I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [51]
On the other hand, Jerome Robbins told you what to think, before you made an entrance. He wanted to program his dancers to re-create the same performance every time, so he planned every single movement. Jerry would start by using a dancer’s quirks, natural movements, and body shape, and then exploit and develop them into choreography. We soon learned that the first steps that Jerry worked out on you were the ones you would most likely end up with—but not until he had done a thousand variations and played endless journies of psychological games and manipulations on his cast. Rehearsals were miserable. He was constantly stressing his dancers, picking on them, embarrassing them, setting up conflicts among them, anything and everything his inventive mind could conjure to get more energy and passion out of them. Jerry could be charming and complimentary, and then, five minutes later, attack, insult, and crush your spirit—all to see how it would affect your mood and influence the dance movements. A few lucky dancers were spared.
One favored dancer, Carolyn George, moved quickly and lightly, and had enormous elevation. She was hard to keep earthbound. (Carolyn had been captain of the Highland Park High School basketball team when they won the Texas State Championship.) Jerry nicknamed her “Twitty Bird” and tended to choreograph fast, flitting movements for her. Out of Tanaquil LeClercq’s long limbs and dramatic, mysterious elegance, Jerry shaped the nymph in Afternoon of a Faun, then built a ballet, The Concert, around her goofy sense of humor. Drawing on the power and dark intensity of Nora Kaye, Robbins created his great ballet The Cage.
Lucky Jacques dancing with Tanny LeClercq in Jerome Robbins’s Afternoon of a Faun, 1953 (image credit 5.1)
Robbins took what you did naturally, enhanced, packaged, and presented it—he helped you become more of what you already were. Balanchine took the music, developed his own ideas of movement, and challenged you to become more than you thought you could be. With Robbins, you were amplified; with Balanchine, you were transformed.
While rehearsing The Witch, whenever Dorothea Tanning was around, I tried to not be caught staring at her arresting outfits. Once, she slashed the bodice of her dress, then gathered the gauzy fringes of torn material and pinned them together with a slew of safety pins, a nipple peeking out through metal lattice. The dancers would ooh and ah, gossiping, “Isn’t she divine? She’s married to Max Ernst!” I didn’t want to seem stupid and ask, “Who’s Max Ernst?” So I stayed stupid.
I remember Melissa as the witch, her thick, black hair, swirling. No marking the dance steps for her, she did everything full out, her gorgeous olive skin glowing with a sheen of sweat. Frank was mind-bogglingly handsome, with dark curly hair and rounded buns of power, supporting a muscular torso. Everyone loved being around Frank. Whenever he smiled, his face arranged itself into the essence of mirth; it was infectious. It was thrilling to watch them rehearse—Melissa, our company’s great dramatic ballerina, and Frank, her equal in the power of his presence on the stage—cooking up what would become a fabulous performance.
The Witch premiered at the end of our final week in London, and then was scheduled to be repeated later, during our “tour of the provinces.” Among my memories of the premiere: the dramatic lighting—spooky pools of light; the staccato Ravel score, charging the environment with energy; and, especially, Melissa and Frank’s performance.
Eddie and I played a couple of servants to Melissa, who, in her witch guise, had blood-red streaks on the inner thighs of her dark tights, as if her “monthly” had gone insane.