Baryshnikov interview,1975

[Rach3]

From New Yorker Magazine, Talk of the Town, 1975:


When Mikhail Baryshnikov, the dazzling twenty-six-year-old star of Leningrad’s Kirov Ballet, decided last summer to make his career in the West, the dance world reacted with amazement, anticipation, and shock. The Russians were predictably outraged to learn that one of their leading classical dancers had deserted the company that had trained him. (In point of fact, Mr. Baryshnikov defected in Toronto from a third-rate Bolshoi touring company to which he had been lent.) Ballet companies all over the world checked their rosters for possible partners—Mr. Baryshnikov stands five feet seven and requires a very small ballerina—and began bidding for his services. After several months of negotiations, it was announced that Mr. Baryshnikov would divide his time between several foreign companies and the American Ballet Theatre, in which he would dance a more eclectic repertoire, ranging from classical roles (“Giselle,” “La Sylphide”), through knockabout comedy (“Coppélia,” “La Fille Mal Gardée”), to contemporary works (Balanchine’s “Theme and Variations,” Petit’s “Le Jeune Homme et la Mort”).


We dropped in at the City Center recently to see how Mr. Baryshnikov was adjusting to America, and found him onstage rehearsing “Fille,” a ballet he dances with either of two partners—Balanchine-trained Gelsey Kirkland and Kirov-trained Natalia Makarova. As we took a seat, Mr. Baryshnikov, a delicate-looking young man with tousled blond hair, a pale oval face, deep-set blue eyes, a pointed nose, and a small, determined mouth, was turning Miss Kirkland in a series of rapid pirouettes just inside the footlights on the left side of the stage. He stopped her in an elegant arabesque, dipped slightly to his right, lifted his partner onto his shoulder in a single, fluid movement, and backed slowly toward the center of the stage. Miss Kirkland, a tiny, round-faced girl, who was wearing black tights, a short-sleeved pink blouse, and a white tulle practice skirt, slid to the floor and signalled to the rehearsal pianist to stop. “I’d like to try that again, please,” she said, with an audible sniffle. Mr. Baryshnikov, who was wearing black tights and a dark-red turtleneck, looked back at the corner where they had been dancing, and shook his head. “You cannot do pirouette there,” he said, pantomiming a possible tumble into the wings. Miss Kirkland nodded, and the two dancers tried the step in a different spot.


Then, after pausing to catch his breath, Mr. Baryshnikov ran through his solo variations, as A.B.T. dancers materialized in the wings to watch. He whirled around on one foot with incredible speed, tossed off a series of linked brisés volés moving diagonally downstage from left to right, and rose effortlessly toward the roof in two great, backward-turning leaps, bending his left leg in midair and extending it in a perfect arabesque as he landed. (This combination of steps is a Baryshnikov invention.) Then he circled the stage in a series of grands jetés that ended with a gravity-defying jump into the wings past the startled pianist.

Mr. Baryshnikov reappeared a few minutes later, holding a mug of tea, just as Natalia Makarova, his alternate partner, walked onstage and began to kiss everybody in sight. Miss Makarova, a fragile, blond Kirov émigrée, who has become an established international star, wore a crisp white tulle skirt over a turquoise leotard and puffed furiously on a cigarette in a long, shiny black holder. When the pianist began the first pas de deux, she stepped in front of Mr. Baryshnikov, rose on point, and slowly extended her right leg sidewise, exhaling a cloud of smoke. Mr. Baryshnikov removed the cigarette holder from her mouth and danced a few steps with it clenched between his teeth. Then he stamped out the cigarette, laid the holder on top of the piano, and got down to business. The rehearsal proceeded smoothly, punctuated by laughter, rapid bursts of Russian, and an occasional scream from Miss Makarova, who yells whenever she makes a mistake.

When the rehearsal was over, we went back to Mr. Baryshnikov’s dressing room and asked, through an interpreter, how many roles he had learned during the past month.

“Five,” Baryshnikov said, counting on his fingers. “ ‘La Sylphide,’ ‘Fille,’ ‘Coppélia,’ ‘Patineurs,’ and ‘Le Jeune Homme et la Mort.’ Also a new production of ‘Giselle’ and ‘Bayadère’ last summer and Balanchine’s ‘Theme and Variations’ in the fall.”

“The word has got around that Mischa learns very quickly,” said our interpreter. Mr. Baryshnikov, who understands more English than he admits, looked embarrassed. “He says he’s fortunate to have received very good schooling, first in Riga and later at the Kirov,” said the interpreter. “In Russia, he was dancing five or six times a month. Here he is dancing four or five times a week. The entire pace of his life has accelerated enormously.”


We asked Mr. Baryshnikov how he approached a new role, and he replied that there were two separate problems—choreography and characterization. “In nonsensical, comic ballets like ‘Coppélia’ and ‘Fille,’ my character—a foolish young boy—is quite specific, but there is room to add individual variations, provided you work within the style of the choreography,” he said. “In ‘Giselle,’ you can’t change the steps, but you can make decisions about the character of Albrecht, the hero.”

“How about modern ballet?” we asked.

“With Balanchine, you dance the music and Balanchine,” replied Mr. Baryshnikov. “Not yourself. But to dance one of his works—even if you are only a tool of Balanchine—is a very great honor. Roland Petit, who re-choreographed ‘Le Jeune Homme et la Mort’ for me in Paris last month, is primarily interested in the interaction of people—in the over-all emotional sense that a ballet conveys. As a contemporary dancer, I am always looking for contemporary ballets—for example, I would like very much to dance MacMillan’s ‘Romeo and Juliet’ and Robbins’ ‘Dances at a Gathering’—but it’s not so much a question of technique as of maturity. There are many roles that will have to wait until I have the emotional depth to do them justice.”

“Ask Mischa about his first big part at the Kirov,” said the interpreter.

“What was it?” we asked.

“Adam, in ‘Creation of the World,’ ” replied Mr. Baryshnikov, with a smile. “One must begin somewhere—da?” ♦