Sunday, November 4, 2001
She Did It Her Way
I, MAYA PLISETSKAYA, By Maya Plisetskaya, Translated from the Russian by
Antonina W. Bouis, Yale University Press: 386 pp., $35
By ROBERT GOTTLIEB
Maya Plisetskaya: Her father (a loyal
communist) executed in the Stalin purges of the 1930s; her mother (a
one-time silent film star) exiled to Asia; Jewish; close relatives in
America; and perceived, always, as a rebel, a troublemaker and, worst of
all, a potential defector. Oh, yes--she was also under-trained, her
ballet schooling interrupted by the terrible traumas of her childhood.
How, then, did this woman with so many strikes against her not only
survive but prevail, becoming the Bolshoi's leading ballerina for
decades, dancing on and on to celebrate her 47th anniversary on the
Bolshoi stage and, at 76, still be going strong? At its best, her
autobiography, "I, Maya Plisetskaya," is the fascinating story
of how this artist of implacable will confronted and defied the Soviet
regime--and eventually had her way.
Russian dancers of the 20th century had
three choices: get out, accept the regime and its restrictions while
enjoying its favors or stay and struggle. Only Plisetskaya took that
third route and triumphed. She was talented, of course, and wonderful
looking, with her thin body, long legs and arms and flaming red hair.
From the first she stood out: Hers was not a slow ascendancy; she was
always headed for great things unless she self-destructed or was
destroyed by others. She was partly protected by association with her
mother's family, the Messerers, who constitute a dancing dynasty in
Russia; and eventually she had the unconditional support of her husband,
the composer Rodion Shchedrin.
But all that was secondary: What drove her
past all obstacles and hazards were her unbending determination and her
refusal to do things any way but her own.
She began as she meant to go on: "I
was a willful child, and they called me neslukh, the
'not-listener."' And "Everything in me, in my nature, resisted
'socializing."' They want her to attend Komsomol meetings and learn
about dialectical materialism? She goes twice, and that's it. Advisors
want her to leave the KGB and the "vileness of the Bolsheviks"
out of her book? "No, I won't change anything. I won't touch things
up." She's always on the barricades; defiance is not only a
principle and a tactic but also an essential element of her nature.
Her credo: "I don't want to be a
slave. I don't want people whom I don't know to decide my fate. I don't
want a leash on my neck. I don't want a cage, even if it's a platinum
one....I don't want to bow my head and I won't do it. That's not what I
was born for." It's admirable, it's magnificent, but it's not very
cozy; I would think it would be easier to be in love with her than to
love her.
The strongest parts of her book are,
indeed, those that deal with the KGB and "the vileness of the
Bolsheviks." Of course we have encountered this story many times
before and in truly great books, like Nadezhda Mandelstam's "Hope
Against Hope." But as with the Holocaust, each telling is
different, and each is worth listening to.
Plisetskaya's is unique in that her story
is that of an artist who loathes her circumstances ("Endless
suffering and humiliation fill my memory") yet overcomes them
without (too much) compromise. And who chooses not to defect--a decision
she provides a number of reasons for, ranging from pride in her position
as prima ballerina at the Bolshoi to love for the Bolshoi Theater's
stage. (Besides, she promised Khrushchev she wouldn't.)
Nothing that was to follow compared in
horror to what she witnessed when they took her father away. Maya was
11--"skinny, scared, not understanding what was going on."
They came for him at dawn. "My mother, unkempt, pregnant with a big
belly, weeping and clutching. My little brother screaming, rudely
awakened. My father, white as snow, dressing with trembling hands. He
was embarrassed. The neighbors' faces were remote. The witness, the
blowsy janitor Varvara, with a cigarette between her lips, didn't miss a
chance to suck up to the authorities: 'Can't wait for all of you
bastards to be shot, you enemies of the people!"' And finally,
"The last thing I heard my father say before the door shut behind
him forever was, 'Thank God, they'll settle this at last."'
When they sent her mother to Kazakhstan,
all that stood between Maya and an orphanage was an aunt who took her
in, somewhat grudgingly. But it was ballet that really saved her. She
had great natural gifts--in particular a dazzling leap. ("Nature
had not passed me over when it came to jumps.") What she lacked was
solid technique. Just as she is wise and generous in her estimation of
other dancers--particularly her sublime coeval and rival, Galina Ulanova--she
is honest about her own deficiencies.
In Paris, she tells us, referring to an
overwhelming triumph (27 curtain calls) in "Swan Lake," her
friends agree that "I had forced the audience to switch its
interest from abstract technique to soul and plasticity. When I danced
the finale of the second act, people's eyes were glued to the line of
the swan's arms, the angle of the neck; no one noticed that my bourrees
were not so perfect." She even reports that when she met Balanchine
in New York, in the early 1960s, he said to her, "Being your own
boss isn't bad. But, don't be angry, Maya, you need a good
teacher." As usual, he had seen and understood everything.
She was kept from the West for years--a
matter of supreme frustration and rage--and when she was finally allowed
to come, the conditions were onerous: not only unrelenting KGB
watchdogs, but barely enough money for food; all earnings went back to
the bosses in Russia. In 1959 she received $40 a performance, and on
days when she didn't dance, "Zero." The corps de ballet got $5
a day.
Bizarrely, before setting out for America,
the touring dancers would stuff their luggage with food. Then, when
their supplies ran out, "[c]at and dog food were particularly
popular. Cheap and vitamin-rich. You felt very strong after animal food.
We fried canine beefsteaks between two hotel irons." (When not
munching canine beefsteaks, Plisetskaya was hobnobbing with the great,
including Robert F. Kennedy, with whom she had a mystifying palship.)
Despite being undertrained and underfed,
she made an indelible impression here. Although, as she acknowledges,
her fouettes were erratic, she was a superb Odile in the Black
act of "Swan Lake," a cold and brilliant dominatrix. Her
Odette, for me, was always more about being a bird than being a
vulnerable captive princess, but "Swan Lake" remained her
signature ballet: She danced it more than 800 times. Her Dying Swan
likewise seemed to me more about undulant arms than about death. (I once
saw her "die," then respond to the applause with a second
"death" and then a third. Why not? It was all showiness. When
Ulanova's swan died, she was dead.)
But her passionate, flirtatious, swirling,
seductive Kitri, in "Don Quixote," remains unparalleled. And
her dramatic power in such Soviet pieces as "The Stone Flower"
and "Spartacus" was incontestable, though all in the service
of kitsch. (Does she realize that?) When she gets to commissioning
ballets and ultimately choreographing her own, they're all diva
vehicles: "Carmen," "Anna Karenina," "The Lady
With a Dog." I don't think it ever occurred to her that she was
more suited to some roles than to others. Only blinders--or
undifferentiated ego--could have led her to write, "I have been
endlessly asked why I didn't dance Giselle.... I could have done it, but
something in me opposed it, resisted, argued with it. Somehow it just
didn't work out." Plisetskaya as a fragile peasant girl betrayed in
love? It's inconceivable--except to her.
"I, Maya Plisetskaya" has the
virtues of candor and directness, and it has a real story to tell. She
may have her vanities, but what star doesn't? And how many stars have
had to exhibit such an indomitable spirit? She insists that she wrote
her book herself, and it reads as if she did--or, rather, as if she had
dictated it into a tape machine. (It's as if she was her own
ghostwriter.) In Antonina Bouis' energetic translation, she comes across
as the same person we knew on the stage: glamorous, exciting, voracious.
Larger than life. Not always pleasing but never to be ignored and
certainly never to be trifled with. - - -
Robert Gottlieb, Former Editor of the New Yorker and Editor-in-chief of
Alfred A. Knopf, Is Dance Critic of the New York Observer
Copyright 2001 Los Angeles Times |
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