Читать книгу The Dancer Within - Rose Eichenbaum - Страница 13

Leslie Caron

The morning of our scheduled meeting, Paris was dark and chilly. On the Métro I worried that if it rained, my planned outdoor portrait of Leslie would have to be scratched. I was traveling with my twenty-five-year-old daughter, Ariella, who would assist me with the shoot. Once we arrived at the entrance to Leslie’s building in one of Paris’s most fashionable districts, I pushed the button next to her apartment number and whispered to my daughter, “Prepare to meet a living legend.” Moments later Leslie Caron responded over the intercom. I recognized her low-timbred voice and French accent from her many films.

“Yes, Rose, so sorry to keep you waiting. I’ll buzz you in, just take the elevator to the second floor.” Leslie was waiting for us in the hall when we stepped out of the elevator. Even without makeup and her hair hidden inside a beret, she displayed striking beauty and refinement.

“Thank you so much for having us.”

“Please do come in,” she said, opening the door wide and leading us through her foyer decorated with romantic oil paintings and sculptures. Placing my camera bag on the rug of her parlor floor, I scanned the airy room for mementos of her fabled career. On a small dresser in an alcove stood a bronze statue of a ballet dancer alongside a framed portrait of a smiling Rudolf Nureyev. On the coffee table lay a copy of Secret Muses: The Life of Frederick Ashton.

“May I offer you some coffee? Please make yourselves comfortable.” Leslie excused herself and returned moments later holding a silver tray bearing three cups of espresso and a small bowl of sugar cubes. She was no longer wearing her beret. Her brown curls now framed her face and accentuated her delicate features. She sat down next to me.

Turning to Leslie, I asked, “Is it all right to begin the interview now?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Once you’ve committed yourself passionately to the dance, does that passion ever leave you?”

“Probably not. Dance is something I know so well, so profoundly, so intimately. It’s been over forty years since I danced professionally, but when I hear music, I still feel like dancing. When I gave up my dance career, it was like getting a divorce. I had to make a painful decision—to be a movie star or a ballerina. I was only eighteen when Hollywood came calling, and I knew if I were going to pursue acting, I would not be able to keep up with my ballet training. To be a prima ballerina you have to be in top form and possess a victorious attitude toward every aspect of life. I found myself deeply conflicted. After much soul-searching I decided to stop dancing. I gave away my toe shoes and informed MGM executives that I wouldn’t dance anymore. I was twenty-three.”

“This must have been terribly painful.”

“Yes, it was. I was heartbroken. But I did not want to disrespect the ballet by performing it in a Hollywood way. Either I was going to be a prima ballerina and dance on the concert stage, or I would be an actress. I couldn’t do both. The last time I danced on the stage was in The Glass Slipper for Roland Petit’s Ballet des Champs-Élysées.”

“Have you ever regretted your decision?”

“No, I felt it was the right thing to do because by that time Hollywood musicals were beginning to lose their glamour. Filmmakers and screenwriters had recycled the song and dance formula so often, it had become banal and clichéd. The public was growing tired of them. Realistic films were appearing on the scene like On the Waterfront, Blackboard Jungle, A Place in the Sun, East of Eden, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, From Here to Eternity, and many others. I wanted to be part of that era in cinema.”

“You left the concert stage just as you are making a name for yourself. You could have gone all the way.”

“Yes, I could have. I wanted to be a second Pavlova. I had even decided to call myself Caronova. But the first time I was in Roland Petit’s ballet class he said, ‘Hey you there, what’s your name?’ Very nervous and trembling, I answered Leslie Caron, my real name, and that was it. He hired me immediately and gave me a solo in one of his ballets. That was the beginning of my professional dance career. I was sixteen years old.”

“How did you first come to dance?”

“My mother had been a dancer and she strongly encouraged me to pursue a dance career.”

“And your ticket was Roland Petit’s Ballets des Champs-Élysées?”

“Yes, my first year in the company was in 1948. I was given a solo in David Lichines’s La Rencontre, which is the story of Oedipus and the Sphinx. I was to dance opposite Jean Babilée, the greatest dancer since Nijinsky and before Nureyev and Baryshnikov. The premiere received sensational reviews.”

“How did Gene Kelly discover you?”

“Gene was at the premiere of La Recontre. After the performance he came backstage looking for me, but I had left the theater right after the final curtain. La Rencontre became a huge sensation, and I the star of the moment. Before that I was the baby of the company—sixteen years old, the last dancer to join the chorus. My relationship with all the girls in the company changed in that one instant. Rather than face all that, I quickly changed out of my costume and walked home. So I did not meet Gene Kelly that night. I met him a year and a half later when he came to Paris to audition girls to be his partner in a film called An American in Paris. Word got out that he wanted to meet me. I had never heard of this man, Gene Kelly, but I figured, why not? A meeting was arranged at Hôtel Georges V. Gene was very courteous and respectful, and he could see that I was extremely shy. He said, ‘I would like to give you a screen test. I know that you can dance, but I don’t know how you photograph or if you can act. We can film this little scene and send it to the studio, and if they think it’s all right, then you’ll be my partner.’ I agreed, just to be polite and to please my mother. I then promptly forgot about it. I was in rehearsals for Les Sylphides when suddenly I get this call, ‘the studio picked up your option and you’re leaving in three days. They want you for An American in Paris.’ Well, all that was far too big for me. I wasn’t dreaming of being a movie star in Hollywood. But on the advice of my mother, I dropped everything and flew to America. Rehearsals began immediately.”

“Did you speak English?”

“No, not at all. My lines in the film are spoken phonetically.”

“Did Gene work closely with you?”

“Gene did not work with me exclusively because he had to get himself back into training. In between films he didn’t dance and would usually drink too much and get a little out of shape. He had two assistants—Jeannie Coin, who would later become his second wife, and a remarkable dancer named Carol Haney, who had been trained by the great Jack Cole. Carol, who worked very closely with me, explained that there was no time to teach me modern ballet or jazz. She asked me to show her what I could do and saw immediately that I had a strong développé, could do the splits fairly easily and perform turns well. She would then have me show these things to Gene. The two of them then choreographed around what I could do best.”

“That’s very practical—to choreograph with the dancer’s capabilities in mind.”

“Oh, Gene was immensely practical.”

“Your dance with a chair at the beginning of that film was very controversial. Even by today’s standards it’s pretty hot!”

“What you’re seeing there is pure Jack Cole. Carol choreographed that sequence on her own, without Gene. Carol taught me all those sexy moves. I just copied her. I think I enjoyed that dance best of all. In those days, film studios were closely monitored by censors from the Hays Office. They would send someone to look at everything before it could be approved for audiences. One day a woman came to watch me rehearse that number. ‘No, no, no’ she cried. ‘This is far too suggestive.’ I was dancing with a chair, for God’s sake. What can you do with a chair? So to appease the censors, it had to be toned down. The version you see in the film is the toned-down version, as was the scene I did with Gene at the fountain.”

“Did you enjoy dancing with Gene?”

“Gene Kelly had all the qualities of a great dancer, remarkable build and musculature, excellent timing, rhythm, drama, and beauty of movement. If you’re asking, was it sensual to dance with Gene, the answer is no. When you’re dancing on a set with cameras and lights, you’re involved technically in what you’re doing. The dancing is paramount, not personal feelings.”

“Do you think An American in Paris is your most memorable work?”

“No, I think my best contribution was Gigi. By the time I made Gigi, I knew what I was doing. I wasn’t so utterly uncomfortable in the medium. Also, I had been very lonely during the making of An American in Paris. Here I was in a totally alien environment where everyone spoke a language that I didn’t understand. It was a good thing I was so disciplined, otherwise I would not have survived. I was also very ill during the filming. No one knew it, but I had—how do you call it?—mononucleosis. How I managed to get up every morning and get to the set I don’t know. I was also anemic, having been deprived of nutritious foods like meat, fruit, and cheese during the war years. During the eight months it took to complete the film, I struggled to keep up appearances. Gene and his wife, Betsy Blair, were very warm and welcoming. But I spent all my evenings alone in a motel behind the studio next to MGM’s massive power generator.”

“All told, were you happy with the outcome of the film?”

“No, I was just a baby and had no objectivity. I remember going to the sneak preview with Gene and all the executives. After viewing the film I had a headache and felt flushed and feverish. Gene came up to me and asked, ‘So how do you feel?’ ‘Gene,’ I said, ‘I think I’ve caught the flu. I feel terrible.’ ‘No,’ he said, ‘you didn’t catch the flu, you’ve just seen yourself on the screen for the first time.’ For someone as shy and inward as I was, seeing myself onscreen was a major shock. Hearing myself speak was the most difficult. I had been trained as a dancer who performed in silence. Suddenly I had to say lines like, ‘Jerry, if it means anything to you, I love you.’ Saying those lines practically gave me a nervous breakdown. To this day I don’t like myself in An American in Paris. Everybody seems to think that I acted charmingly, but all I see is a girl who’s sick with shyness. The pain of embarrassment is present in every scene.”

“Later you partnered with Fred Astaire. How did the film Daddy Long Legs come about?”

“Well, I had done this modest film for MGM called Lili, for which I received an Oscar nomination. Fred saw the film and asked for me. I really enjoyed dancing with Fred on that picture. He would take you in his arms and guide you ever so gently. He had a very special bone structure, muscle structure, nerve structure—so that everything was fast, easy and light, and responded instantly to the brain messages about rhythm. The brain said ‘rhythm,’ and he was there half a second before. He was simply born like that. Fred was never out of breath and never off balance—never. And he truly enjoyed dancing.”

“How do you think your dance training and your ability to express yourself nonverbally helped you as an actor?”

“Body movement was never a problem for me. You build your character using the whole of you—not just in your brain. With the Stanislavsky method of acting you learn that the character comes from inside of you and has a particular appearance with physical characteristics. I have always been aware of this in the characters I’ve played. In Gigi, for example, I became physically awkward, my feet turned in like this [standing and demonstrating], and I stood more on one side—sort of off center.”

“If you could relive your life, would you have done anything differently?”

“Yes. I wish I had been just a dancer or just an actor. I think my having been a dancer impaired my acting career. By the time I decided I was finished with ballet and wanted to be an actress, there was a label put on my name. Very few can get out of dancing and go into real drama. You’re viewed as someone who only knows how to do light entertainment. You can’t play Medea after Cinderella.”

Just then I heard the sound of rain hitting the windows.

“Oh, no. I wanted to photograph you outside against the Paris skyline.”

“We can still do that, Rose. We have umbrellas, don’t we? Let me go and change, and we’ll take a walk out toward the Seine. I know a nice spot only minutes away.”

Leslie returned wearing a pair of plaid pants and an apple-green jacket with matching scarf. Grabbing an umbrella and a leash for Prunelle, her Bichon maltais, she led the way.

“How’s this?” she asked when we reached the river.

“It’s a great location. I just hope I can manage.”

Ariella held an umbrella over me as I removed a camera from my bag. Leslie waited patiently while I loaded film and checked the camera’s settings.

“I’m ready now. Action!” I called out.

Leslie began to walk along the edge of the Seine with little Prunelle following closely behind.

“Look here,” I called out. Leslie turned toward me and threw me a warm smile. I felt like the luckiest American in Paris.

Paris, March 2005