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Balletophobia
By Alexandra Tomalonis
Ballet Alert! Number 2, February 1998

What is it about the sight of a woman in a tutu that strikes terror in the hearts of men? Why, if one has the temerity to say, in public, that one enjoys classical ballet, do those who are not similarly inclined either laugh uncomfortably or snarl something about elitism, or inquire, not very politely, just what century this is, anyway?

I can understand why people don't like ballet, but I don't understand why some seem so afraid of it. We've been through phases like this before. During the 1930s and '40s, articles by otherwise respectable critics in otherwise respectable publications howled that ballet was European and un-American, some even suggesting that Balanchine go back to Europe where he belonged. (Similar sentiments were expressed about French dancers who visited New York in the 1830s.) The mid-twentieth century comments are usually interpreted now as expressions of fear on the part of those who worried that the fledgling American modern dance scene would suffer in comparison, but the same sentiments returned in the 1960s, this time phrased more as an incongruency of time rather than place. ("It's the Sixties! What do tutus and toe shoes have to do with the Sixties?") The concept that classical ballet is an infinite vocabulary rather than a passing style seems difficult for some to grasp. And now in the 1990s, there's a third wave of balletophobia, this time often clothed in concern about race (because African-Americans are underrepresented in America's ballet companies, this is seen by some as a flaw inherent in the art form) and gender (toe shoes are, ipso facto, exploitation devices). For the less politically obsessed balletophobe, the view is simply that classical ballet is old-fashioned and has been superseded by "contemporary" ballet or "crossover dance," or whatever is hot that year. Somehow, ballet-in the sense of dances constructed from the vocabulary of the danse d'école has become, to some, an outmoded style of dancing. It is, by its very nature, elitist, exclusionary, antidemocratic and (although this is very seldom stated so boldly) anti-American.

The charge is not made of whole cloth. There are aspects of ballet that are antidemocratic. Everyone cannot be a ballet dancer. There are requirements of talent and, in many cases, of body proportions and structure. This is totally foreign to American life. The thought that no one under six foot nine would be allowed to play professional basketball, or that no one over four foot ten could compete on the women's Olympic gymnastics team is so silly it isn't even worth considering. Nothing like that could happen in America. Paradoxically, despite a mainstream media that is so uncomfortable dealing with ballet one is almost glad it ignores it, and despite grumbles by the arts establishment about ballet's supposed elitism, the general audience doesn't seem afraid of ballet at all. Hang out a sign that says "Legenday Russian Company dances Swan Lake," and you'll sell out in an hour. Bill a company as "Postmodern Artists Take Dance Beyond the Cutting Edge," and a dozen afficionados of the genre will fill the loft. I'm not arguing that popularity is related to artistic worth; no elitist worth her salt would entertain such a thought. But if ballet is so undemocratic, why has it remained so popular? And is its popularity among the masses the source of the fear?

Strangely, some of the strongest anti-ballet voices come from within the ballet world. Of course, some of the crossover people must be sincere, but for others, there may be ulterior motives. Put yourself in their shoes. Which do you think is cheaper to produce, a full-length Swan Lake or three six-dancer ballets danced without decor to taped music? If a balletmaster is trying to convince the world that his born-yesterday troupe is today's sensation, which work will not belie his assertions: Raymonda, or three six-dancer ballets danced, with or without decor, to taped music? Ballet is expensive, and ballet is hard. It's hard to dance, it's hard to choreograph, and it's hard to present properly. It's also very, very hard to fake. No wonder some people fear it so.

George Balanchine, who never gets enough credit for his marketing savvy, faced these fears and fought these battles long ago. We shouldn't have to fight them again, but if we must, it might be instructive to examine his tactics. These thoughts occurred to me when recently rewatching the excellent Balanchine Biography shown on PBS a few seasons ago. A poster for Orpheus (1947) included a very favorable quote from John Martin, dance critic of the New York Times, passionate partisan of American Modern Dance, and still, at that time, a Balanchine basher. I was surprised that Martin had liked Orpheus, until, watching the few seconds of dancing, I realized that the Noguchi designs made it look like something he was used to: a Graham ballet. Even the most brilliant and accomplished among us zero in on the superficials when judging unfamiliar work.

Balanchine (or was it Lincoln Kirstein?) must have known this well. Seven years later, when he was still getting "Russki go home" notices, Balanchine took a more direct approach. You want American? How more American can you get than cowboys? And so Balanchine made Western Symphony, and set ballet dances for cowboys and their girls (saloon girls, not cowgirls, an anti-democratic touch, but he was, after all, a mere European). Three years later, he took a "See, you really are a part of this world after all" approach, and created Square Dance, using music by Vivaldi and Corelli, and the floor patterns and the parents of steps that American country dancers danced. There was even a real square dance caller to make the point, and to make it fun. Western Symphony and Square Dance are usually explained as part of Balanchine's fantasies about America, and his yearning to be American, but I think it was part of audience building. "Ballet is European, but it is also American. Ballet can be anything," he was saying. "Give me a subject, and I'll make a ballet out of it." And, of course, he could, and he did.

Before pondering why we have to go through this again forty years later, I would throw out this thought: can you imagine an American symphony orchestra forced to dress up in cowboy clothes to play the New World symphony, because that was the only way they could get their critics to stop denouncing them for playing that elitist European music? In America, during Balanchine's lifetime, the anti-ballet contingent had to keep quiet. They didn't go away, they just went underground. It was hard to say that ballet was irrelevant to modern life when Balanchine kept turning out works that even the most rigid avant-gardist would consider art.

But it has now been nearly twenty years since Balanchine was an active force in the creative life of ballet this country. There is no one working at his level, and the fact that most of today's ballet choreographers make imitation Balanchine ballets makes this all too obvious. So it has again become possible to raise the old cry: ballet is elitist, ballet is undemocratic, ballet is un-American. It is anti-feminist (because the woman is supported in adagio). It is not creative (because it is composed of steps, not what some fondly believe is "created movement"). It's artificial (yes, it's supposed to be. That's another way of saying it's objective). It's not about real life (Oh, thank God. No, it's not. That's why we love it so).

I think that the latter charge is the one that is the most deeply felt, and is the most easily explained. Ballet is often accused of offering a prettified version of life, an unreal picture of harsh reality, but that isn't quite so. Ballet presents life as it should be. Not as it is, not even, perhaps, as it could be, but a shimmering, golden vision of what man's imagination can create, of what man's soul can achieve. Ballet's open, trusting, turned out body, its proud (not arrogant) bearing, its leaps heavenward, are symbolic of the possibilities inherent in goodness and beauty, an infinity of movement, an invincibility of spirit. Seen that way, ballet should inspire courage, not fear. What better way to face a new millennium?