Considering Crystal Pite

Color Cast Plot Point

Photo © Angela Sterling

Is Crystal Pite’s Plot Point, one-third of PNB’s enfolding fascination Her Story, as consequential and prophetic as Le Sacre de printemps (The Rite of Spring), a landmark moment of cultural shit-disturbance?

To the Parisians of 1913,  Sacre with Igor Stravinsky’s dissonant, “barbaric” score, and Nijinsky’s iconographic “anti-balletic” choreography were an invitation to a riot that May evening in the Theatre de Champs-Elysees.  More than 40 of that jeering, whistling audience had to be tossed out, while the sacrificial Chosen One had to dance to her ritual death in the glare of the house lights, counting (one hopes) the music over the din.

Don’t snort.  Clearly Plot Point, on its own, doesn’t carry Rite of Spring’s explosive charge.  But incrementally, as one more of Crystal Pite’s probing open-ended investigations of how we live, how we endure, what we must hold dear and what she calls “the unanswerable questions”‘ it’s quite consequential enough and characteristically unsettling.

(I can only bear witness to Pite’s earlier Dark Matters, to Emergence via PNB, to her jaw-dropping collaboration Betroffenheit, and now to Plot Point.  Enough to become a lifelong follower.  Betroffenheit which deals with trauma and loss with a ferocity that makes you fear for its central dancer, was barely endurable in early 2016.  Today its climate of dread and stomach clutching anxiety is our own.  Betroffenheit is coming back to the Moore Theatre next year.  Let’s see if stet is still the order of the day.)

Plot Point is more relatable, or at least more suburban than Pite’s previous PNB thriller, Emergence (“an eerily potent meditation on swarms and the hive mind” per critic-essayist Michael Upchurch.) P.P. is  danced to Bernard Herrmann’s music for the film Psycho.  Be at rest, “I did not want to make The Ballet Psycho,” the warm, soft-spoken Pite said to a rapt pre-rehearsal audience last week.  One really, really believes her.  What she does want to consider is story, and why we need it as much as we do.

Half the cast’s characters seem to be from a Fifties census: Mr. and Mrs. Smith, Mr. and Mrs. Jones, Fernando, Celia, and the unsurprising Thug 1 and Thug 2. (You’re right, that’s Noelani Pantastico as Celia in the top picture, whose astonsihment is almost audible.)   The other half — their replicas — came to be as a result of Pite’s love for the little white plastic figures used by architects to give scale to their  “real” worlds.

The all-white gang move herky-jerkily, the women’s heels raise a noisy clatter, and when a brawl breaks out, as it does below, it’s a slo-mo wonder.  The ballet’s sounds, its fights, party chatter, impatient high-heels and even screams, are on a pre-recorded track.  The very observant are onto this in a nanosecond. . . . as they are to notice that replica does not mean “mirror image.”

White Cast

Photo © Angela Sterling

Enough.  This is, obviously, not an account of Her Story’s riches, which are varied and gorgeous; it’s barely a credible trailer for Plot Point.  Consider it an alarm:  a Crystal Pite ballet is an occasion of the mind and the heart.  Few other dance makers working today have her reach and in Peter Boal’s great PNB, she has dancers, a director and apparently a board (bless them!) in sync with her.  With only one weekend to go, miss this night at your peril.






Remembering Balanchine

This George Platt Lynes study of George Balanchine with School of American Ballet students was on the cover of the School’s brochure scant years after I entered, and I’ve always loved it. (The boy is 10-year-old Edward Villella.)

Only in our dreams would Mr. B. feel the need to work with dancers at our level. This is what I remember from one time that he did.

In a slightly different form, it appeared in the Los Angeles Times, May 8, 1983, just after Balanchine’s death..

Remembering Balanchine

The last thing we expected George Balanchine to be was funny. Actually the last thing we expected him to be was visible. In 1945 as a student at the School of American Ballet, you could count on an occasional harrowing glimpse of Lincoln Kirstein in the elevator to class, well over 6’4” tall and austere, and that was bad enough.

Mr.B. was legendary but largely unseen. I was sure he’d look like one of those George Platt Lynes photographs in Dance Index, with his necktie thrown dramatically back over his coat. Classmates thought he’d look imperious, since half his photographs were taken with his head back like a greyhound. But although we felt his presence at the School we almost never saw him during those long afternoons while we spattered the wooden floorboards with drops of sweat and prayed that somehow, some way we would learn the combinations. Not only learn them but begin to dance them.

Occasionally, a girl from the most advanced class would to drop into C class to work on technique; dancing what we were only holding onto with our fingernails. The one we used to stare at most, covertly, trying not to show our fascination, seemed as close to perfection as we could imagine. She had extraordinarily long legs and arms and she tied her hair back neatly with the narrowest pink satin ribbon, the color which exactly matched the pink flush her cheeks took on as the class work grew progressively harder. It gave her the effect of a porcelain doll, a comparison we suspected she had already noticed, but there was nothing doll-like in the way she covered the diagonal distance of the practice room in three long, low leaps.

There was yet no New York City Ballet company to aspire to, although we had no way of knowing how close on the horizon it was to being born. It seemed as though nothing would change, that classes from these fierce Russian emigres, Anatole Ouboukhoff and Pierre Vladimiroff who gave their directions in French strained through Russian, or from Muriel Stuart who was English and kindly and had toured with Pavlova, would continue forever; that we would learn or not learn each succeeding level of difficulty in a sort of dream-like continuum.

But it all changed one November afternoon. A large group from class, as well as soloists taken from the professional class, were quietly notified: there was to be a school performance at Carnegie Hall with Leon Barzin and the National Symphony Orchestra. Mr. B. would choreograph a Mozart Symphonie Concertante, a Stravinsky Elegie for viola and Stravinsky’s Circus Polka.

And so we began to work with Balanchine. And with our pink-cheeked idol from professional class, Tanaquil LeClercq, who we found was only a year older than most of us, and not aloof but intent. She and another dancer the physical opposite of herself were to do a pas de deux. Most of the rest of us were involved in the Mozart Symphonia Concertante, forming a living background for the serious action, standing, kneeling, posing, changing arms, counting, changing arms again. All in an atmosphere of the greatest concentration. There were, you can be sure, no hysterical mothers, and no worries over costumes either. We were to wear our hideous blue regulation leotards and tie our hair back neatly. And that was that.

But we could watch. So we would line the floor, our backs against the cold mirrors, sit quietly and try not to be noticed while we watched them practice. Balanchine would get two or three dancers into a tangle, their hands linked in a long continuous movement until he ran out of human slack, and had to unknot them as you would unknot a snarled chain. And at these moments we discovered his oblique humor.

Tamara Toumanova had been through New York just then, with, among other things, a peculiar ballet done to the music of Chopin in which the pianist was on stage with her and she was his muse. A white, romantic ballet, it had been choreographed to feature one of her particular aptitudes, spectacular balance. At one moment of inspiration she balanced en pointe at his shoulder, balanced and balanced while the music filled and swelled and repeated and went back and over again until, finally, she had her fill of inspiration and got on with the rest of the dance.

And on this particular Saturday morning on Madison Avenue in this dingy, sacred school, Balanchine, working with three other dancers, had left a fourth girl on pointe as he wandered off a little to the side, head down, to figure out what in heaven’s name he was going to do next. Our eyes were riveted on her. She held her pointe, held it and held it. He had not told her to move. She began to sway. Our heads swayed slightly with her. Finally, noticing his entire room moving like palm trees in a wind, Balanchine looked up and saw her predicament.

“You can come down now, Toumanova.” The corner of his mouth twitched very slightly.

The night before the performance we lined up for one last costume check. Something distressed Mr. B. Scissors were brought. And he personally cut lower the decolletage of each dancer he felt needed it. Twelve year olds, I seem to remember, were not in that group, nor weed-like 14-year-olds either.

To tell the truth, I can’t remember much about that evening. What we had to do we did sturdily enough; it was cold but we barely felt it. A whole orchestra sounded rich to us after a rehearsal piano, and the night was over entirely too quickly. The School gave us each nosegay bouquets. Years later, after a dozen moves I finally lost mine. And cried.

But I remember vividly the morning I read that Balanchine had married Tanaquil. A classmate called me and her sigh was unenvious. “She married him for all of us,” she breathed. And so she had.

This piece came about through the generosity of Martin Bernheimer, the towering Los Angeles Times Music Critic and my next-office neighbor at the paper. When Balanchine died, Bernheimer remembered that I’d had something to do with ballet, or Balanchine or whatever in my past, and asked if I’d write something in the way of an appreciation.

Sometimes panic steadies you. It did me, that day, as I clung to the thought that personal wasn’t necessarily negative.  Besides, it was all I had to bring.  After it ran, panic came back when a warm note arrived. Toumanova had so enjoyed the piece, “Would you like to have tea one day, just me and Momma?”  I declined, polite but aghast.  All I could think was, Didn’t she realize that the joke, more or less, was on her? 

Perhaps. But it was Balanchine’s joke.