In the Shadow of the Greats

Danny Kaye, whom I greatly admired, visited him on the set. Our meeting made my day--and helped to refresh my English. Chevalier enthusiastically greeted him, as they were good friends. They cracked jokes, which to me were not funny, but perhaps they were inside jokes or maybe my English was just too bad. As I recall, Kaye’s French was passable, but heavily accented. They spoke more English than French, possibly so that the dancers and others on the set would be unable to follow their conversation.

This was Chevalier’s last show in France, as he was already in his late seventies. He did not actually sing, but lip synced to his records.

I missed the broadcast in France, but caught it on the ABC channel in Pittsburgh while I was staying at the Howard Johnson Motor Lodge in Oakland. I was proud that it aired in America and that many people saw it. I identified with this production, as a dancer, an organizer, and ballet master. I tried to buy the film or at least a copy of it, but never contacted the right people and now I am doubtful that I will ever obtain it.
Chapter Eight: To Visa or not to Visa
Although the contract arrived in 1965 to teach at the Pittsburgh Playhouse School, the American Embassy threw a monkey wrench into our plans. As foreign nationals, we were subject to immigration quotas. Officials at the American Embassy in Paris informed me that I was ineligible for immediate departure and would not arrive in Pittsburgh in time to begin the semester. We had to wait our turn.

A flurry of letters exchanged with the Playhouse’s Mark Lewis assured me that he was doing his best to bring us to Pittsburgh as quickly as possible. However, Lewis who was beleaguered with the Playhouse’s financial crisis, acted slowly to resolve the visa issue. A year later, I sought legal counsel and spent more and more time at the American Embassy. I was sad, uncomfortable, curious, and uncertain that the visa would ever really be granted. I was raised in a socialist country. America was still very sensitive about communist ideology. Although I stated that I was not a party member, I worried that the officials who were in charge of granting the visa might have doubts.

Job insecurity and uncertainly clouded our employment picture, limiting us to short-term engagements. Surprisingly, work was plentiful and Ballet Petrov was on a roll. However, it was challenging to maintain a troupe of thirty-five excellent dancers and be ready to tour when Mme. Sarrade, our agent, sold our show. I explored other performance options and presented smaller groups of four to eight couples. We shortened the costumes and created a variety program appropriate for nightclubs. It was easy to do and the pay was pretty good.
Estoril was a small tourist site, a village actually, located in the suburbs of Lisbon. Its seashore now boasts the largest casino in Europe. Back then, the casino featured attractions--much like dinner theater. We landed a two week gig for four couples. Consequently, it was a difficult job, as we had to perform in almost every number.

I was dreadfully out of shape. My work in television failed to provide a sufficient workout and I neglected to take formal classes. My legs were in no condition to execute all those Russian squats, but they were the high point of the program. I just had to do them. Predictably, by Day Two, my muscles were stiff and sore. I could barely walk down the staircase. I hobbled to the casino director’s office and explained that I was just too sore. I begged him to permit me to shorten the show. I wanted to omit my solos. The director insisted however, that we do the full show--as contracted.

Instead, he recommended a masseuse, who came to my hotel. I opened the door to an Amazon, who bent her head to enter. She had arms and legs to rival any sumo wrestler’s. My eyes widened and she sort of smirked and said, “I am a masseuse.”

I surrendered to destiny. Her hands were forged from iron. She could have easily broken me in half. Well, I somehow survived. She worked on me for more than two hours, grinding, bending, stretching, punching, and grabbing. Initially, I was excruciatingly sore but afterwards, I easily descended the stairs to the restaurant for dinner. I admired this giant masseuse, who worked miracles with her hands and the oils that she rubbed on me. Dancers are left to the mercy of the massage craft, as it is part of their survival and maintenance. We are accustomed to softer rubdowns. This woman was the exception to the rule--a miracle masseuse.

In town, women with black dresses and black scarves sold fish from woven baskets. Fruits displayed open-air were peddled on the streets. The two weeks of our engagement passed quickly and left pleasant memories. Here, singers sang fados to me. (These were Portuguese with guitars, who directed the words of their songs to me.) The experience was much more enjoyable for the local Portuguese, who understood the words, but it was a good feeling to hear the melody, to see the guitarist, and be the target of the song that elicited occasional laughter from the audience at the club.

Back from Portugal--and still no visa--life in Paris fell into the usual routine. My television productions included “Une Etoile m’a Dit,” “Chapeau de Paille d’Italie,” “Les Hauta de Hurlement” (Wuthering Heights), and Stravinsky’s Les Noces, choreographed by Guelis after Bronislava Nijinska’s version. I remember very little about this ballet, which failed to impress me.

In the summer of 1966, Daniel Astier and I obtained visas and drove from Paris to Hungary on vacation and to see my mother. (I could not travel to Yugoslavia because I had evaded its mandatory military service.) We had little money, but did not need much, as it was inexpensive--for a penny or two we could afford to treat guests. Although the revolution was over, the country was still under Soviet-style influence. Crossing the guarded border, the car was subjected to intense scrutiny, as officials checked for contraband. It was uncomfortable.
As usual, the phone rang and somebody from a film company asked for me. They needed a choreographer for a film with Russian and Georgian themes about the life of Rasputin. I had been recommended as a Russian, who was well-versed in ethnic dances. The film’s director was Robert Hossein and its composer was his father, Andre. The story, which takes place in pre-Revolutionary Russia, was written by Prince Usupoff from dictation to his nurse. His tale centered on a group of high-ranking officers, who decided to eliminate Rasputin, whom they believed was influencing the czarina.

A well-known German actor, Gert Frobe--familiar to American audiences as Goldfinger in the James Bond film--was cast as Rasputin. Geraldine Chaplin (daughter of Charlie) portrayed Munia, while Peter McHenry, a Shakespearian actor, played the role of Prince Usupoff. I was Frobe’s dancing double, while the very handsome Milenko Banovitch doubled for McHenry.

At our first meeting I realized that Robert, who was a famous French actor in his own right, knew exactly what he wanted. We instantly hit it off and as he was the son of an Eastern European immigrant, we seemed to have common ground. He was extremely nice, friendly, and imaginative. I was happy to work with him, as he accepted my ideas and my choreography. Robert always invited me to all the planning sessions. I was involved with many aspects of the production--filming, dancing, directing, and choreographing. Robert decided that I knew best about angling the camera to advantageously film the dances. He was correct, but it was my pleasure. I enjoyed supervising in a major studio and envisioned a directing career. I felt much honored.

Prior to filming, we met with the prince, to McHenry’s benefit, as he had the role. I just tagged along. The flat was ordinary, furnished à la Russe, though the value of the objects differed somewhat. Of course, there was a Faberge egg, common in many Russian apartments--some were authentic; others reproductions.

It was shocking to see Usupoff, the “killer.” He was just an ancient man confined to a wheelchair, which was pushed by a nurse. He was neither threatening nor scary. He was thin with bony fingers that resembled white ebony. His voice was quite weak. He talked slowly. I suspected that McHenry would have difficulty imitating his voice. I was the only one fluent in Russian--but there was little conversation. We spoke mostly with his nurse, a middle aged Russian lady, who was also his writer, secretary, and companion. She was quite educated. It was easy to communicate through her. His French was fluent and he did not really need a translator.

We also met with Robert’s father, Andre, who was an orchestra conductor and listened to his music. He was a Georgian and well acquainted with his native tunes and people. At his suggestion, I happily attended a play, running at a small theater in Bonne Nouvelle that he had scored and Robert had directed. I was amazed by the music’s force, its appropriateness for the play, and how it served as an integral part of the show.

Robert and I also visited Rasputin, a Paris nightclub just to put ourselves in the mood. At that time, many very good gypsy singers performed in Paris. The experience came as close to duplicating a Russian nightclub as was possible.

I staged some dances for the ballroom scene at the royal palace--either the mazurka or polonaise, and a few measures of the waltz--and set the Lezghinka and other Georgian dances for Banovitch, as Usupoff’s counterpart. Geraldine danced her part, but I hired a double to partner Milenko in the duet for Usupoff and Munia.

I knew Geraldine, whom I liked, from her tenure with Marquis de Cuevas’s troupe. She had danced since childhood, which enhanced her acting career. Geraldine was a good actress. She had just finished Dr. Zhivago, which I later saw and enjoyed in America. She did a wonderful job in that film, as did Omar Sharif, with his impressive interpretation of the Russian soul and spirit.

Geraldine resided near boulevard de Iéna with her friend, a wonderful lady, whom I liked immensely. When I close my eyes, I still see her smiling. They were inseparable and I visited them often. Since I admired Geraldine’s father (he was my favorite actor in my youth), we had long conversations about him. She really adored him. We also talked about her brother and her childhood.

Robert wanted Rasputin to dance too. As Frobe’s double and stunt man, I was dressed, padded, and bearded exactly to match him, which took an hour of preparations. From behind--and even from the side--I was unrecognizable. I was quite well paid too.

I Killed Rasputin was filmed at Studio Boulogne. The process with its endless hours of waiting and waiting was dull. My beard itched. I fell asleep. I read books to escape from the boredom or walked to another set. All that waiting makes the body stiff and yet I had to be ready to act and dance on a moment’s notice. This forces you to train yourself like a cat--to change your mood 180 degrees.

Despite the boredom, I sort of enjoyed the film. The costumes reminded me of old photos of my father, during his life in Russia. In Paris, a dense Russian refugee population clustered in rue Daru (Little Russia). My visits there generated a nostalgic mood for pre-revolutionary Russia. Naturally, my impressions were based on the stories that I heard. As a member of the second generation, I felt sad. Many old-timers believed that Imperial Russia would rise again. I doubted that. I suspected that when communism failed and a new era dawned on Russia, it would not become an empire, as that had died with the czarist regime.

The production people--including Robert--appreciated our efforts. During the filming, they praised and cheered the dancers, which made it exciting for us. I especially remember the applause for my Russian squats, which typified the virile Russian male. As Rasputin, I had a great time shooting a scene with eight women, who were under the mad monk’s spell. In ecstasy, they offered their bodies for his pleasure. That scene was all my pleasure--believe me and Frobe envied me. That rolling love circle, with those undressed, devotees was quite an exciting and extraordinary stylized dance.

Visitors on the set introduced themselves as the producers of Great Catherine, a British-made film about the Russian Empress. They thought that I was the right choreographer for their film. The gig appealed. I accepted the offer.

Twenty-four months and no visa--if hired for Great Catherine, I would cancel plans to teach in the U.S. However, there was always a stick in the wheel. The English union demanded a British choreographer for the job. David Lichine, who was well-known in England, explained that as an American, he was ineligible, as the British film union barred him from doing the choreography. If he was out of contention, then so was I. There had been talk that England would reverse its “British only” hiring policy. In Paris, we loudly denounced Britain’s exclusion of foreign dancers, especially as British dancers were allowed to accept jobs in France. I had hoped that a powerful film company could break the barrier. That failed to happen and my candidacy for the job, despite Mary’s British citizenship, was terminated. Destiny played his role--and I headed in a new direction, to another life.
While I was involved with “C’est la Vie,” starring Maurice Chevalier, Mary was touring the U.S. with Fiesta Italiana, an epic production--with chariots and horses--that could only be presented in arenas or on professional football fields. The tour stopped at Pittsburgh’s Civic Arena (now known as Mellon Arena). While in town, her objectives were to visit the Playhouse, meet Mark Lewis, and discuss the visa issue. She was graciously wined and dined in the Playhouse’s old club.

Mary and Lewis hired a lawyer, who quickly untangled the visa glitch. He discovered that the mistake had been to request immigration visas, instead of H-1 work permits (an error on Lewis’ part that weakened my confidence in him). After the three-month American tour, Mary returned to Europe. Instead of coming home, she headed to London to visit family members and to relax after the strenuous tour, while I waited in Paris for word on Great Catherine. Our relationship was at the breaking point. If the work permits were issued, she would accompany me to American; if not, she would remain in London. I traveled to London for a serious conversation with her.

Mary described the Playhouse and its studios, which were not as glamorous as I had imagined those in America, should be. There was only one advantage. The school had a theater. I would miss Paris’ artistic environment, but I realized that an opportunity to choreograph and to establish a ballet company was within my grasp. Retrospectively, I realize that I verged on returning to Europe--many times. However, quitting is against my Sagittarian nature. We decided that if my contract gelled in London, I would do the film. Otherwise, I would consider going to the U.S. The transatlantic move was a major decision in my life, as our futures depended on it.
As things were winding down in Paris, I was hired as a Russian character dancer, along with Grjebina’s company for an operetta, The Czarevitch, running in Mogador. I performed daily, plus twice on Saturdays, Sundays and Thursdays--a total of nine performances per week. Conceptually, no more than two dancers could be absent from the show on any given day. The ongoing monotonous daily routine with only a single day off was a drudge. Each facet--from putting on make-up to warming up and reading between the acts--became a ritual. The dances were exciting and interesting, but, the show was pretty demanding, especially on the six of us, who danced at the television station all day and performed in the evening. The public loved us. Our acrobatic tricks were crowd pleasers. It was impossible to mark the steps.

In my solo, I jumped into aerial splits and landed on my knees, which I had padded with foam rubber. The impact exerted enormous stress on my thigh muscles. A solo like this--no matter how often performed--was always challenging. Within six weeks, I was forced to stop dancing. Inflammation of the kneecap is a very tedious injury to heal. My knee problems continued after I arrived in the U.S., especially when demonstrating pliés in class. It took a year and a half before my knees became functional again. My appetite for money had cost me a lot. While on sick leave, I realized that it was time to stop showing off and do something that was physically less demanding.

At Club Eve, I staged a contemporary variety revue of brief, water-themed sketches for four dancers, two comedians, and four mannequins. For example, I created a takeoff of “Singing in the Rain" (but there was no rain--only shiny plastic strips). It ran for many years after I left Paris. It was not art, but it was profitable and I enjoyed that style of entertainment. Half of my troupe, which performed Russian attractions, was booked at Club Boeuf sur les Tois in Brussels, while another of my shows ran at a little Russian club in Liege. Once setup, they just ran, while I collected royalties.

Unsure of the future, I abandoned lots of stuff, including Ballet Petrov’s costumes. I bestowed my buggy to Karoly, either to sell or keep. It was the best car I ever owned until I bought a Mercedes. France marked a beautiful period of my life. I acquired sophistication and taste, while participating in the international arts scene. In France, I worked hard. Many unexpected things happened. Life was always exciting. France was my second home. I greatly admire and respect the country and its people, who welcomed me when I was just the little guy from a tiny country, unsophisticated and naïve. It was in France that I matured and all that happened there was a training ground for life in the United States.

We moved to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, U.S., early in 1967.
Chapter Nine: Teaching Pittsburgh to Dance
In February 1967, Mary and I arrived at the Pittsburgh airport. I had managed to survive my airplane phobia, but was exhausted. Our TWA flight departing from Paris had been delayed for four hours, plus we had a layover in New York. Since Pittsburgh’s terminal was small, we easily found Martin Pochapin, a nice fellow, who served as the Playhouse’s reception committee. He ushered us to his car and drove to The Howard Johnson Motor Inn in Oakland. Our room overlooked the Isaly’s deli across the street.

It was cold outside, as I recall. We opted for lunch in the Inn’s restaurant. I fell in love with deep fried clams. I spent my first day in Pittsburgh watching television and to my great surprise caught the ABC-TV American broadcast of “C’est la Vie,” starring Maurice Chevalier, the last program I had done in Paris.

We spent three days at the Inn. I immediately decided to buy a car, because public transportation was very slow, uncomfortable, and infrequent.

Two days after our arrival, Mark Lewis hosted a reception for us at the Playhouse. Many of the staff attended, including Helen Wayne Rauh and other local actors. We were barraged with questions by an assembly of nice old ladies. My head felt like a balloon. I wished that the conversations had been in French. I was completely inexperienced and did not enjoy this type of situation. Later, under the tutelage of Loti Falk, I learned how to behave in American society and to brownnose.

Mark Lewis arranged our move to a private apartment at 137 Grandview Avenue, a property owned by Lynn and Steve George. (At that time, Lynn was an actress at the Playhouse.) This beautiful apartment overlooked the city from atop a mountain across the river. It was modern, sparsely furnished, and comfortable. We had brought no furniture with us, but Steve’s friends donated recliner chairs, carpeting, a television, and other useful items. I was favorably impressed with Pittsburgh.

Our classes were mainly in the afternoons. I arrived at the Playhouse around 3:00 p.m. and worked until 9:00 p.m. I dined after nine and watched television until 3:00 a.m. or sometimes stared out the window at the city, or at the snowfall, which created a very eerie picture of downtown.

During leisure hours, we attended movies and socialized with our neighbors, especially the George family, and our immediate neighbors Bertha Perkins and Gus Wilde. Actually, we found Pittsburgh to be very friendly.
I became involved with the Pittsburgh Performing Arts Foundation, also known as “the open stage,” which Jack Brown directed. The concept embraced venues that often had no curtain or seating arrangements that incorporated the audience into the proceedings. My assignment was to choreograph the play USA, which was presented at a little cine-theater on Mount Washington’s Shiloh Street. This was exciting work with an interesting cast that included the Countess Christina Crawford (daughter of actress Joan Crawford and author of Mommie Dearest); Lincoln Maazel (father of conductor Lauren Maazel); John Holzman; Donna Anders; Paul Mochnick; and Lynn George. We hoped that “open stage” would become a professional experimental theater in Pittsburgh. To my knowledge, the project faded into oblivion and I lost touch with Brown.

One of Brown’s supporters was Pete Flaherty, who later became Pittsburgh’s mayor. Through my connection with Brown, I became involved in Flaherty’s election campaign, which was managed by Richard Caligiuri, another future city mayor. Subsequently, I became a friend and admirer of Caligiuri’s. Both he and Flaherty were instrumental in building Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre. I was beginning to settle in and develop supporters for dance in Pittsburgh.

Richard Karp, the Pittsburgh Opera’s founder and conductor invited me to choreograph the ballet scene in Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor. The singers, who were from New York’s Metropolitan Opera, included Manuel Ausensi, Renata Scoto, Pedro Lavirgen, Philip Cho, Earl Corwin, Paula Cartwright, and John Klingensmith. It was a minor dance that primarily manipulated the singers.

The real breakthrough came two months later--December 7--with Carmen. I choreographed a section interpolated from Bizet’s L’Arlésienne. The opera starred Regina Resnik as Carmen, William Olvis as Don Jose, and Joshua Hgecht as Escamillo. I needed six professional dancers for Act II, who would have been paid and subsequently eligible to join AGMA. An open audition yielded no one--they came, they thought they could dance, but I had just arrived from Paris and my standards were inflexible. I was disappointed that I could not engage dancers who were not already taking my classes at the Playhouse. We used the students and to augment the cast, Mary and I performed as Flamenco dancers. Although I hated double duty--to simultaneously make choreography and perform--it was an opportunity for us to dance together and the first time that she had danced my choreography.