Rudolf Nureyev alla Scala (2005) - full transcript
RUDOLF NUREYEV AT LA SCALA
He could be very sweet,
but also grumpy
to the point of being offensive.
He laughed and was mean,
with his eyes, not with his mouth.
He was very expressive.
He was authentic yet strange.
He had the merits of beasts and
the defects of men or vice versa.
Eccentric,
extravagant, aggressive,
at times even offensive,
and often rather rude.
At times he even threw chairs.
Like a character
of commedia dell'arte.
He had an amazing physique:
Compact and proportionate.
He had no problem harmonizing,
he was born harmonious.
He'd built his muscles in line
with the harmony of elongation,
width, perfect chest,
squared shoulders,
and arms and legs
of the proper length.
This allowed him
to face all difficulties
with extraordinary ease.
Even as the years passed
and things worsened,
his physical characteristics
saved him from accidents,
difficulties, and failures.
They called him "The Flying Tartar".
He demanded the impossible
of himself and of his body,
which wasn't ideal for dance.
He had to work extremely hard.
Inimitable.
He always had problems
with his muscles,
even his masseuse
from St. Petersburg said so.
As the years went by,
the difficulties increased.
He had an exceptional gift
but only for certain things,
he had to work hard,
he worked twice as hard as we did.
He was a model for us young dancers.
Many time I went into the room
when there was no class,
when nobody was there,
but Rudolf would be there studying.
He practiced steps
and would study himself...
oftentimes without music.
The prince of dance.
In each of his shows,
there were 20 unrepeatable minutes
that nobody else could perform.
In these 20 minutes, Rudolf
seized the essence of the character,
and everything else
faded into the background.
I saw him dance in his last years
and noticed his incredible
physicality and strength.
He would get off the plane
and do barre exercises,
whereas we would go rest.
Where he practiced at the barre,
there was a pool of his sweat.
I recall his endless barre exercises
before shows, on a dark stage.
Nobody was in the theater,
but Rudy.
Nureyev wasn't the man
who changed the fate of ballet,
conducting the male ballerina
into a position of privilege
compared to the prima ballerina,
who, especially
in the late 19th century,
was considered a lady's escort.
There's a before and after Nureyev,
he's a key moment for male ballet.
He was not forgotten,
we still speak
of his contributions to dance
as director, choreographer,
and maestro.
Thus, he revolutionized dance.
He conferred upon the male figure
relevance equal to the female figure.
It's amazing to watch him
even when he was just a partner,
because in that secondary role,
he was able to emphasize
his partner's every position.
This remains an example.
His dance revolved
around the male ballerina.
He was able to raise
the value of the male figure
and create a character
equal to the female figure,
which used to be prevalent in ballet.
Think about "Swan Lake",
or "Sleeping Beauty",
all the classic ballets
revisited by Nureyev,
he included difficulties,
variations, male solos,
which are extremely arduous,
but which give the male role
a weight different than before.
He brought modernity
to the role of the prince.
But it was mainly Bejart
who revolutionized male ballet.
It was Serge Lifar,
from the 1930's Russian school
of ballet in Paris,
who gave new life to the concept
of the male protagonist.
Through his own experiences,
he realized it was no longer possible
to perform romantic ballets
much less modern ballets,
based solely upon the woman,
whose steps were less impressive,
whose abilities
incited less enthusiasm.
He was more
of a revolutionist in his life
than he was on stage.
But he brought a sense of modernity
to the dance of life
or the life of dance.
Milan had always tended
toward opera more than ballet
before the discovery of Nureyev.
He was defined the Callas of ballet.
Without Nureyev, ballet in Italy
would not have had
the fortune that it did.
He brought back to the stage
that charismatic presence
of people who are born to do
what others cannot.
He could easily stroll around
without being bothered.
Callas couldn't do that.
He improved
classic ballet and La Scala.
He encouraged the directors
to give prominence to ballet,
which was rather difficult,
since La Scala is opera.
Nureyev, with his
professionalism and his talent,
won over the theater's directors,
gaining respect
and demanding productions
which La Scala also had to invest in.
He often worked at La Scala
and knew all the dancers,
he'd given each a nickname.
His behavior changed
according to who he was with.
Perhaps for him
it was like this everywhere,
but at La Scala
it was like a family reunion.
With him, we didn't feel
like employed dancers.
He made us feel less employed
and more dancers.
He shook up the world of dance,
inside and outside.
It was he who decided
that at the end of the show
the lights should not
be turned on immediately,
the theater should remain dark.
Before, at the end of a show,
people would get up
and rush out to go back home.
But this way,
people had to stay and applaud.
People waited in line to see him,
saying: "The great Nureyev is here".
Even a huge star like our Fracci
felt intimidated.
Since Fracci was always at La Scala,
people came especially to see him.
Due to the crowds, it was impossible
to exit Via Filodrammatici.
After having enjoyed him on stage,
people gathered around
the artists' entrance
to see him up close and touch him.
There was an immense interest
to see him at the theater.
I never had the impression
that when Nureyev danced,
there were two teams,
as there were when Callas sang.
Nureyev created this craze,
he created ballet fans.
Milan adored Rudy,
it worshipped and loved him
with all its heart.
Each time, Milan eagerly awaited
for him to come back,
and Rudy returned Milan's affection.
I'm very happy and moved
by the reaction
of the Italian audience.
Did you expect such a crowd in Milan
where you hadn't performed it
in two years?
Yes.
When I performed
Romeo and Juliet here,
every night was sold out.
What are your future plans?
I'm on vacation as of tomorrow,
days of vacation, finally!
HOMETOWN FILMED BY NUREYEV
- I thought he was born on a horse.
- In Vladivostok.
You said:
"Weren't you born on a horse?"
He said: "No, on a train".
His father was rather special,
he was soldierly, a burly man.
He wished for his son to become
strong and courageous,
capable of hunting at night
and doing masculine, virile things.
This was the first of the conflicts
that sprung up in the family
between a soldierly father
and a son with a bent
for poetry, music, and dance.
I was listening radio music.
When a member
of the government died,
they would play music by Schubert,
Beethoven, Tchaikovsky,
the Schumann trio and such.
I would cry in front of the radio,
not for Kalinin or Stalin's death,
but because the music was beautiful.
Nureyev decided to never return
to his homeland in the early 60s,
when the Berlin Wall was built.
It was a daring escape,
premeditated for years.
Paris was not the chosen city
for his escape, but London was.
Having to flee his country
must have been humiliating
and unbearably painful for him.
If he was encouraged,
he found the courage to go on.
He arrived in the West
at the right time,
when the doors were opened
for modern dance and America
by festivals in Nervi and Spoleto.
The strength of Russian companies
became recognized, Bolshoi, Kirov...
Bejart and the "Ballet du XX siecle",
the era of Cranko was beginning,
the era of Killian in Holland.
Without him we would have had
to wait a long time
before witnessing
this incredible blossoming.
Margot Fonteyn was a mother to him,
a teacher, a big sister,
she taught him manners and speech.
She was everything he never had.
She was almost 20 years older,
with grandiose life experiences,
he had fewer,
but they were dazzling.
She was planning on leaving the stage
and found a younger brother in him,
a boy to teach.
She welcomed him, and chose him
as her partner at a mature age,
he gave her boundless vitality.
She was always very grateful,
but he was also grateful to her,
because she was a role model
which lead him toward the rigor,
beauty, and harmony,
that this ballerina had.
Russian technique,
the manner in which Russians danced,
bothered him immensely.
When we did "Swan Lake",
he said to me:
"Don't lift your leg up high
like the Russians do,
but pay attention to your line."
Lines were part
of Fonteyn's teachings,
elongation and length
and continuing the port de bras
all the way backstage,
not interrupting the line
during the movement.
He considered it a mistake
to raise your legs too high.
The physique, the column,
the poise of the head
were ruined by this.
Practically, he repudiated his world.
It was Erik Bruhn,
a refined Danish dancer,
who started Rudolf off
and taught him
how to dance and interpret ballet.
Theirs was a great friendship,
not long, but intense,
not only of an artistic nature.
When he got here, his style wasn't
very clean, there were many defects.
But he'd worked long and hard
with Erik Bruhn.
He became a bit maniacal after,
because even at 45 years old
at the barre,
he did a perfect fifth.
He was mindful of crosses,
whereas in Leningrad
they weren't as attentive.
We also worked with Erik Bruhn,
perhaps my favorite partner.
With Erik, we immediately had...
clarity,
we understood each other
without speaking.
Instead, with Rudy,
it was a bit more forced,
because there were
cultural differences,
we spoke different languages.
It took a while
to understand each other,
to get on and create together.
I felt he was happy
when he spoke Russian.
In fact, we often spoke Russian.
He'd say:
"I understand and speak Italian well,
so let's speak Italian
or English."
He refused to speak Russian.
He spoke Russian with me.
He and I spoke Russian.
I met him and we spoke in Russian.
He didn't want to speak Russian,
he wasn't repudiating his origins,
he just preferred to speak English.
Ballerinas who danced with him
became better,
not just in that moment,
but even after,
because they felt the tremor,
they felt they couldn't fail.
I witnessed rehearsals
where he decorticated ballerinas
and reconstructed them.
It was magical.
At La Scala he would drag the
ballerinas, he actually dragged them.
No one else had this magical power
to drag them like a magic flute.
He was the perfect partner for me,
I have no criticisms,
even if some ballerinas
said he treated them badly.
I never had any problems.
I was shaking everyone's hand,
I gave my hand to Nureyev
and out of rage because Fracci
wasn't ready, he bit it.
I saw him make great ballerinas cry,
but the end result
wasn't the usual good performance,
it was exceptional.
He managed to bring out
the best in people.
He never cared for Vera Colombo,
to be honest,
he was horribly spiteful with her,
she didn't deserve it.
He and Vera...
There was something that just
didn't work for either of them.
I believe that in some sense,
there's always a bit of sadism
in dealing with choreography.
The same holds true for the men,
he was very harsh with himself also,
he wouldn't skip a step.
But he was especially harsh
with the women.
I truly enjoyed him
as a partner.
He was a splendid partner
when he wanted to be.
But he could not stand diva-like
behavior in his female partners,
or false technique.
Since he was such a perfectionist,
he would not accept
that someone might not grasp
the message he wanted to transmit.
With a character like his,
it was normal
for him to have such firm reactions.
I agree
because it's a very strenuous art,
we cannot allow ourselves
to just let time pass.
There are always difficulties,
things are never easy,
one must study.
It was not just about his figure
as a great male ballerina.
Apparently though,
because it wasn't really that way.
He desired,
deeply and sincerely,
for his partner
to truly be a part of him.
He desired a complete relation
with the ballerina.
He demanded much more
than what a partner could give.
But I am grateful to him
for everything that he brought
to the world of dance
and left for young dancers.
He expected his partners
to look into his eyes,
he wanted to be looked in the eyes.
He detested ballerinas
who avoided his eyes,
which were rather magnetic.
One of his favorites was Vera,
because she looked him in the eyes.
He gave me the most beautiful
amorous glance that I've ever seen.
After Romeo and Juliet
when the curtains closed,
Carla cried almost every time,
because unfortunately,
during the performance
there had been instigations.
We can say it was a fight,
almost hidden, a battle of nerves.
They hated each other,
and loved each other,
like all great artists.
Rudy and Carla
had a love-hate relationship.
First of all, they were both Leo,
their performance seemed like
an arena battle.
Rudy clearly felt the weight
of being Carla Fracci's partner
and Fracci felt the weight
of being Rudolf Nureyev's partner.
Carla was important to him
because in some ways she reminded him
of the very special relationship
he had with Margot Fonteyn.
When they began dancing together,
Rudolf found
in that younger girl,
a sort of continuation,
a legacy,
of what he had with Margot Fonteyn.
Rudy had two role models,
very different from each other:
One was Fred Astaire,
an elegant, modern dancer
who hailed from a great classical
Viennese school.
The other was the savage,
the strong man,
the provoker, the revolutionary,
obviously, Vaslav Nijinsky.
The man who had tried, in the first
years of Russian ballet, after Fokin,
to revolutionize ballet technique.
He was the first
to take off those leggings
that covered certain parts
of the male ballerina's body
and reveal them in a leotard.
With that amazing body,
his buttocks were like sculptures,
like marble, they didn't seem real.
He was still the same Rudy,
he wasn't Balanchine's dancer,
he was still himself,
even in interpreting these
modern ballets, even with Bejart.
He was always himself,
he didn't seem like a modern dancer.
He never caused a scene with me.
It's odd, he was always
very friendly and respectful.
When I'd demonstrate a step,
he never discussed, he just did it,
even if it didn't suit him.
But we rarely fought,
the few times we did,
he was always humorous and ironic
which allowed things
to smooth out easily.
They didn't like each other,
there was a total lack
of understanding.
Bejart wants 100% of his dancers.
Rudolf never gave 100% of himself
to the owners of ballet.
He never wanted to work
with Balanchine or Bejart,
or any other big name.
Deep down, he was an anarchist,
an absolute host.
During the period of Bejart,
he gave an amazing example
of that what can be done
without doing anything.
At the end of "Songs of a Wayfarer"
by Mahler,
when the two men separate,
as he's being lead out,
he glances up to the stalls
one last time,
during that handful of seconds
of farewell,
he gave the most intense expression
that could have been given,
that could be given and has been
given, to an attentive audience.
I recall on the central stage,
I had the fortune of witnessing
the opening night
of "Songs of a Wayfarer".
That was an unrepeatable...
moment.
Because there was Rudolf,
Paolo, another great male ballerina,
who I was lucky to have as a partner.
What can I say?
They were two characters
who left a real mark...
a mark in my heart.
It's difficult.
I don't mean to say something
malicious or serious,
he was able to develop tradition
when he did La Bayadere,
he choreographed it
taking his cue from Russian tradition
and Marius Petipa,
he developed and modernized it,
he transformed it,
but used the existing base.
Thus Nureyev, as a choreographer,
incorporated his Russian heritage,
transforming it for the 20th century.
He had received this heritage.
He left an indelible mark
for example, on the "Nutcracker",
he renewed Don Quixote,
shows which were previously
unknown in the West.
As for Giselle,
I don't think he renewed it much,
because the things he did
had already been done by Lifar.
He modernized
academic dance.
With choreography, he left traces
of his behavior and style:
Not leaving arms and hands open,
he never wanted thumbs to show,
he liked positions that were refined,
closed, tight, and above all, clean.
His best choreography
was perhaps "Cinderella",
which was completely different
from the classic "Cinderella".
Lights, costumes, extras...
I will battle 100 people tomorrow.
There'll be an orchestra too,
they all have different tempos,
all the ballerinas are upset.
If someone didn't fully follow
his choreography,
there was trouble,
because he did not joke around.
He didn't even joke around
when it came to himself,
let alone with others.
If a ballerina was having problems
and kindly asked if
she could change or simplify a step,
a pirouette or manege,
or any technical element,
he absolutely would not change it.
Even if you fell down,
he would not change his steps.
If they made mistakes,
they would eventually be thrown out
even during a scene.
He would change his mind
only after an error.
"No, this way, I do it this way".
After making a mistake
for a month, then he'd admit it.
He was extraordinarily serious,
severe, and demanding with himself.
On stage, he did not
tolerate errors, not even his own.
In this sense,
his physical and mental discipline
even lead him to cruel acts
toward ballerinas who were incapable
or unprepared for
jumping into his arms
during some difficult
ballet passages.
Two pirouettes, there had to be
two pirouettes in every show.
In the pas de deux
of "Sleeping Beauty",
perhaps I spun myself too hard
and I was doing a third pirouette.
He let me do two and a half
then stopped me,
and did not let me finish the third.
He said "two", so it had to be two.
He never changed a step.
He always took risks going on stage,
he never went on stage saying:
"Tonight I don't feel well,
I'll take out the virtuosities
and some steps."
His last years weren't exactly
excellent in terms of interpretation.
He went on stage anyway,
giving the interpretation
all his strength,
but bit by bit,
things would unravel,
they didn't function as they used to.
He was a courageous man
of great moral and physical strength.
When he found out about his illness,
it was 1982,
he realized what his destiny would be
and did everything he could
to ward off the illness,
fighting it day in and day out.
He paid heavily for it, he had
a personal doctor with him always,
who treated him,
he practically kept him alive
and allowed him to work hard,
to be the artist
he wanted to be on stage.
He lived 10 years of life
fearing death,
obviously, years spent
amidst nightmares and hopes,
hopes for a miracle cure,
fear of not living
to see the next day.
10 years is a lot
for an artist like that.
Many died after three months.
When I took off his shirt,
I realized it was stuffed,
underneath, he was thin,
just skin and bones.
Then I realized
that the rumors about his illness
could really be true.
A serious issue is that
for the longest time
he did not accept
the martyrdom of the illness,
but he propagated it.
When I called him and said:
"It's Ettore, remember me?"
"Can we meet? I know
you're sick but you'll get better".
He said: "Come over".
I met him in a hospital in Paris,
in the outskirts,
it was a lugubrious day.
He was already delirious,
watching TV movies.
He didn't like them at all,
but still watched them.
I held his hand.
I said: "I must return to Milan
for the opening at La Scala".
He: "I'll come too, book me".
At one point I said:
"My wife saw you dance
at Covent Garden
and said to wish you
a quick recovery."
She recalls the performance
you gave when she was young."
He asked for my wife's name and
wrote on a card: "I love you. Rudy".
Naturally, we framed it.
It was the last thing he wrote.
He was a great talent scout,
and he spotted them
by virtue of his intuitive nature.
He could immediately judge
a person's qualities.
Oftentimes, he clashed severely
with the theaters he worked with,
from the Paris Opera
to the Vienna Opera
even La Scala.
He was everything for me,
he helped me
and wanted me in his ballets
because he adored me.
He helped all young dancers,
he had a lovely gift.
I met him when he came to La Scala
for the last time.
I was in dance school,
in my fifth year.
He was restaging "The Nutcracker"
and I recall meeting him in the room
after the ballet troupe rehearsal
I participated in
even though I was a student.
He came in while I was there and
asked me to show him what I could do.
I did some barre work,
I was very excited and fast.
He corrected me afterward,
told me to do it again calmly,
following his corrections.
I couldn't believe
that was happening to me.
He told me to leave
after class was over,
the next day he asked me
to give my info to his assistants,
they contacted me for the role
of Tadzio in "Death in Venice".
It was incredibly exciting for me,
especially because it was unexpected,
and Nureyev is my biggest dance hero,
he's always been the best.
Being chosen to dance with him
was more than a dream.
I met Nureyev
in a rather casual way
at Hotel Continental
where I would always go to dine.
He was at the peak of his radiance,
the height of his glory
and technical ability.
At one point,
some of his admirers showed up
that he wanted to run away,
and in fact he ran away.
To reach the elevator,
he had to cross the room,
and the way he crossed that room...
He moved with such grace, it seemed
like his feet flew off the floor.
While performing this improv ballet,
he would glance back at me
with complicity,
he was a real son of a bitch.
He knew music,
he played the piano rather well.
That's no surprise,
because especially in Russia,
and in countries
where dance is studied seriously,
knowing music isn't just necessary,
it's fundamental.
He liked cinema, especially
action films, American films.
He read various kinds of books.
He loved paintings,
19th century paintings,
we could say lofty paintings,
boulevard style.
You had a huge international star
near you, yet at times he was very...
He was very human and simple.
Very open to jokes and irony.
It was a beautiful relationship...
Even food thrilled him.
He loved meat stew
with various sauces, and pasta.
My mother, who he called "mom",
prepared this meat stew for him,
he loved tongue and calf's head.
She made it specifically for him,
since we didn't like it.
She made pasta sauces for him,
which thrilled him.
He'd say: "I'll just stop by".
He'd arrive at 9:00,
saying he had to leave at 11:00,
but at 3:00 he was still there
chatting and relaxing.
It was nice for him and us.
One night he invited me
to a dinner...
He had been invited
and was inviting others along.
I made the mistake of saying
he missed out on the borsch I made.
I said: "I made a batch of borsch,
but you're leaving, so none for you".
I should've never said it!
He forced me to go home
and bring the borsch along
to this dinner party.
We warmed up the borsch
and even the guests
ate it and enjoyed it.
Before serving the borsch,
he took half of it for himself.
He was very spoiled.
It bothered him when they gave him
soup in a Thermos,
first he was glad, then turned around
and said: "Geez!",
Nothing was good enough for him.
It was the care of people
who followed him in admiration,
with love and respect.
Ready to welcome
people he considered sincere.
This is the image I have of Rudolf.
He was a bit older than me,
but I always
felt maternal toward him,
I always felt I had to protect him.
In reality,
he could protect himself just fine,
but sometimes
I sensed he needed a mother.
There were two aspects of him:
The incomparable male ballerina
of Nijinsky,
and the man who had
secret emotions and tribulations
to live with day by day.
I said to him: "How's your life?"
"On your day off, for example,
you fly to New York,
you never rest, you're never serene".
He said: "You have a family, a son,
I have no one, I'll die on stage".
But he wasn't alone,
it was just his way of being,
he wanted to be alone.
He had many friends,
lovers, people around him,
but at one point he felt
a bit oppressed, he wanted freedom.
He was a solitary person,
he suffered from loneliness.
I was a friend to him,
we spent time together,
but he longed for moments
of solitude.
At times he'd disappear, he felt
the need to reclaim his privacy.
When he was alone
with people he considered friends,
he became somewhat of a child,
he liked to play and joke around.
He always wanted to win.
If someone said "I beat you",
he'd deny it, even if it was true.
This was the infantile side
of Rudolf.
All of us ballerinas
have an infantile side,
because we began working seriously
at a young age,
thus, we missed out
on that part of life:
Growing up,
and playing with schoolmates,
neighborhood friends.
We all missed out on this.
I recall he was as happy as a child,
he had eyes like a child.
I recall going to the home
of highsociety people in Milan,
they had curio cases
filled with rare collectibles,
he said to me:
"Ask her if she'll give one to me".
Like a child who wants a toy.
At times he behaved
like a bratty child,
who wanted something he liked.
He'd go into a store
and buy a rug,
then wear it out on his shoulders
to see if it looked good on him.
A bit crazy.
Some say Nureyev was stingy, but
he was actually wealthy and stingy.
Perhaps that's a sign
of the precariousness
ballerinas feel
during the course of their lives,
that theaters will shut you out
and you'll end up poor.
Rudy wasn't stingy,
but like all people
who had suffered hunger,
he was cautious,
not out of stinginess,
but out of fear of poverty.
He liked going out at night
to parties and dinners.
He liked to wander
around dangerous places,
in the slums of the city.
He wasn't fond
of socalled worldliness,
but he was tempted by adventure.
We'd go dancing
at Parco delle Rose.
He loved this place.
After four ballet acts,
we were exhausted,
yet he would dance like crazy.
He would rid himself
of the weight of classical dance.
What was striking about Rudolf
was his love for life,
pleasure,
and work well done.
Maybe this is why
he burnt out so young,
because he lived life
and work intensely.
He would go to bed
at 5:00 or 6:00 AM
then get up for class at 9:00
and work intensely.
It was a life
full of pleasure and hard work,
rigor,
effort, and honesty.
He was an honest worker.
Nureyev was jealous
of his private life,
he never allowed anyone
to speak or gossip about him
unless he authorized it.
As for me,
I believe I found out something
but I will never reveal it.
A man who was fucked by life
in every sense.
Exile was devastating for him,
more than he ever admitted.
When he was able to visit
his mother and sister...
He carried a large wound inside.
He was homesick for Russia,
he would never have gone back,
but wanted to.
I went to Russia
around 1965 until 1989,
for tours, especially in the 70s.
He was erased,
you couldn't mention his name.
You absolutely
couldn't mention it.
Some male lead ballerinas
asked me about him,
but they were totally terrorized.
He was erased from all
of Leningrad's ballet books.
A colleague of mine,
Liliana Cosi,
went there to deliver letters.
In those days, it was not allowed.
We brought letters to his mom,
he cared greatly for her,
and to his maestro Pushkin.
He remembered all these people.
He wanted to leave,
because after being here for so long,
he felt fulfilled,
he'd done what he wanted to.
"In my recurring dream
my mother appears."
"I see a large, tall bread ladder,
my mother's at the top
holding out her hands to me."
He felt nostalgia
to return home to his mother,
he eventually did, but it was too
late, because his mother had died.
How do you feel about what's
happening in the Soviet Union?
The right moment has finally arrived,
we've been waiting forever for it.
We finally have
the possibility to be human.
He was given permission
to return to his homeland,
Corriere della Sera sent me
to cover this amazing event.
They gave me
this wonderful assignment
of being able to see him up close.
Those were fantastic days
because he was serene,
because he'd returned to his home
to see his old teachers,
the places where he was born,
to see the Kirov Ballet.
He was an entirely different man,
he joked around...
We went to St. Petersburg
to the French Consulate
and he began dancing
and I danced with him.
I said: "Rudolf,
you're not a good dancer".
He joked around a lot,
it was wonderful.
- You look wonderful!
- Really?
I'm already 100 years old.
I envy you.
I'd like to live until 100 too.
I'm so happy to see you.
I had to wait 100 years
to see you again.
- You dance so well.
- Come see me.
He was applauded,
I was on stage with his old teacher,
who had a bouquet of white carnations
and was crying.
She said: "We knew right away
he had extraordinary talent".
- Yes, I dance.
- I don't have your biography.
- You should...
- I've just begun writing it.
I have something important to say...
All of my pupils send me theirs.
- I'll write another one.
- No, I want the old one!
I only recall the great enthusiasm
of his colleagues and teachers
who started crying when he arrived.
It was such a moving moment...
I felt emotional for myself.
The warmth with which
he was received says it all,
they had never forgotten him,
he was their hero.
Nureyev missed it all,
but never said anything,
the strong emotions
of returning home after exile.
He felt he could dance
in his homeland.
His nature changed.
He was with his people again
who said to him:
"We're happy you've returned".
When he got back
I asked him how it went,
and he said
it was extremely exciting.
Then I asked about his mother,
and he said:
"Mother is very ill, she didn't
even understand I was there".
And I said: "Are you kidding?"
"Even a dead mother
recognizes her son."
"The fact that you went there,
kissed her, held her hand,
she felt you
and understood you were there".
He looked at me as if he'd seen a
whole new world and said: "Really?"
The decision to become
an orchestra director wasn't sudden.
I've had it in mind for many years,
I was waiting for the occasion.
There's a professor in Vienna
who was convinced I should've
become an orchestra director
even 10 years ago.
He finally called me last year
about the possibility of doing
rehearsals with the orchestra.
I went immediately, I tried it
and this show is the result.
He was my partner,
choreographer,
friend, and orchestra director.
The wonderful thing
that comes to mind
is when he directed
"Sleeping Beauty" in America.
I sensed his immense happiness.
He lived his whole life on stage,
then he moved to the other side.
He seized the opportunity
to be together with us.
He was music and dance
at the same time.
I'm afraid of only one thing,
dying without having tried
every possible thing.
He was a homosexual legend.
An amazing talent,
an egocentric man, even rough,
but so gifted
that he could do anything.
At times,
it was hard to speak to him
because you felt he exuded
a sense of absolute superiority.
He was gifted, there's nothing
we average mortals can do.
It's the difference between
a genius and a professional.
Nureyev's genius isn't learned,
he was born with it.
He was always kind to us kids,
he was playful,
he fascinated us.
We considered it
the arrival of a legend,
from whom we'd absorb
everything he taught and said.
A teacher like Rudolf Nureyev...
I hope there will be another,
but I highly doubt it,
because he was an exceptional man.
There are many good ballerinas
who do sensational things,
but after watching them
for 5 minutes,
you understand,
this did not happen with Nureyev.
You were transported,
body, soul, and mind,
it was impossible to be distracted.
Something like this cannot be taught,
he was born like this.
I've read lots of Shakespeare,
I studied the critics,
from the early 18th century
up until present day.
I studied other versions
and I saw that Shakespeare
wrote this tragedy in four days.
He conveyed this desperation
of a desperate couple
rushing toward death.
Around him,
during those days of agony,
some friends, not many,
went to visit:
An old woman who taught dance,
Marika Besobrasova,
his sister, some relatives
he didn't care to see,
some reporters,
such as my friend Ettore Mo,
another common friend,
Lino Bricco,
who spoke of having seen
a withered body,
which had nothing human
left to it,
unlike the body Nureyev
had when he was young,
a distraught man
until the end of his days,
with a small TV
in his hospital room,
who replied yes or no
only with his eyes.
Luckily, this is something
I did not see.
If I had,
I would've wanted to forget it.
When we went to the funeral,
they glared at me
because I was the only one
who'd been able to see him.
There was a sense of hostility.
I went to his funeral in Paris,
it seemed as if the sky
had it in for us.
I've never seen
the Parisian sky so leaden,
so chockfull of rain
and humidity,
a hideous day.
When I learned of his death,
I flew to Paris
as a small thank you to him.
I don't know what to say.
It's not easy to describe
a man like him.
I'll dance forever.
Born on the Trans-Siberian
Express on March 17, 1938
Kirov Ballet School
and Company 1955-61
Fled to Paris on June 17, 1961
Died in Paris on January 6, 1933
We thank the following people
for participating
in order of appearance
He could be very sweet,
but also grumpy
to the point of being offensive.
He laughed and was mean,
with his eyes, not with his mouth.
He was very expressive.
He was authentic yet strange.
He had the merits of beasts and
the defects of men or vice versa.
Eccentric,
extravagant, aggressive,
at times even offensive,
and often rather rude.
At times he even threw chairs.
Like a character
of commedia dell'arte.
He had an amazing physique:
Compact and proportionate.
He had no problem harmonizing,
he was born harmonious.
He'd built his muscles in line
with the harmony of elongation,
width, perfect chest,
squared shoulders,
and arms and legs
of the proper length.
This allowed him
to face all difficulties
with extraordinary ease.
Even as the years passed
and things worsened,
his physical characteristics
saved him from accidents,
difficulties, and failures.
They called him "The Flying Tartar".
He demanded the impossible
of himself and of his body,
which wasn't ideal for dance.
He had to work extremely hard.
Inimitable.
He always had problems
with his muscles,
even his masseuse
from St. Petersburg said so.
As the years went by,
the difficulties increased.
He had an exceptional gift
but only for certain things,
he had to work hard,
he worked twice as hard as we did.
He was a model for us young dancers.
Many time I went into the room
when there was no class,
when nobody was there,
but Rudolf would be there studying.
He practiced steps
and would study himself...
oftentimes without music.
The prince of dance.
In each of his shows,
there were 20 unrepeatable minutes
that nobody else could perform.
In these 20 minutes, Rudolf
seized the essence of the character,
and everything else
faded into the background.
I saw him dance in his last years
and noticed his incredible
physicality and strength.
He would get off the plane
and do barre exercises,
whereas we would go rest.
Where he practiced at the barre,
there was a pool of his sweat.
I recall his endless barre exercises
before shows, on a dark stage.
Nobody was in the theater,
but Rudy.
Nureyev wasn't the man
who changed the fate of ballet,
conducting the male ballerina
into a position of privilege
compared to the prima ballerina,
who, especially
in the late 19th century,
was considered a lady's escort.
There's a before and after Nureyev,
he's a key moment for male ballet.
He was not forgotten,
we still speak
of his contributions to dance
as director, choreographer,
and maestro.
Thus, he revolutionized dance.
He conferred upon the male figure
relevance equal to the female figure.
It's amazing to watch him
even when he was just a partner,
because in that secondary role,
he was able to emphasize
his partner's every position.
This remains an example.
His dance revolved
around the male ballerina.
He was able to raise
the value of the male figure
and create a character
equal to the female figure,
which used to be prevalent in ballet.
Think about "Swan Lake",
or "Sleeping Beauty",
all the classic ballets
revisited by Nureyev,
he included difficulties,
variations, male solos,
which are extremely arduous,
but which give the male role
a weight different than before.
He brought modernity
to the role of the prince.
But it was mainly Bejart
who revolutionized male ballet.
It was Serge Lifar,
from the 1930's Russian school
of ballet in Paris,
who gave new life to the concept
of the male protagonist.
Through his own experiences,
he realized it was no longer possible
to perform romantic ballets
much less modern ballets,
based solely upon the woman,
whose steps were less impressive,
whose abilities
incited less enthusiasm.
He was more
of a revolutionist in his life
than he was on stage.
But he brought a sense of modernity
to the dance of life
or the life of dance.
Milan had always tended
toward opera more than ballet
before the discovery of Nureyev.
He was defined the Callas of ballet.
Without Nureyev, ballet in Italy
would not have had
the fortune that it did.
He brought back to the stage
that charismatic presence
of people who are born to do
what others cannot.
He could easily stroll around
without being bothered.
Callas couldn't do that.
He improved
classic ballet and La Scala.
He encouraged the directors
to give prominence to ballet,
which was rather difficult,
since La Scala is opera.
Nureyev, with his
professionalism and his talent,
won over the theater's directors,
gaining respect
and demanding productions
which La Scala also had to invest in.
He often worked at La Scala
and knew all the dancers,
he'd given each a nickname.
His behavior changed
according to who he was with.
Perhaps for him
it was like this everywhere,
but at La Scala
it was like a family reunion.
With him, we didn't feel
like employed dancers.
He made us feel less employed
and more dancers.
He shook up the world of dance,
inside and outside.
It was he who decided
that at the end of the show
the lights should not
be turned on immediately,
the theater should remain dark.
Before, at the end of a show,
people would get up
and rush out to go back home.
But this way,
people had to stay and applaud.
People waited in line to see him,
saying: "The great Nureyev is here".
Even a huge star like our Fracci
felt intimidated.
Since Fracci was always at La Scala,
people came especially to see him.
Due to the crowds, it was impossible
to exit Via Filodrammatici.
After having enjoyed him on stage,
people gathered around
the artists' entrance
to see him up close and touch him.
There was an immense interest
to see him at the theater.
I never had the impression
that when Nureyev danced,
there were two teams,
as there were when Callas sang.
Nureyev created this craze,
he created ballet fans.
Milan adored Rudy,
it worshipped and loved him
with all its heart.
Each time, Milan eagerly awaited
for him to come back,
and Rudy returned Milan's affection.
I'm very happy and moved
by the reaction
of the Italian audience.
Did you expect such a crowd in Milan
where you hadn't performed it
in two years?
Yes.
When I performed
Romeo and Juliet here,
every night was sold out.
What are your future plans?
I'm on vacation as of tomorrow,
days of vacation, finally!
HOMETOWN FILMED BY NUREYEV
- I thought he was born on a horse.
- In Vladivostok.
You said:
"Weren't you born on a horse?"
He said: "No, on a train".
His father was rather special,
he was soldierly, a burly man.
He wished for his son to become
strong and courageous,
capable of hunting at night
and doing masculine, virile things.
This was the first of the conflicts
that sprung up in the family
between a soldierly father
and a son with a bent
for poetry, music, and dance.
I was listening radio music.
When a member
of the government died,
they would play music by Schubert,
Beethoven, Tchaikovsky,
the Schumann trio and such.
I would cry in front of the radio,
not for Kalinin or Stalin's death,
but because the music was beautiful.
Nureyev decided to never return
to his homeland in the early 60s,
when the Berlin Wall was built.
It was a daring escape,
premeditated for years.
Paris was not the chosen city
for his escape, but London was.
Having to flee his country
must have been humiliating
and unbearably painful for him.
If he was encouraged,
he found the courage to go on.
He arrived in the West
at the right time,
when the doors were opened
for modern dance and America
by festivals in Nervi and Spoleto.
The strength of Russian companies
became recognized, Bolshoi, Kirov...
Bejart and the "Ballet du XX siecle",
the era of Cranko was beginning,
the era of Killian in Holland.
Without him we would have had
to wait a long time
before witnessing
this incredible blossoming.
Margot Fonteyn was a mother to him,
a teacher, a big sister,
she taught him manners and speech.
She was everything he never had.
She was almost 20 years older,
with grandiose life experiences,
he had fewer,
but they were dazzling.
She was planning on leaving the stage
and found a younger brother in him,
a boy to teach.
She welcomed him, and chose him
as her partner at a mature age,
he gave her boundless vitality.
She was always very grateful,
but he was also grateful to her,
because she was a role model
which lead him toward the rigor,
beauty, and harmony,
that this ballerina had.
Russian technique,
the manner in which Russians danced,
bothered him immensely.
When we did "Swan Lake",
he said to me:
"Don't lift your leg up high
like the Russians do,
but pay attention to your line."
Lines were part
of Fonteyn's teachings,
elongation and length
and continuing the port de bras
all the way backstage,
not interrupting the line
during the movement.
He considered it a mistake
to raise your legs too high.
The physique, the column,
the poise of the head
were ruined by this.
Practically, he repudiated his world.
It was Erik Bruhn,
a refined Danish dancer,
who started Rudolf off
and taught him
how to dance and interpret ballet.
Theirs was a great friendship,
not long, but intense,
not only of an artistic nature.
When he got here, his style wasn't
very clean, there were many defects.
But he'd worked long and hard
with Erik Bruhn.
He became a bit maniacal after,
because even at 45 years old
at the barre,
he did a perfect fifth.
He was mindful of crosses,
whereas in Leningrad
they weren't as attentive.
We also worked with Erik Bruhn,
perhaps my favorite partner.
With Erik, we immediately had...
clarity,
we understood each other
without speaking.
Instead, with Rudy,
it was a bit more forced,
because there were
cultural differences,
we spoke different languages.
It took a while
to understand each other,
to get on and create together.
I felt he was happy
when he spoke Russian.
In fact, we often spoke Russian.
He'd say:
"I understand and speak Italian well,
so let's speak Italian
or English."
He refused to speak Russian.
He spoke Russian with me.
He and I spoke Russian.
I met him and we spoke in Russian.
He didn't want to speak Russian,
he wasn't repudiating his origins,
he just preferred to speak English.
Ballerinas who danced with him
became better,
not just in that moment,
but even after,
because they felt the tremor,
they felt they couldn't fail.
I witnessed rehearsals
where he decorticated ballerinas
and reconstructed them.
It was magical.
At La Scala he would drag the
ballerinas, he actually dragged them.
No one else had this magical power
to drag them like a magic flute.
He was the perfect partner for me,
I have no criticisms,
even if some ballerinas
said he treated them badly.
I never had any problems.
I was shaking everyone's hand,
I gave my hand to Nureyev
and out of rage because Fracci
wasn't ready, he bit it.
I saw him make great ballerinas cry,
but the end result
wasn't the usual good performance,
it was exceptional.
He managed to bring out
the best in people.
He never cared for Vera Colombo,
to be honest,
he was horribly spiteful with her,
she didn't deserve it.
He and Vera...
There was something that just
didn't work for either of them.
I believe that in some sense,
there's always a bit of sadism
in dealing with choreography.
The same holds true for the men,
he was very harsh with himself also,
he wouldn't skip a step.
But he was especially harsh
with the women.
I truly enjoyed him
as a partner.
He was a splendid partner
when he wanted to be.
But he could not stand diva-like
behavior in his female partners,
or false technique.
Since he was such a perfectionist,
he would not accept
that someone might not grasp
the message he wanted to transmit.
With a character like his,
it was normal
for him to have such firm reactions.
I agree
because it's a very strenuous art,
we cannot allow ourselves
to just let time pass.
There are always difficulties,
things are never easy,
one must study.
It was not just about his figure
as a great male ballerina.
Apparently though,
because it wasn't really that way.
He desired,
deeply and sincerely,
for his partner
to truly be a part of him.
He desired a complete relation
with the ballerina.
He demanded much more
than what a partner could give.
But I am grateful to him
for everything that he brought
to the world of dance
and left for young dancers.
He expected his partners
to look into his eyes,
he wanted to be looked in the eyes.
He detested ballerinas
who avoided his eyes,
which were rather magnetic.
One of his favorites was Vera,
because she looked him in the eyes.
He gave me the most beautiful
amorous glance that I've ever seen.
After Romeo and Juliet
when the curtains closed,
Carla cried almost every time,
because unfortunately,
during the performance
there had been instigations.
We can say it was a fight,
almost hidden, a battle of nerves.
They hated each other,
and loved each other,
like all great artists.
Rudy and Carla
had a love-hate relationship.
First of all, they were both Leo,
their performance seemed like
an arena battle.
Rudy clearly felt the weight
of being Carla Fracci's partner
and Fracci felt the weight
of being Rudolf Nureyev's partner.
Carla was important to him
because in some ways she reminded him
of the very special relationship
he had with Margot Fonteyn.
When they began dancing together,
Rudolf found
in that younger girl,
a sort of continuation,
a legacy,
of what he had with Margot Fonteyn.
Rudy had two role models,
very different from each other:
One was Fred Astaire,
an elegant, modern dancer
who hailed from a great classical
Viennese school.
The other was the savage,
the strong man,
the provoker, the revolutionary,
obviously, Vaslav Nijinsky.
The man who had tried, in the first
years of Russian ballet, after Fokin,
to revolutionize ballet technique.
He was the first
to take off those leggings
that covered certain parts
of the male ballerina's body
and reveal them in a leotard.
With that amazing body,
his buttocks were like sculptures,
like marble, they didn't seem real.
He was still the same Rudy,
he wasn't Balanchine's dancer,
he was still himself,
even in interpreting these
modern ballets, even with Bejart.
He was always himself,
he didn't seem like a modern dancer.
He never caused a scene with me.
It's odd, he was always
very friendly and respectful.
When I'd demonstrate a step,
he never discussed, he just did it,
even if it didn't suit him.
But we rarely fought,
the few times we did,
he was always humorous and ironic
which allowed things
to smooth out easily.
They didn't like each other,
there was a total lack
of understanding.
Bejart wants 100% of his dancers.
Rudolf never gave 100% of himself
to the owners of ballet.
He never wanted to work
with Balanchine or Bejart,
or any other big name.
Deep down, he was an anarchist,
an absolute host.
During the period of Bejart,
he gave an amazing example
of that what can be done
without doing anything.
At the end of "Songs of a Wayfarer"
by Mahler,
when the two men separate,
as he's being lead out,
he glances up to the stalls
one last time,
during that handful of seconds
of farewell,
he gave the most intense expression
that could have been given,
that could be given and has been
given, to an attentive audience.
I recall on the central stage,
I had the fortune of witnessing
the opening night
of "Songs of a Wayfarer".
That was an unrepeatable...
moment.
Because there was Rudolf,
Paolo, another great male ballerina,
who I was lucky to have as a partner.
What can I say?
They were two characters
who left a real mark...
a mark in my heart.
It's difficult.
I don't mean to say something
malicious or serious,
he was able to develop tradition
when he did La Bayadere,
he choreographed it
taking his cue from Russian tradition
and Marius Petipa,
he developed and modernized it,
he transformed it,
but used the existing base.
Thus Nureyev, as a choreographer,
incorporated his Russian heritage,
transforming it for the 20th century.
He had received this heritage.
He left an indelible mark
for example, on the "Nutcracker",
he renewed Don Quixote,
shows which were previously
unknown in the West.
As for Giselle,
I don't think he renewed it much,
because the things he did
had already been done by Lifar.
He modernized
academic dance.
With choreography, he left traces
of his behavior and style:
Not leaving arms and hands open,
he never wanted thumbs to show,
he liked positions that were refined,
closed, tight, and above all, clean.
His best choreography
was perhaps "Cinderella",
which was completely different
from the classic "Cinderella".
Lights, costumes, extras...
I will battle 100 people tomorrow.
There'll be an orchestra too,
they all have different tempos,
all the ballerinas are upset.
If someone didn't fully follow
his choreography,
there was trouble,
because he did not joke around.
He didn't even joke around
when it came to himself,
let alone with others.
If a ballerina was having problems
and kindly asked if
she could change or simplify a step,
a pirouette or manege,
or any technical element,
he absolutely would not change it.
Even if you fell down,
he would not change his steps.
If they made mistakes,
they would eventually be thrown out
even during a scene.
He would change his mind
only after an error.
"No, this way, I do it this way".
After making a mistake
for a month, then he'd admit it.
He was extraordinarily serious,
severe, and demanding with himself.
On stage, he did not
tolerate errors, not even his own.
In this sense,
his physical and mental discipline
even lead him to cruel acts
toward ballerinas who were incapable
or unprepared for
jumping into his arms
during some difficult
ballet passages.
Two pirouettes, there had to be
two pirouettes in every show.
In the pas de deux
of "Sleeping Beauty",
perhaps I spun myself too hard
and I was doing a third pirouette.
He let me do two and a half
then stopped me,
and did not let me finish the third.
He said "two", so it had to be two.
He never changed a step.
He always took risks going on stage,
he never went on stage saying:
"Tonight I don't feel well,
I'll take out the virtuosities
and some steps."
His last years weren't exactly
excellent in terms of interpretation.
He went on stage anyway,
giving the interpretation
all his strength,
but bit by bit,
things would unravel,
they didn't function as they used to.
He was a courageous man
of great moral and physical strength.
When he found out about his illness,
it was 1982,
he realized what his destiny would be
and did everything he could
to ward off the illness,
fighting it day in and day out.
He paid heavily for it, he had
a personal doctor with him always,
who treated him,
he practically kept him alive
and allowed him to work hard,
to be the artist
he wanted to be on stage.
He lived 10 years of life
fearing death,
obviously, years spent
amidst nightmares and hopes,
hopes for a miracle cure,
fear of not living
to see the next day.
10 years is a lot
for an artist like that.
Many died after three months.
When I took off his shirt,
I realized it was stuffed,
underneath, he was thin,
just skin and bones.
Then I realized
that the rumors about his illness
could really be true.
A serious issue is that
for the longest time
he did not accept
the martyrdom of the illness,
but he propagated it.
When I called him and said:
"It's Ettore, remember me?"
"Can we meet? I know
you're sick but you'll get better".
He said: "Come over".
I met him in a hospital in Paris,
in the outskirts,
it was a lugubrious day.
He was already delirious,
watching TV movies.
He didn't like them at all,
but still watched them.
I held his hand.
I said: "I must return to Milan
for the opening at La Scala".
He: "I'll come too, book me".
At one point I said:
"My wife saw you dance
at Covent Garden
and said to wish you
a quick recovery."
She recalls the performance
you gave when she was young."
He asked for my wife's name and
wrote on a card: "I love you. Rudy".
Naturally, we framed it.
It was the last thing he wrote.
He was a great talent scout,
and he spotted them
by virtue of his intuitive nature.
He could immediately judge
a person's qualities.
Oftentimes, he clashed severely
with the theaters he worked with,
from the Paris Opera
to the Vienna Opera
even La Scala.
He was everything for me,
he helped me
and wanted me in his ballets
because he adored me.
He helped all young dancers,
he had a lovely gift.
I met him when he came to La Scala
for the last time.
I was in dance school,
in my fifth year.
He was restaging "The Nutcracker"
and I recall meeting him in the room
after the ballet troupe rehearsal
I participated in
even though I was a student.
He came in while I was there and
asked me to show him what I could do.
I did some barre work,
I was very excited and fast.
He corrected me afterward,
told me to do it again calmly,
following his corrections.
I couldn't believe
that was happening to me.
He told me to leave
after class was over,
the next day he asked me
to give my info to his assistants,
they contacted me for the role
of Tadzio in "Death in Venice".
It was incredibly exciting for me,
especially because it was unexpected,
and Nureyev is my biggest dance hero,
he's always been the best.
Being chosen to dance with him
was more than a dream.
I met Nureyev
in a rather casual way
at Hotel Continental
where I would always go to dine.
He was at the peak of his radiance,
the height of his glory
and technical ability.
At one point,
some of his admirers showed up
that he wanted to run away,
and in fact he ran away.
To reach the elevator,
he had to cross the room,
and the way he crossed that room...
He moved with such grace, it seemed
like his feet flew off the floor.
While performing this improv ballet,
he would glance back at me
with complicity,
he was a real son of a bitch.
He knew music,
he played the piano rather well.
That's no surprise,
because especially in Russia,
and in countries
where dance is studied seriously,
knowing music isn't just necessary,
it's fundamental.
He liked cinema, especially
action films, American films.
He read various kinds of books.
He loved paintings,
19th century paintings,
we could say lofty paintings,
boulevard style.
You had a huge international star
near you, yet at times he was very...
He was very human and simple.
Very open to jokes and irony.
It was a beautiful relationship...
Even food thrilled him.
He loved meat stew
with various sauces, and pasta.
My mother, who he called "mom",
prepared this meat stew for him,
he loved tongue and calf's head.
She made it specifically for him,
since we didn't like it.
She made pasta sauces for him,
which thrilled him.
He'd say: "I'll just stop by".
He'd arrive at 9:00,
saying he had to leave at 11:00,
but at 3:00 he was still there
chatting and relaxing.
It was nice for him and us.
One night he invited me
to a dinner...
He had been invited
and was inviting others along.
I made the mistake of saying
he missed out on the borsch I made.
I said: "I made a batch of borsch,
but you're leaving, so none for you".
I should've never said it!
He forced me to go home
and bring the borsch along
to this dinner party.
We warmed up the borsch
and even the guests
ate it and enjoyed it.
Before serving the borsch,
he took half of it for himself.
He was very spoiled.
It bothered him when they gave him
soup in a Thermos,
first he was glad, then turned around
and said: "Geez!",
Nothing was good enough for him.
It was the care of people
who followed him in admiration,
with love and respect.
Ready to welcome
people he considered sincere.
This is the image I have of Rudolf.
He was a bit older than me,
but I always
felt maternal toward him,
I always felt I had to protect him.
In reality,
he could protect himself just fine,
but sometimes
I sensed he needed a mother.
There were two aspects of him:
The incomparable male ballerina
of Nijinsky,
and the man who had
secret emotions and tribulations
to live with day by day.
I said to him: "How's your life?"
"On your day off, for example,
you fly to New York,
you never rest, you're never serene".
He said: "You have a family, a son,
I have no one, I'll die on stage".
But he wasn't alone,
it was just his way of being,
he wanted to be alone.
He had many friends,
lovers, people around him,
but at one point he felt
a bit oppressed, he wanted freedom.
He was a solitary person,
he suffered from loneliness.
I was a friend to him,
we spent time together,
but he longed for moments
of solitude.
At times he'd disappear, he felt
the need to reclaim his privacy.
When he was alone
with people he considered friends,
he became somewhat of a child,
he liked to play and joke around.
He always wanted to win.
If someone said "I beat you",
he'd deny it, even if it was true.
This was the infantile side
of Rudolf.
All of us ballerinas
have an infantile side,
because we began working seriously
at a young age,
thus, we missed out
on that part of life:
Growing up,
and playing with schoolmates,
neighborhood friends.
We all missed out on this.
I recall he was as happy as a child,
he had eyes like a child.
I recall going to the home
of highsociety people in Milan,
they had curio cases
filled with rare collectibles,
he said to me:
"Ask her if she'll give one to me".
Like a child who wants a toy.
At times he behaved
like a bratty child,
who wanted something he liked.
He'd go into a store
and buy a rug,
then wear it out on his shoulders
to see if it looked good on him.
A bit crazy.
Some say Nureyev was stingy, but
he was actually wealthy and stingy.
Perhaps that's a sign
of the precariousness
ballerinas feel
during the course of their lives,
that theaters will shut you out
and you'll end up poor.
Rudy wasn't stingy,
but like all people
who had suffered hunger,
he was cautious,
not out of stinginess,
but out of fear of poverty.
He liked going out at night
to parties and dinners.
He liked to wander
around dangerous places,
in the slums of the city.
He wasn't fond
of socalled worldliness,
but he was tempted by adventure.
We'd go dancing
at Parco delle Rose.
He loved this place.
After four ballet acts,
we were exhausted,
yet he would dance like crazy.
He would rid himself
of the weight of classical dance.
What was striking about Rudolf
was his love for life,
pleasure,
and work well done.
Maybe this is why
he burnt out so young,
because he lived life
and work intensely.
He would go to bed
at 5:00 or 6:00 AM
then get up for class at 9:00
and work intensely.
It was a life
full of pleasure and hard work,
rigor,
effort, and honesty.
He was an honest worker.
Nureyev was jealous
of his private life,
he never allowed anyone
to speak or gossip about him
unless he authorized it.
As for me,
I believe I found out something
but I will never reveal it.
A man who was fucked by life
in every sense.
Exile was devastating for him,
more than he ever admitted.
When he was able to visit
his mother and sister...
He carried a large wound inside.
He was homesick for Russia,
he would never have gone back,
but wanted to.
I went to Russia
around 1965 until 1989,
for tours, especially in the 70s.
He was erased,
you couldn't mention his name.
You absolutely
couldn't mention it.
Some male lead ballerinas
asked me about him,
but they were totally terrorized.
He was erased from all
of Leningrad's ballet books.
A colleague of mine,
Liliana Cosi,
went there to deliver letters.
In those days, it was not allowed.
We brought letters to his mom,
he cared greatly for her,
and to his maestro Pushkin.
He remembered all these people.
He wanted to leave,
because after being here for so long,
he felt fulfilled,
he'd done what he wanted to.
"In my recurring dream
my mother appears."
"I see a large, tall bread ladder,
my mother's at the top
holding out her hands to me."
He felt nostalgia
to return home to his mother,
he eventually did, but it was too
late, because his mother had died.
How do you feel about what's
happening in the Soviet Union?
The right moment has finally arrived,
we've been waiting forever for it.
We finally have
the possibility to be human.
He was given permission
to return to his homeland,
Corriere della Sera sent me
to cover this amazing event.
They gave me
this wonderful assignment
of being able to see him up close.
Those were fantastic days
because he was serene,
because he'd returned to his home
to see his old teachers,
the places where he was born,
to see the Kirov Ballet.
He was an entirely different man,
he joked around...
We went to St. Petersburg
to the French Consulate
and he began dancing
and I danced with him.
I said: "Rudolf,
you're not a good dancer".
He joked around a lot,
it was wonderful.
- You look wonderful!
- Really?
I'm already 100 years old.
I envy you.
I'd like to live until 100 too.
I'm so happy to see you.
I had to wait 100 years
to see you again.
- You dance so well.
- Come see me.
He was applauded,
I was on stage with his old teacher,
who had a bouquet of white carnations
and was crying.
She said: "We knew right away
he had extraordinary talent".
- Yes, I dance.
- I don't have your biography.
- You should...
- I've just begun writing it.
I have something important to say...
All of my pupils send me theirs.
- I'll write another one.
- No, I want the old one!
I only recall the great enthusiasm
of his colleagues and teachers
who started crying when he arrived.
It was such a moving moment...
I felt emotional for myself.
The warmth with which
he was received says it all,
they had never forgotten him,
he was their hero.
Nureyev missed it all,
but never said anything,
the strong emotions
of returning home after exile.
He felt he could dance
in his homeland.
His nature changed.
He was with his people again
who said to him:
"We're happy you've returned".
When he got back
I asked him how it went,
and he said
it was extremely exciting.
Then I asked about his mother,
and he said:
"Mother is very ill, she didn't
even understand I was there".
And I said: "Are you kidding?"
"Even a dead mother
recognizes her son."
"The fact that you went there,
kissed her, held her hand,
she felt you
and understood you were there".
He looked at me as if he'd seen a
whole new world and said: "Really?"
The decision to become
an orchestra director wasn't sudden.
I've had it in mind for many years,
I was waiting for the occasion.
There's a professor in Vienna
who was convinced I should've
become an orchestra director
even 10 years ago.
He finally called me last year
about the possibility of doing
rehearsals with the orchestra.
I went immediately, I tried it
and this show is the result.
He was my partner,
choreographer,
friend, and orchestra director.
The wonderful thing
that comes to mind
is when he directed
"Sleeping Beauty" in America.
I sensed his immense happiness.
He lived his whole life on stage,
then he moved to the other side.
He seized the opportunity
to be together with us.
He was music and dance
at the same time.
I'm afraid of only one thing,
dying without having tried
every possible thing.
He was a homosexual legend.
An amazing talent,
an egocentric man, even rough,
but so gifted
that he could do anything.
At times,
it was hard to speak to him
because you felt he exuded
a sense of absolute superiority.
He was gifted, there's nothing
we average mortals can do.
It's the difference between
a genius and a professional.
Nureyev's genius isn't learned,
he was born with it.
He was always kind to us kids,
he was playful,
he fascinated us.
We considered it
the arrival of a legend,
from whom we'd absorb
everything he taught and said.
A teacher like Rudolf Nureyev...
I hope there will be another,
but I highly doubt it,
because he was an exceptional man.
There are many good ballerinas
who do sensational things,
but after watching them
for 5 minutes,
you understand,
this did not happen with Nureyev.
You were transported,
body, soul, and mind,
it was impossible to be distracted.
Something like this cannot be taught,
he was born like this.
I've read lots of Shakespeare,
I studied the critics,
from the early 18th century
up until present day.
I studied other versions
and I saw that Shakespeare
wrote this tragedy in four days.
He conveyed this desperation
of a desperate couple
rushing toward death.
Around him,
during those days of agony,
some friends, not many,
went to visit:
An old woman who taught dance,
Marika Besobrasova,
his sister, some relatives
he didn't care to see,
some reporters,
such as my friend Ettore Mo,
another common friend,
Lino Bricco,
who spoke of having seen
a withered body,
which had nothing human
left to it,
unlike the body Nureyev
had when he was young,
a distraught man
until the end of his days,
with a small TV
in his hospital room,
who replied yes or no
only with his eyes.
Luckily, this is something
I did not see.
If I had,
I would've wanted to forget it.
When we went to the funeral,
they glared at me
because I was the only one
who'd been able to see him.
There was a sense of hostility.
I went to his funeral in Paris,
it seemed as if the sky
had it in for us.
I've never seen
the Parisian sky so leaden,
so chockfull of rain
and humidity,
a hideous day.
When I learned of his death,
I flew to Paris
as a small thank you to him.
I don't know what to say.
It's not easy to describe
a man like him.
I'll dance forever.
Born on the Trans-Siberian
Express on March 17, 1938
Kirov Ballet School
and Company 1955-61
Fled to Paris on June 17, 1961
Died in Paris on January 6, 1933
We thank the following people
for participating
in order of appearance