Movie Review: JOFFREY: MAVERICKS OF AMERICAN DANCE

On the surface it might appear as the quintessential American story of the underdog making their way into the spotlight. Joffrey Ballet being a household moniker not lost even on such oafs as I am – as miniscule as my awareness of dance, and American dance in particular, might be. Anecdotes about Isadora Duncan’s shawl, or Vaslav Nijinsky’s portrayal of masturbation might serve me well as look-at-me-I-am-so-clever-aren’t-I remarks during dinner conversation, but I am painfully aware of my lack of knowledge in the area of dance history. As the filmmakers readily included dance critics among their chosen array of talking heads, which comment on developments that the Joffrey has undergone, and not always favorably, the audience can be safely lulled into trusting this is a mode of objectivity. JOFFREY: THE MAVERICKS OF AMERICAN DANCE  takes the approach of a chronological narrative, using archival footage, and interviews with former dancers, or in general people directly involved with the ballet troupe. What gives this film unexpected warmth, is the enthusiasm, the gentleness and care with which these people speak of the dance company’s founders Robert Joffrey and Gerald Arpino.

At the core a story of perpetual struggle reveals itself. As it unfolds, at first it lends itself easily to laughter over the travelling across country in a station wagon in the founding year of 1956. One of the dancers finds out on the road she is an expectant mother, yet she goes along, dancing en pointe in high school gyms, bringing ballet to the American people. Sure, it would be great, if one could wave a hand and with a benevolent nod delight in a great narrative, another rags to riches tale, one more big success that was born in a garage, or conceived in the back of a Coupe de Ville.  But it was not to be. Just after the tour in Soviet Russia, which oddly coincided with Kennedy’s association, their wealthy benefactor decided to pull the plug, once she realized she could not put her name on the product.

Joffrey and Arpino were able to revive the company by using primarily Arpino’s original choreography. The documentary focused on his commercially successful Astarte, a psychedelic production that explored sexuality. I personally was impressed by the fact that they collaborated with Massine (of Ballets Russes) to recreate the Parade, complete with cubist costumes, designed by the likes of Picasso. They were trying to replicate the experience for contemporary audiences down to every last shade of color, hunting for old photographs. Gary Chryst, who performed the role of a magician, still retells the story of Massine instructing him with an air of bewilderment and surprise, as to the outlandishness of expectations – how do you portray and egg coming out of your foot, after all? Yet, he danced it beautifully. The great use of archival footage really makes an impact, forcing the viewer to think they missed something important, valuable, a divine inspiration channeled through the body of this dancer. All this hard work transformed into an effortless surreal performance.

Similarly, the footage from Astarte was used to heighten the understanding of the dancer’s commentary on the piece. It is left to the viewer to decide, whether making it seem the male performer is exiting into the street behind the theatre, complete with traffic, was innovative (because as we are told it was not done previously), or if it was a gimmicky stunt.

In the 70s Robert Joffrey collaborated with the modern dance choreographer Twyla Tharp on a piece that baffled his ensemble: he expected his classically trained dancers to perform modern dance moves at will and revert right back, so said Christian Holder, who admits that sadly, at the time he knew nothing about the modern dance revolution that was taking place just a few city blocks away. So, thanks to Joffrey’s vision, they did become mavericks, certainly within New York City limits. He did not shy from political, contemporary topics, distinguishing his dance company from their rivals at classical powerhouses of the American Ballet Theatre and the New York City Ballet as the “current events company.” The more important distinction in my mind is that the ensemble members were not measured to fit.

Still, when it comes to Joffrey, New York is the city of the Talking Heads’ (haven’t I, somewhere smartly made a hidden reference) Life During Wartime. It forces them to battle it out for survival. They had to abandon the city for Los Angeles, just as its founder was struggling with what was not be revealed as AIDS in the papers. This terror that was sweeping the gay community in the eighties, the undignified treatment of it all, is still a neglected narrative in American history. Then more money trouble follows, and Arpino somehow manages to salvage it all by putting on another crowd-pleaser, having classically trained dancers shake their stuff to Prince’s tunes. (Or was it Symbol? I am confused by this man’s periods.) Joffrey is moved once again.

At some point we are shown a video recording of aged Arpino being dragged to a stage in Chicago that is dedicated to him, already devoured by disease, barely a shadow. What a contrast to the photographs from his youth that were produced for audiences early in the movie, eliciting commentary about his ideal dancer’s body, and his natural ability.  All this effort to make it all work, pursuing his and his former partner’s dream of an uniquely American ballet company, looking for benefactors, flirting with mass audiences, whistling backstage to get them to cheer for his dancers – it all seems somehow devastating, looking at this old frail man. Yet, the documentary managed to show more than anything, just how fruitful the lives of all those associated with the Joffrey Ballet have been.

JOFFREY: MAVERICKS OF AMERICAN DANCE contains more than a single story. There are winks and nudges, the personal histories of dancers, and the entanglements of a larger historical context reveal themselves, gradually, without being forced on us. Bob Hercules, the director and writer, is thankfully letting the stars take the spotlight. It is almost strange, but I failed to see a single diva. Makes you wonder. Surely, this could have been a story of grand passions, jealousies. No snide remarks. Even the heiress Harkness, who pulled her funding in the 60s, is described as the nicest woman, just a little misguided, perhaps. It is all well measured, well controlled. Maybe that is why a fellow theatergoer exclaimed, as she was getting up “they were dangling the carrot in front of us.” I suppose she wanted something messier. It might just be cleaned up all too neatly.