Who didn’t think we could do it? C.C. snuck in to NYCB’s season opener! So we’re rockin’ another FIRST WORD REVIEW, that is, a review that comes out when a review should come out: the next morning. No two-day delay, bitches!
Dance Review: New York City Ballet, “Jewels”
Watching classical ballet is a lot like watching Shakespeare: The first ten minutes you have no idea what you’re looking at. Then, like some kind of miracle, your semiotic functions start to kick in and suddenly you begin to understand the language without much struggle. Such was the experience for C.C. last night at the season opening performance of George Balanchine’s Jewels at the New York City Ballet, where a few gems stood out in what was otherwise a very standard night at one of art’s most cultish institutions.
Now, C.C. is a classicist at heart, and although we generally give the biggest props to the avant fair, we can really dig into some hard-core formalism. But there is something about this kind of ballet that really resists the contemporary sensibility. And it’s not just in the art, with its fairy-tale aesthetics, socially conservative politics of romance, numbered formalism (solos, duets, trios, quartets, etc.), and fascist architecture that adheres without fail to the center axis of the theater (which is, apparently, the point of controversy about giving the State Theater a center aisle). It is also the audience, with its corral of mink and perfume, a near-fanatical worship of the choreographer, and an immutable impulse to applaud at every possible opportunity, that make this concert-going experience a little hard to take seriously. It’s even bizarre that some of ballets biggest artists, practitioners and supporters, are gay men, and yet it continues to be an institution heralded for its devotion to both promoting heterosexual mythology and providing a perfect venue for a romantic date for straights (C.C. and companion spotted two hetero couples snogging in the piazza during the second champagne break). Nay, it is the cult of ballet that resists being grounded, and, in the end, is the big hurdle that must be leaped in order really to enjoy what goodness there is in the art.
But Jewels (1967), even though it is hailed as a landmark piece (arguably the first abstract ballet ever, which would be no small achievement), is still dryly conventional in many ways. This isn’t the modern abstractness of say, Balanchine’s Apollo or Agon. This is show-horse ballet, replete with tutus and tiaras, virtuosic solos and sculpturally conceived final poses that are intended to reap applause from the audience. The fact that the piece is–even abstractly–about jewels gives light to the kind of play uptown art can make to its patrons (Why not just make a dance called “You’re Stocks Just Split!”?) that most contemporary artists, at least in theory, find disgusting.
In the first number, “Emeralds,” two couples lead the way through Frenchy dancing to excerpts from two pieces by Gabriel Faure. The awful acoustics of The State Theater were responsible for making it sound as if all the music were emanating from the stage right proscenium, at least, from where I was sitting. The dance was situated in, well, I couldn’t tell exactly, but the set either looked like the bottom of a swamp or a cluttered jungle with some kind of glittery spiderweb thing looming over the stage: gross sets by Peter Harvey.
Ashley Bouder and Stephen Hanna were the lovely first couple, although Bouder seemed to dance with more flair and freedom in her solos. Sara Mearns was elegant, if a little serious. Both men did their jobs.
There was a nice trio for two girls and a guy (I’m guessing Alina Dronova, Antonio Carmena and Ana Sophia Scheller). And the finale was actually thrilling. Balanchine does this thing (which he repeats in the final number), where the ensemble climax happens at exactly the same time as the musical climax. The dual orgasm is enough to make anyone’s heart race, even those who are actively trying not to be aroused by the festive display of male ass cheeks that ballet so graciously offers. After this, there is a marvelous denouement where the ensemble slowly, gently leaves the stage backwards as their arms fans out like soft wings, giving much needed breath to the stage.
“Rubies” is the hot number of the bunch. Cast in red, it is the most “American” of the dances, and thus, Balanchine takes the liberty of making it a little raunchy. After the curtain rises on an intimidating chorus-line of dancers, modern-looking hip thrusts jut out to a diabolical rising minor third in the opening of Stravinsky’s “Cappricio for Piano and Orchestra.” Teresa Reichlen is the leader here, and her gumbyesque body—long and elastic—is fascinating to watch. Her sly personality also adds the necessary sultriness to the provocative movement. (Click here for a sweet profile on her by Gia Kourlas for The Times.)
Megan Fairchild and Benjamin Millepied partnered nicely, although I found Fairchild’s arms to be a little too flicky, and Millepied’s general demeanor to be a little too sporty, but that may be personal taste. This attitude probably complimented the horseplay passages that Balanchine seems to have relished crafting for his boys every so often—good old strapping American boys next door, right?—but this material is terribly dated and maudlin.
Balanchine’s better achievement with “Rubies” is the strange spatial relationships he manages to force underneath the classical veneer. Even from my nearly oblique vantage point, I could see and sense the unorthodox breaking up of the corps de ballet into asymmetrical units. There was also a near-moment of Mercean chaos, that is, each dancer moving independently all at once. The hip juts, flexed feet and sensual (read: vernacular) movement (skipping, running and, I think, even a hint of a Can-Can) make “Rubies” the most accessible of the three jewels, at least, to a contemporary sensibility.
Finally, Jewels ends with in an ode to Russian decadence: “Diamonds.” Set to movements of Tschaikovsky’s Symphony No. 3 in D Major, you get the whole kit and caboodle here, with nonstop successions of solos, choruses, and a healthy helping of duets by Wendy Whelan and Philip Neal.
Whelan’s draw is that she doesn’t look like a ballet dancer, and yet she possesses one of the most astounding techniques I have ever seen on a ballet stage. Her sense of control is inimitable, and the flexibility of her awkward physique makes her capable of pulling off some of the most mind-boggling transitions of pose. Philip Neal was an adequate partner, although at times he seemed to shine less than Whelan, even in his own solo display of virtuosity.
The dance culminates, like “Emeralds,” in a group unison that is simply riveting because of its synchronization with the climactic arrival in the music. The intelligence behind these kinds of alignment transmits beyond the stage and strikes somewhere deep in the observer, and, arguably, is what makes so many believe in Balanchine’s genius. I can’t disagree there.
The sets throughout the night continued to be drab and ill-conceived. For “Rubies,” a Tron-like geometry of red lines ineffectively framed the stage. And “Diamonds” seemed to be plopped deep in the heart of an ice cave; you were half-worried the Abominable Snowman was going to come out and eat one of the ballerinas. Additionally, there was an enormous crack running the entire length of the backdrop: What gives? For a production that was revamped in 2004, you would think they would have been able to come up something a little more sophisticated to showcase this wonderful, if somewhat dated achievement in dance.
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Dear CC,
So cool that you took on Balanchine’s seminal JEWELS. I’m provoked–as I think is always your intention–to add some of my own thoughts.
What I’m most excited about in your reportage is your acknowledgment that Rubies, he ballet’s second act, has an “American” feel about it, while Emeralds, the first act, maintained some “Frenchy dance.” I’m sure it did not pass you by that Faure, the composer for Emeralds, was French; Stravinsky, the composer for Rubies, was American (by his estimate); and Tschaikovsky, for Diamonds, was Russian. These three nationalities make-up the choreographic genome of Balanchine (and perhaps classical ballet itself.) Balanchine trained in Russia then emigrated to France where he made himself over at Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes before coming to America and reinventing the form. JEWELS can be seen as a spirited auto-biography of choreographic evolution, a play at the different stages of the maker’s development. I could go with this except that I think it would miss something more significant about the work. Balanchine comes from a generation of artists in which there were still geniuses (aka Modernism.) Even today, deep into our postmodernist paradigm, we continue to refer to him as such. This figuring of Balanchine leads us to search for him inside the ballets. We imagine the ballets as miniature manifestations of himself, pieces of his genius, progeny of his gifted being. From this vantage point, it could make sense to identify JEWELS as a sort of Balanchine biopic.
However, what might be a more accurate appraisal of the work is that it identifies the vastness of his collaborations. Joan Acocella noted this in the New Yorker while reviewing the Kirov’s maiden voyage of this ballet to the US in 2002. Emeralds was created for Violette Verdy, a French ballerina, while Rubies–the “American section”–was made on Patricia (Patty) McBride, from Teaneck, NJ, and Edward (Eddie) Villella, a former boxer. These dances reflect as much about the dancers who originated the roles as they do about the life of Balanchine. At he heart of his genius was a capacity to collaborate with gifted performers, a talent that enabled these excellent works. In the advent of Balanchine it was difficult for a public to understand the extent of this collaboration. It didn’t fit with the genius myth. Choreographers were supposed to see steps in their heads the way Mozart (reportedly) heard entire symphonies before transcribing. But in these more equivocating times, and perhaps, too, more honest times, we are less expectant that geniuses will continue to steer us toward further civilization. We are beginning to understand and admit that a performance is a collective event, a situation, a phenomenon that necessitates the alignment of many different personalities and unique talents.
By no means do I wish to challenge the accolades we have, especially in New York City, given over to Balanchine. They are deserved. My challenge is that we look more honestly at what about his project was so brilliant. Suzanne Farrel, the dancer who originated the lead in Diamonds, the final section of JEWELS, provides a perspective. She’s often described in interviews and in her biography, the tacit understanding that developed between the choreographer and herself. She’s explained the obscure references and open-ended provocations Balanchine would use to illicit “steps” from her. She’s even gone so far as to admit a sort of co-authorship for one early work, claiming there was a figure he’d always meant to add but never did (Metamorphosis.) What’s exciting in these descriptions of the process is the discovery that Balanchine’s genius was as much invention as it was recognition. He saw in Farrel what any member of the NYCB audience would have seen–an extraordinary ability to conduct time and space, an indisputable liveness, and a wild, unleashed quality that sat in curt juxtaposition to the polite bravaura of Russian classical ballet.
Understanding Diamonds as this meeting between geniuses, we can start to see how the act is much more than the Russian section of the ballet, much more than a nod to the choreographer’s national origin. It’s actually the entirety of his project wrapped up in gaudy silver icicles. A wild, youthful American girl from the Midwest, who always felt herself larger than the life from which she emerged, plays the part of the austere ballerina in a scenography fit ONLY for the Marinsky opera house. It had no more to do with Russia than Balanchine did for the most of his life. They were having fun, making steps together, matching personalities with fantasies. The brilliance of his work sits in this ability to create ballets that felt as organic, as easy to remember, and as fluid to reproduce as ballets the dancers would have made themselves. There’s a reason for that. He pulled out from them the best of what they already had.
A friend of CC’s wrote in:
“‘Rubies’ is one of my favorite moments in ballet. It still feels like a shocker after that misty Faure music. It sweats the glory days of City Ballet–leggy divas, sexy men, cocaine, even a little kind of pre-whisper of Studio 54, the undeniable influence of Bob Fosse (Cabaret opened on Broadway a year before the ballet’s premiere).”
Hot.