In the Shadow of the Greats

At the time, I was already Massine’s assistant. The job of auditioning additional dancers for the corps and soloist positions fell to me. Mostly, I relied on my television cast. We also engaged the American born Nicholas Polajenko, who was then the handsome leading dancer of the Grand Ballet du Marquis de Cuevas and Swiss ballerina Nini Stucki, a product of Boris Kniaseff’s methodology. She had extraordinary placement and was perfectly turned-out. From the Paris Opéra Ballet, we hired Jean-Jacques Bechade. Massine’s whole family was in it--Tatiana (his wife), Tatiana (his daughter), and Lorca. I performed several roles (besides being Massine’s assistant), including “Drosselmeyer” and danced the “Waltz of the Flowers.”

The ballet aired at Christmas. I missed the show in Paris but luckily obtained the sixteen millimeter film. It was the first Nutcracker broadcast on Paris television and it was the foundation of the first Nutcracker that I staged in Pittsburgh in 1968. Eventually, I staged different versions of it, but my ballet played for more than five hundred performances. Following my departure from Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre, the succeeding administration invested heavily on a new production, which was far less successful than my modest version, based on Massine’s interpretation.
During my “flightless” years, I thrived on television work, especially at the Buttes-Chaumont Television Studios, which was France’s first television studio and later at the cinema studios in Chateau de Vincennes and Studio Boulogne. Mostly, I worked with Jean Guelis and other choreographers on special projects. Although I was a dancer--and was paid as a dancer--my responsibilities included organizing the shows and arranging auditions. I gained managerial skills and experience in working with people--and that included doling out post-audition rejections. “We only need six people, and we have twenty. Darling, we will take you next time,” I said. There were other stage managers but few of them were also dancers. Owing to budgetary considerations, I was a commodity because I was a dancer with managerial experience.

Our day began at 6:00 a.m. and sometimes we stayed at the studio until 11:00 p.m. In the winter, we arrived and departed in darkness. Just as we unwound, it was time to return to work. We were paid in two hour increments, which meant that the 6:00 a.m. to 11:00 p.m. workday, translated as nine hours of service. Consequently, we tried to put in as many two hour time blocks as possible. Someone had to approach management to fight for the dancers’ overtime pay and that someone was me.

We never complained and were always eager to stay as long as possible, but it was extremely tiring. Sometimes we worked in the morning on one show, in the afternoon on another, and in the evening on a third program. This meant two or three service hours per show, which did not appear as inflated hours to the directors.

These were my most financially lucrative years. I was in the station most of the time. I had little free time to spend my money, which instead funded my company.

Initially, I only worked on a few shows, but as time passed, opportunities became more frequent and I was involved with regular weekly programs, including a series called “Un Quart D’Heure…” (With the guest singer’s name always tacked onto the end of the show’s title.) An opportunity to choreograph for a special project with national exposure was an artistically rewarding experience.

Retrospectively, I realize how lucky I was to hold a job as a permanent choreographer for national television. The joke circulated that we--dancers and choreographers--were much better known to the public than the stars of the Paris Opéra. Ironically, there was much truth to it, as our faces and names were broadcast into private homes inside and outside of Paris, while not everyone attended the Opéra regularly. I became a household name.

Fortunately, other choreographers did not turn against me as I became a competitor. I established relationships without big fanfares, remained modest, and did whatever people asked me to do. Many soloists refused to accept gigs beneath their status. I was too money hungry to care if on one day I was the leading dancer and on the next just an extra. It did not tarnish my image. I landed bigger and bigger assignments. At least I was always financially secure.

At the studios, I was in the cafeteria. I was in the shows. I was in the rehearsal studios. I was everywhere. Important people remembered me and could rely on me--“Oh well, Petrov will do that.” During my seven year tenure in television production, I learned to wear multi-hats.

Success has its price. I gained experience in dance and lost my technique, as I was unable to take class regularly. Initially that was unapparent, but as time passed, my technical decline was blatant. Then, I decided to change the course of my career.
I pitched my idea for an Easter production--similar to Massine’s Laudes Evangelii--to some TV executives. However, in television, suggestions only generate counter-suggestions and are rarely approved. In my case, the powers that be preferred a Christmas show using composer Arthur Honegger’s Christmas Cantate.

I was unfamiliar with Honegger’s score. My dancers insisted that I accept the offer--no matter what. I would just have to acquaint myself with Honegger. Stage director Pierre Roger and I had previously worked together. However, this time I was the choreographer, not a dancer. He explained his vision for the thirty-five minute piece. He wanted to film it outdoors, in the woods. While this was an exciting idea, we realized--much later--that filming in snowy sub-zero temperatures is difficult.

We rehearsed in the studio. The dancers executed my choreography beautifully--I was satisfied. Outdoors, everything changed. We gulped hot broth, hot chocolate, coffee, and tea by the gallons. Fingers and bodies were completely frozen. Buried beneath layers of coats and outerwear, the movement was barely visible. Naturally, it was very disheartening for me and I constantly barked through a handheld megaphone.

Pierre Roger stopped me. He said, “When you are a director, you do not constantly use a sound amplifier.” He deflated my spirit--I felt that I was overdoing it, was overanxious, and not fully in control. We wrapped up the outdoor shoot in three days, while the remainder was filmed in the studio.

Curiosity consumed me. Although we reviewed the takes daily to determine what needed to be corrected or enhanced--and these actually were not bad--it was impossible to judge what the finished product would look like with all the pieces assembled.

The show aired during Christmas week. As I did not have my television, I watched at a friend’s house. We had a couple of drinks, cheered each other, and laughed about the production, as we knew what happened during the parts that were deleted.

The reviews were favorable. While not raves, they were encouraging, especially to an emerging choreographer. The show has now been long forgotten. Still, for me, it launched my career as a chorographer in television and film.
Occasionally, I worked with hot, young choreographer Dick Sanders, who choreographed “Do Re Me,” which aired regularly and sometimes alternated with “Café Concert” or was broadcast on the same night with it. His style, primarily contemporary modern dance with a pinch of jazz, was much more modern than Massine’s or any of his predecessors’. It was a departure from my definition of modern style, which was rooted in Massine’s aesthetic. I was uncomfortable in Sanders’ works and not especially excited by his choreography, though I did not dislike it. A job is a job and I regarded it as such.

Besides working with Jean Christophe Averty, Sanders had an assistant--Nicole D’heue, a cynical blonde girl, who was quite jealous of me because I had more jobs and was more famous than she. We were competitors, but she was more possessive and bitter. For me, the rivalry was less intense and I often employed her in Jean Guelis’ productions. Surprisingly, she invited me to work with Sanders. I thought perhaps I had misjudged her, but in fact, I did very few “Do Re Mi” shows.

Jean Guelis and I worked on many shows, including: “Ecole des Vedettes,” “Le Bal des Deux Vagabonds,” “Les Joies de la Vie,” “A.L. Ecole des Vedettes,” “Festival,” and “Voyez Come on Danse.” These programs featured a leading actor or singer, or pivoted around a special concept. In France, all shows were built around a vedette (the central figure) like Bernard Blier, Charles Aznavour, Colette Renard, and then rising star Gilbert Becaud, who incidentally fell for an English girl in our corps de ballet. Consequently, as the star’s girlfriend, we were obligated to give her a prominent role.

The shows were piling up--“Revue des Revues,” “La Petite Fadette,” “Tout la Chanson,” “Orchestra avec Camille Sauvage,” “L’Oeuf de Paques,” “Rengaines,” “Monsieur tout le Monde,” and “Opera Croquis”--and tended to blur together. As each show had a short run, we learned or taught the choreography before we got onto the set and in costume. We filmed phase-by-phase, section-by-section and were lucky to execute a whole dance in one take. To our advantage, mistakes were easy to repair by inserting the corrected version. On the downside, we worked in increments--similar to when actors deliver a few lines in one shot before the camera cuts to something or somebody else. This is okay for an actor, but uninspiring for a dancer. It was almost impossible to warm-up and really get into it, get sweaty, and give it your all. However, close-ups were a plus as the audience could see a dancer’s face more clearly than in the theater.

Marten’s program followed the familiar star-driven show format and included other vedettes (supporting actors like Nicolas Bataille, Leo Campion, Perrette Pradier, and Claude Darget), plus incorporated singing, dancing, acting, and comedy. Marten offered a suggestion for his show and my task was to concoct an unusual ballet for dancers attired in jailbird outfits or “something uniformed.” The designer created a soldiers’ barracks that looked like a prison, surrounded by a wall. The dance movements had to compliment that.

I came up with the idea of positioning a big trampoline (unseen) behind the wall. As the dancers jumped on the trampoline, they were propelled upwards and flew like birds to an unbelievable height. Since the trampoline was hidden--it looked as if the dancers were jumping six or eight feet in entrechat six and splits. They also jumped off the top of the wall, rebounding to the height of twelve or fifteen feet (including the height of the trampoline). Of course, the public would realize this was beyond human capabilities, but the effect was immense. Initially, we practiced bumping, kicking, falling, and colliding, without the trampoline.

True, the piece was not purely dance and had a circus-like ambiance, worthy of Cirque de Soleil. The feedback was mixed. The newspapers were enthusiastic; but dance lovers preferred more dancing; while the average person--specifically several actors Marten invited to the party after the opening--raved about the show. Overall, it was not a great hit, possibly because of the libretto. Translated from the April 27, 1964 issue of Combat--le Journal de Paris:

I was delighted by the positive notice and compliments. This show contributed to my artistic maturity and bolstered my self-confidence as a choreographer. I decided that I liked being a choreographer.

A succession of new shows followed, including “Les Djinns,” “Du pour et Du Contre,” “Chaka,” “La Fille de Madame Angot,” and “2 Quart d’Heure,” which I did with G. Jouvin. Television is a little bit like the lottery. Sometimes you earn small change and sometimes you hit the jackpot. The 1965 season was a winner. In Paris, all actors and dancers are sometimes in “vogue” and at other times, are forgotten. This season, I was in demand. My career was going great guns with numerous opportunities, highlighted by television productions of Tales of Hoffmann and “C’est la Vie,” which starred Maurice Chevalier, plus a performing role in “Jeanne d’Arc au Bucher.” (However, in a few years the scene would change. As more stations went on the air the demand for new programming increased, but brought a shift in tastes. The variety show format was headed for a downturn. News broadcasts, films, talk shows, and imported programming would dominate.) The year 1965 was also pivotal in my life, as a casual conversation in a café set in motion events that eventually led to a contract in the U.S.
Frano Jelincic, who had been teaching ballet in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, returned to Paris. He was seeking a director for the Playhouse Ballet School, as he was leaving the job for one with Philadelphia’s Pennsylvania Ballet. Barbara Weisberger, PB’s founder, had just offered him the position of ballet master. We met for coffee and tasty French pastry at an outdoor café, Deux Magots, on le boulevard Saint Germain des-Prés along with another old friend from Yugoslavia, Stevan (Grebeldinger) Grebel.

Stevan, then a Washington National Ballet principal dancer, was vacationing in Paris. I was still a leading dancer with Léonide Massine’s company and a choreographer for French National television.

Frano was on a mission. He asked for suggestions on how to locate a professional teacher, willing to replace him in Pittsburgh. He had Mr. Wood in mind.

I had taken many classes with the boastful Wood, whose ego ranked him as incomparable among ballet instructors, but he had no following of devoted students. I was unimpressed with him and suspected that he refused to adapt to the times and to the dancers’ needs.

Frano reasoned that without many devotees in Paris, Wood, who must have been in his sixties, could easily depart without much ado.

Stevan piped up “Why not Nicolas?”

Frano responded, “With pleasure, but I didn’t think that Nicolas would just leave Paris so easily. He is busy and making good money.”

I pondered it for a moment. I had already traveled from Tokyo to London and had crisscrossed Europe, Asia, and Africa. The idea appealed. Maybe it would be an interesting experience for a few months. I saw it as a stepping stone to New York City, San Francisco, or Chicago. Although I had seen a film starring John Wayne, who portrayed a leading steel producer during the Second World War, I knew little about Pittsburgh. I announced that I would be interested in taking the job, but remained mum that my commitment would be short-term.

Frano had a critical nature and made no attempt to sugarcoat the assignment. He was not enthusiastic about Pittsburgh’s cultural life, though he suggested that there might be opportunities to work with the Pittsburgh Opera and Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra. He clearly explained that it was a steel manufacturing city of beer and whiskey drinkers.

I promptly forgot this conversation.

I had met him in Mme. Rousanne’s classes at Studio Wacker. We became friendly, but he was not talkative and neither was I. We often just sat and watched people pass by on le boulevard St. Germain or silently sipped coffee.

This day, was the exception. He was not inspired by the offer and planned to decline. Our conversation became much more animated. I responded, “Jean, you can’t do that! You know that dancers depend on these shows and every lost opportunity is lost income for them!”

He sympathized with the dancers, but simply disliked Offenbach. I hatched an idea. I told Jean to accept the offer and not to worry about anything. I would engage dancers for him and rehearse the show. He could just walk out of the studio for a cigarette whenever he felt uninspired and I would complete that particular scene. I said, “You will sign and I will tell the dancers that you told me to do that. It will basically be your choreography.”

Jean looked at me doubtfully, certainly without enthusiasm. “Is that a good idea?”

I insisted on it, telling him what a wonderful collaboration it could be. I would do anything that he wanted.

He agreed. When he met with the producer and the director at the television station, I tagged along, as his assistant, just to take notes.

Rehearsals were quite exciting. I easily amassed a large ensemble of freelancers and dancers who frequently worked with Jean Guelis and me. Babilée created good choreography until he got bored. We repeated the existing material a few times. He looked at me and announced, “Well, go on, rehearse. I need a smoke,” and he left.

I was a stage manager and the ensemble’s ballet master, so this little charade was uncomplicated. At the end of the gig, everybody was happy and regarded Jean with respect and reverence. I wore as many hats as possible to earn the maximum money. All in all the show was very successful.

In September 1965, while working on this production, I unexpectedly received a contract from the Pittsburgh Playhouse, a professional theater company in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, as the result of my cavalier remarks uttered two months earlier to Frano Jelincic. The three-year, renewable contract was for both Mary and me. The offer covered a nine month period for each year, with the option to teach summer classes. Nine thousand dollars per year seemed fair, but I knew little about American taxes. (I had no idea that the government would take twenty percent and that all fringe benefits were automatically deducted from the salary, without changing the contractual sum.) The deal also assured roundtrip tickets from Paris to Pittsburgh. The offer was tempting. We signed the contract. Jean Babilée had been on hand when it arrived and as I needed a witness to counter-sign it, he did the honors and wished me good luck with the new venture. However, it would be two more years and several major projects later before the next major leap in my career.

Although it was a supporting principal role, the part required very little dancing. Yet along with the roles of Lord Edgard in Bal des Voleurs, Don Basilio in Barbiere di Siviglia, Corregidor in The Three Cornered Hat, and the Russian Father in Boutique Fantasque, it was among my favorites.

I was heavily costumed in large cloaks, richly ornamented with precious stones, and wore a pig mask and an archbishop’s miter. When the lights caught the sparkling jewels, I resembled a Christmas tree. Essentially, the jury and the people who had condemned Joan of Arc carried me around.

I enjoyed working with Milko, as it had been a longtime since our last association. Throughout my career, I crisscrossed paths with various artists and choreographers, working with them for a time, then drifting in another direction. Milko, who later became the Metropolitan Opera Ballet’s ballet master, was serious about every job. He was always an intense and energetic dancer. By contrast, Stevan Grebel and I took jobs as they came and made the best of them--always waiting for the next opportunity.

I was now Jean Guelis’ permanent assistant and was responsible for organizing most of the shows. With him and our usual ensemble, I worked on “Festival Frank Pourcel” and “Gala de l’Enfance Inadaptee,” as well as “Sur un Air d’Accordeon.” We opened the 1966 season with “Contes de Perrault.” Other shows included “Variation no. 27,” “Riquet à la Houppe,” “Pour la Premiere Fois,” and “Au Risque de vous Plaire.” Today, I no longer remember the details. In one show, I was cast as a referee; in another, as a Musketeer, or a pimp, or a policeman. With guest star Claude Bessy, who was from the Paris Opéra Ballet, I appeared as a Turkish harem guard, while she danced with eight men in a Schéhérazade-esque skit. These shows presented opportunities to work with cinema, theater, and ballet stars including Edith Piaf, Charles Aznavour, Jacques Brel, Gilbert Becaud, Maurice Chevalier, and Serge Gainsbourg. Of these, our production with Maurice Chevalier--my last major show in France--was most memorable.
“C’est la Vie” was directed by Jean Christophe Averty, who usually worked with choreographer Dick Sanders, not with Guelis. As Guelis’ assistant, I engaged the dancers, held the rehearsals, and danced too.

The scenes were staged in front of a stark, white background, with colored strips glued to the floor to create depth. In this white vacuum, the dancers seemed to float in the air. Typically, they entered very sharply and surrounded Chevalier, who was positioned in the middle, singing his traditional songs.

The elegant Chevalier was the epitome of a French star. His manner, his dress, and his way of talking with people differed from other contemporary Parisians, whom I had worked with, lived amongst, and was accustomed to. Such role models no longer exist. He personified a throwback to Paris in the twenties when the French aristocrat was distinguished from ordinary people, like his English counterpart, who sported an umbrella, bowler, and gloves.

As Guelis’ assistant, I was constantly around Chevalier and attempted to engage him in conversation about my pending departure for America. He was unimpressed and uninterested--yet, was otherwise very pleasant. Consequently, our conversations were merely small talk.