Imperial, echoing the big “white” ballets with entre, adagio, variations, pas de trois and a sparkling coda for the finale. , his most complex work both in technique and in tempo. In the later version of the seventies, which is still relevant to this day for the NYCB, it was already without the scenery of Mstislav Dobuzhinsky with sovereign views of St. Petersburg, they danced in simple elongated dresses, Balanchine erased all the pantomime, and brought Tchaikovsky into the title – Concert No. 2, reasoning that no one no longer understands what this imperial means.

The French, on the other hand, do not need explanations – court manners in the Paris Opera are ineradicable. So, under the supervision of the Balanchine ballerinas, and now the guarantors of the quality of his ballets, Sandra Jennings and Patricia Neary, all the “imperial” splendor of the Ballet Imperial blossomed in Paris – not only external, with tiaras and richly decorated classic tutus, but also performing: the premiere cast radiated pure and very natural nobility.

Balanchine, as you know, loved tall and long-legged ballerinas, but his most tricky ballets, stuffed with small things and spins, are better handled by small pedantic “cats”, owners of neat feet and fast, tenacious legs, sharpened by technique with a good push jump. All these criteria in the troupe ideally meet the etoile Ludmila Pagliero. By the premiere, the experienced ballerina set herself such a majestic aplomb that she seemed two heads taller than usual, and did not lose her height even in the tongue twisters of the choreographic text with which her part was strewn. Planting tours, pancakes, and even a jump for a couple of cycles, launching them diagonally with a change of direction after each combination and finishing this deadly race with a series of fouettes cost Balanchine nothing. But for a ballerina, this is another test. But the coordinated, prudent Palero never showed any fuss or visible effort. She spoke alphabetical poses and positions, not eating endings even where there was temptation, accurately recorded all the stops in a series of insidious parterre tours on the plie, intoned unusual musical accents “on her own” and stylishly witted in countless finger pricks, jogging and “ seizures” – in a word, she was pragmatic in her legs and at ease in her body. She was paired with the etoile Paul Mark, a hard worker and an excellent student, who now plows in the troupe for all the tired, injured and those who are in search of themselves. He is the most reliable partner: he catches, squeezes, twists perfectly. This is more than enough for Balanchine choreography. But Mark is also a well-trained artist with generous gifts: a large and soft step, easy rotation and a springy, balloon jump, which he demonstrated in his variation in the adagio.

There were no étoiles for the third solo part in the premiere line-up, as decrees crippled the star women’s team of the Opera this season. The first dancer, Sylvia Saint-Martin, had a chance to make herself known – a confident classical ballerina with a beautiful lift, a perfect arabesque line, a high reversible alezgon and long expressive arms on slightly angular shoulders. It was they who treacherously climbed up every time she lacked technique in allegro.

But the solo successes of individual ballerinas pale for Balanchine if there is no uniformity in the ensemble, and the Opera’s corps de ballet is not to be occupied. The Parisians danced virtuoso classical texts cheerfully and harmoniously, sometimes with an American grin, sometimes with a slight flair of old-fashioned romance, bashfully lowering their eyes, stretching wide por-de-bras with their bodies every time the music allowed, and gently sighing with deliberately sagging elbows.

In “Who cares?” there is a completely different atmosphere. The lights of New York will light up on the virgin blue backdrop, the phlegmatic princes of the court will give way to the swashbuckling Broadway guys with the habits of Fred Astaire, the girls will compete without hesitation for their attention, sparks in the eyes, smiles on the faces, hips and shoulders will break out of the ballet room. bridles, and legs will fly higher than skyscrapers. It was thanks to George Gershwin that Balanchine tried musicals back in Europe in the thirties: “I sing about you” made a strong impression on him then. It will be the starting point for “Who cares?”, in which, after many years and after many works in the entertainment genre, the choreographer will collect almost two dozen of the composer’s favorite songs into a sparkling dance potpourri, where crowd scenes are mixed with bright solo variations and duets. With a completely different mood and mood, Balanchine makes up his jazzy sweeping handwriting from the same classical basics, diluting them with playful accents.

The main struggle unfolds for the attention of a dreamy young man – Germain Louvet – between the three soloists. Etoile Valentina Colosant was predictable: that the sentences of imperious Mirta in the afterlife, that she executes seductions on Broadway with the same unshakable coldness. Returning from the decree, Leonor Bolak – the eternal etoile girl – adequately worked out the most difficult variation of Fascinatin` Rhythm, where in the rhythm of jazz you need to mince classical ligaments. But only the temperamental Hannah O’Neill managed to light a genuine fire in the eyes and in the movements of the eternally yearning Luva, who seems to have let go of all thoughts about a possible promotion (she has long been stuck in the “first dancers”) and goes on stage every time without regard to status, dancing for the pleasure of myself and the audience. Table of ranks? Who cares!