In the Shadow of the Greats

He was unwelcome to return.

I netted another Soviet defector--Anatole Aristov--who was a former Moiseyev Folk Ensemble member. Sasha Filipov saw him in New York and urged me to engage him, as there were fewer opportunities for folk dancers. His performance in The Nutcracker’s “Russian Trepak” was exquisite. Lev was excited to have him onboard, but unfortunately Anatole’s tenure was short, as he liked vodka too much.

In the meantime, Aleksandr Agadzhanov, another of my former PBT dancers, had returned and settled in Pittsburgh along his new wife Julie Cunningham. As regular ADE members, they enriched the classical wing of our company with stellar performances, like in the “Pas de Deux” from Le Corsaire, which they performed that spring.

Retrospectively, if I could start over again with the American Dance Ensemble, I would raise the money first. When there was no ballet in Pittsburgh, we appealed to people who felt that there should be a company, though they actually knew little about the art. A company, however, cannot exist on opinion.

Among ADE’s first supporters were Ted Hazlett, Willard Rockwell, and Alfred Hunt. I was always happy when someone stepped forward--such as Mr. and Mrs. Levinson of Levinson Steel, who remained faithful supporters. During one of Rod McKuen’s visits, ADE board member Joseph Nassif arranged a dinner with the reclusive Alfred Hunt to familiarize him with ADE’s activities.

Our chauffer to the Hunt party was college alum Jimmy Miller, who is now a well known agent and producer on the West Coast (and counts Jim Carey among his clients). The Hunt home had exquisite living quarters and a private, enclosed swimming pool--more appropriate for Hollywood than for Pittsburgh.

Hunt was very reserved, but friendly. His young friend served as the butler and made our evening as pleasant as possible. Everyone had a wonderful time. Doug was in good humor and there were no clashes with Rod this time. We wanted to show our best side to Alfred, whom we hoped would continue to support us, which he did until his death.
In April 1981, we opened with Grande Pas Classique, which Frano Jelincic, who knew it well, staged to Alexander Glazunov’s music. Yes, Frano--this ballet was a strange collaboration. His battle with Patrick Frantz over the supremacy of their respective ballerina wives was far worse than his skirmishes with me--and Mary was never Dagmar’s rival.

Although Mary had danced in all the opera productions and in Swan Lake, The Merry Widow, and Alice, plus in The King and I at the Playhouse, I never favored her, as I worried about what others would say. (“Ya, ya, he is doing favors for his wife.”) Jealousy is always very powerful. And I avoided that situation. But actually, I think myself to be a real dummy. If I had done it openly, what difference would it have made? Sometimes being too scrupulous and too honest is idealistic.

With his tie to PBT severed, Frano became my friend. There was nothing to gain by continuing the animosity and this would show Loti Falk that I held no grudges. He had paid his debt--his destiny was no better than mine. The work featured Julie and Aleksandr with Kristen and Peter as the alternates, backed by four couples, which included Point Park College’s best dancers--Ruth Leney, Jerry Premick, Melinda Cutright, JoAnn Michaels, and Laura Robezzoli.

Isabelle Fokine danced her grandfather’s The Dying Swan, which Vitale had previously reconstructed for her from notes of the original. Michel Fokine’s variation for Anna Pavlova provided a framework for improvisation, which over the years other ballerinas have adapted to more contemporary technique and tastes. When I had staged the variation years earlier for a teenaged Jordeen Ivanov, I had used the current, accepted version, as I was unfamiliar with Vitale’s. Based on the old notes and costumed in an early nineteenth century tutu--which resembled a lampshade--Isabelle’s interpretation drew on her creativity and was unique. What she did was more realistic and yet, not updated. I admired her naivety. Interestingly, she later opted for an acting career.

Ron Tassone, Lev, Doug, and I filled the program with new and repertory works. My contribution was The Man Who Tracked the Stars, a humorous zodiac ballet with narration and music by Rod McKuen. The work used a large cast. For Taurus, I staged a comic bull fight, which I performed with Doug. People laughed because I was in it.
In 1981, Pittsburgh dedicated its first incarnation of the David L. Lawrence Convention Center with a special celebration of performances and events. At the time, we were affiliated with the city’s department of Parks and Recreation, which recommended us to the center’s planning committee. We struck a lucrative deal. They required both afternoon and evening performances to cover a four or five day span with a hitch--none of the programming could repeat. Phew! What a challenge. I met with my ADE team to discuss the options. Along with the usual suspects, we invited Peter Degnan and Tommy Cousin (who assisted Tassone with Nutcracker rehearsals) to participate. We assembled eight hours of programming that included a variety of dance styles and music--among them, my popular and accessible repertoire works and Tassone’s signature piece--something for everyone.

Rehearsals for our cast of sixty-five dancers, including a roster of guest artists--like Jordeen, Gennadi and the men from Poltava--began six weeks prior to the opening. Since we could not expect students to cut academic classes, the only possible way to run all these rehearsals was to substitute them for technique classes--to Mary’s chagrin and I caught hell at home. I reassured her that it was only temporary. I had committed myself and when I commit myself, I do my best to follow through with it.

The greatest challenge of this Cecil B. De Mille epic was devising the complicated schedules, as this was in the pre-computer era. We mapped out huge wall charts that listed all the dancers and the programming. We tried to assign every dancer to four or five pieces--but because of scheduling logistics, some ended up in eight different works. We allowed for onstage overlap time, as we occasionally had two groups slated to dance simultaneously on different stages and some dancers had to dash madly from one stage to another--changing costumes en route.

We bused the students back and forth to the center, which surprisingly was a good space for dance. Seating accommodated a thousand, but the audience could stand and walk about--it was a cross between a nightclub and a park performance. The sound system was excellent and for the evening performances, we had theatrical lighting. The stage itself, which was provided by the city, reminded me of the Three Rivers Arts Festival stage. We brought an announcer from the Playhouse to introduce the program and decorated the back wall with an enormous banner--American Dance Ensemble of Point Park College.

The event was not ADE’s greatest artistic achievement, as some of the pieces were better than others, but it was our biggest project. No one got ill, there were no serious mistakes, and everyone participated with pride. We did it for the love of the art. We were acknowledged by the city, the public, and the media, but the college never thanked us. And the college failed to understand that our extracurricular activities were more important than the department’s daily routine. As students went out into the world and pursued careers, their stories about their crazy schooling attracted new students.
When I first arrived in Pittsburgh, I needed dancers for opera productions. I canvassed local studios for recruits. For Aida, I chose Cathy Groetzinger, then a student at Barth’s studio. She subsequently appeared in several productions, but opted for New York, where she joined the Rockettes. I saw her again in New York, between shows--the Rockettes, who wore their make-up all day long, did four performances per day. She introduced me to her fiancé, whom she later married. I lost contact with her for about ten years until she phoned me.

“Do you remember Cathy? I am back from New York.” I was glad to speak with her. She had left her husband, was exhausted from work, and had decided to move home, with her mother. I asked Mark Lewis if I could hire her, as I needed an office assistant. She was a good writer and organizer, plus she kept my office clean.

Cathy resumed taking classes again and within a year, was in dancing condition. She joined the ADE roster as a soloist, but also worked in the corps--while maintaining the administrative job. Her assistance was especially invaluable when I translated and rewrote Stanislavsky’s method for dance as a college handbook to be used in conjunction with my course--Analytic Approach to Dance. I dedicated the book to her. She remained my assistant until ADE folded. Subsequently, she became the Assistant to the Chair, is still engaged in clerical work at the college, and teaches dance both there and at private schools as a guest teacher.
A Russian dance teacher, who was teaching at the Joffrey, approached me about employment. Mansur Kamaletdinov, a small--short and fine-boned--dark-eyed guy, a typical Georgian, had been a character dancer with the Bolshoi before his retirement. He knew how to talk. He said that he and I could make wonders. He promised to produce dancers unlike any others in Pittsburgh and that PBT would eat its heart out.

I, in turn, filled Mark Lewis’ head with fantastic descriptions of Kamaletdinov’s attributes. I convinced him to appoint Kamaletdinov as director of the part-time community dance classes. Consequently, we offered him a salary higher than the other teachers earned--which displeased the others, especially Mary whose astute insight saw right through him. His classes were good and he developed a following, but as with all Russians, soon problems arose.

Kamaletdinov’s ex-wife lived in New York with their son, whom he loved very much. He maintained an apartment there and continued to spend weekends with his boy. He brought his son to Pittsburgh and just two days later, his hysterical ex-wife appeared, demanding the return of her son. We hid Kamaletdinov, but she was persistent and told us that he had stolen her son, whom she wanted returned.

We ended up in court--our pianist Phyllis Connor, Lev, and I were Kamaletdinov’s witnesses. The judge awarded custody to the boy’s mother. Kamaletdinov was granted permission to visit his son once a month, but was not permitted to bring him to Pittsburgh.

For awhile, he concentrated on teaching classes and successfully setting choreography for the spring concerts. However, he demanded things that the Playhouse could not offer. I reminded him that the Playhouse was not the Bolshoi. He thought that he was producing geniuses. Certainly his boasting pleased the students and they became attached to him.

About two years after his arrival, he opted to open a private studio and convinced Paddy Toon and Jean Gedeon, both former PBT members, who were on the part-time evening division faculty, to join him. He instigated animosity between Jean and me, leading her to believe that I disrespected her and her abilities. He knew how to heat the iron. Jean, who had been Frano’s star pupil, as Jordeen had been mine, was a talented soloist. After an injury and weight gain, Loti pressured me to dismiss her. Jean happily accepted a teaching contract and simultaneously took another job at Carlow College. Although she worked for me, I was less involved with the evening division.

Their collective departure and the mass exodus of their students--Kamaletdinov taught the pre-professionals, Jean the children, and Paddy the adults--was a great blow to the evening division program, from which it has never recovered.
When I arrived in Pittsburgh, ballet accompanists were at a premium. Like Mme. Pereyaslavec, I realized the importance of an accomplished accompanist. Vesta Piper, one of our first pianists, was a sweet, short lady who played fairly well, but had a great problem. The piano at the Playhouse School was on a cart, which raised it an additional six to eight inches off the ground. She stacked a bunch of telephone books on the stool in order to reach the keys, but even that did not compensate for her diminutive height. The scores often fell on her, covering her face and hands. Odd noises accompanied the music as she shoved the sheet music into place and continued to play.

We had many others but the ones I best remember were Cleveland native Phyllis Connor, who was capable of sight reading and worked for both PBT and the college; the chain smoking Herb Martin, an excellent pianist who never understood how to be a good accompanist; Filipino Patria Manalo, who was a very good pianist but lacked a feel for dance; and Sandy (Moore) Ball, with whom I worked closely.

Sandy, a highly intelligent musician, joined us from Erie, where she had worked with Ismet Mouhedin at Mercyhurst College. She possessed an extraordinary talent as an accompanist. She understood rhythm and had learned folk and character melodies. I was always most comfortable teaching when she was at the piano, as she was able to read my mind, a feat acquired through years of working together.

When I staged The Merry Widow in Ljubljana, Slovenia, Sandy cut and arranged the entire three-act ballet, plus created the instrumental parts. She frequently cut and chopped scores by literally gluing snippets onto paper to create a new score.

I invited Ruth Page to a rehearsal. She sat down and we had a little chat. However, by the time we had run the first third of the ballet, she was sound asleep. I did not dare wake her. We just continued. She awoke when rehearsal ended. I hesitated to ask for her opinion--but she burst out, “Darling! It is marvelous!” She repeated that twice and then changed the subject.

I required Ottavio De Rosa’s help. As he happened to be in town, I asked him to put counts into sections of the music. He did this with pleasure, but neither of us noticed that the music was registered at the wrong speed--the thirty-three rpm recording was registered to the speed of a forty-five--consequently, the music played twice as fast as it should have. It was a little too fast for dancing, so we slowed it down electronically. Nobody realized the big mistake.

During a rehearsal, with the Johnstown Symphony, in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, we discovered that the choreography and live music did not mesh. The orchestra was dragging. Discretely, I asked the conductor if he could conduct it much faster. He said “Yes,” but remarked that the first part would become too fast. I handed him the tape and asked him to listen. Shortly afterwards, he growled, “This is registered on the wrong speed! The musicians won’t want to play it at this tempo!”

This was a tremendous shock. I explained that it was an error and asked him to speed it up as much as he could. He obliged. The version he played was satisfactory, but rather fast for those who knew the correct tempo. I was so distraught, that I pulled the ballet from our repertoire.

Later that season, we--Peter, Lev, and I--also collaborated on an abbreviated version of Raymonda, Act I. Peter staged Pas de Dix, which he danced with Kristen; Lev staged the “Czardas” and “Mazurka,” and I took responsibility for the “Grand Pas de Deux,” for Kristen and Peter.

Kenneth and I shaved and chopped Cinderella into a mini-production that maintained both the essential elements and the basic story, including pre-ball preparations, an abbreviated ballroom scene, and the Prince’s round the world search.

Initially, I hoped to assemble my old cast for the principal roles, but Jordeen was having problems with her feet; Sasha was busy in San Francisco, and Gennadi was not available. JoAnn McCarthy accepted the role of Juliet, but later opted for an offer at PBT and bailed out of her agreement with me. I was upset and told her, “JoAnn, if you leave me, it will be the last time that you work with me.” I assumed that she could negotiate her contract to include guesting engagements. In the meantime, I taught the role to a student who had attended all of the rehearsals and I sent out an SOS to Violette, who was then the director of Boston Ballet.

As usual, Violette came to the rescue. She had many French dancers at her disposal and dispatched three to me--Marie Christine Mouis, Jean Philippe Halnaut, and Alexandre Proia. They were recently graduated from the Paris Opéra School and had followed Violette from her tenure at the Opéra to Boston. Although they were already principals at Boston Ballet, their fees were not outrageous and the college could afford to bring them in as teachers and performers.

In an interesting twist, JoAnn Michaels, my student Juliet taught Marie Christine the role and performed with Proia as her partner. From our ranks, I chose Doug Bentz, who was at home as the brutally commanding Tybalt; Peter Degnan, who was good as Mercutio; and Joseph Bowerman as Benvolio. Marie Christine was a charming Juliet, while Proia excelled as Paris. As Romeo, he was also very good, but it was difficult to compare him to Sasha. Rounding out the cast were Kenneth Johnson as Father Lorenzo; Ruth Leney as Lady Capulet; Patricia Truschel as The Nurse; James Prescott, as the Duke of Verona; Ron Tassone, as Lord Montague; and I performed the role of Lord Capulet. Joan Markert was responsible for the costume design, while the sets and drops were created by Eileen Garrigan. These elements were minimal, but well executed.

I made one distinguished change to the choreography.

The Boston Ballet had invited Rudolph Nureyev to appear in his Don Quixote. While I did not have the opportunity to see it in Boston, Violette insisted that I catch a performance in Detroit. His was quite a good version of Don Quixote. I had previously seen the Australian Ballet perform it.

The Detroit public expected the old Rudolph, which is not what they got. He danced poorly. The critics were harsh, as is typical of the Detroit press. (It had criticized my The Nutcracker and Romeo and Juliet).

After the performance, I headed backstage to visit Rudolph, whom I had not spoken with in awhile. His black limousine was waiting by the stage entrance. However, he was not ready to depart, as he needed a massage after the show. There were no autograph seekers clustered at the door, so I easily accessed backstage. We chatted in English and Russian as his masseur diligently worked on him.

I congratulated him on his choreography and remarked that it was one of the best versions around. I avoided mentioning his performance. I also remarked that I was absolutely impressed with his Romeo and Juliet.

And then I said, “Rudy, you have a wonderful scene in which Father Lorenzo offers the potion to Juliet. The scene freezes. A vision of the funeral bed appears with Romeo coming to kiss her and wake her up.” There was another scene in which Benvolio, unaware that Father Lorenzo’s letter has not reached Romeo, tells him that Juliet is dead. Romeo, struck with grief, jumps backwards onto Benvolio’s shoulder and collapses on his knee. This is repeated several times. I asked if I could incorporate these two details in my ballet, which I told him that I was reviving.

Rudy pursed his lips, which later turned into a smile. “Of course, by the way, I saw this movement in London, by a ballerina, in a completely different ballet and thought that it was quite appropriate to use in Romeo and Juliet, so I basically, already picked up the movement from somebody else,” he confided.

I was quite happy that he did not object and would not sue me for plagiarism.