Don Quichotte

Engendered by the pen of Miguel de Cervantès between 1605 and 1615, the Ingenious Nobleman Sir Quixote of la Mancha has been a mine of inspiration. His multiple facets have inspired numerous film makers and choreographers. Whilst Arthur Hiler and  Wilhelm  Pabst sent the hidalgo and his acolyte Sancho Panza on their travels, Rudolf Nureyev chose to refocus the intrigue on the love affairs of young Kitri and Basile, the barber. They have all brought new life to these hilarious heroes.

Having danced the ballet several times with Kirov ballet, in 1966, Rudolf Nureyev revisited Marius Petipa’s choreography for the Vienna Opera (it was to enter the Paris Opera repertoire in 1981). He complexified some of the steps and added others, respected the lines of the dancers, reduced the ballet to three acts and a prologue and combined the episodes of the windmills, the gypsies and the puppet theatre in a single tableau. The choreographer brought the old version up to date, transforming it into an athletic, lively and grandiloquent production. The most striking thing, however, is that at no point did Nureyev ever undermine Don Quixote. He portrayed the emblematic figure – convinced he is a knight errant whereas he is merely an old man with a passion for books about chivalry – as a touching and poetic hero. He never shows him as an object of pity. Don Quixote becomes a sort of disjointed puppet, straight out of the Commedia dell’arte, who even proves to be rather benevolent towards the central couple, Kitri and Basile.

This positive reading contrasts with that of numerous film directors. From the birth of cinema onwards, the hidalgo and his acolyte, Sancho Panza, have inspired film makers, many of whom have had a sterner view of their heroes. Amongst them, Wilhelm Pabst, in 1923. The Austrian director portrayed him as a pitiful creature, accentuating this through the viewpoints of local inhabitants who qualify him as “a madman”. In his film, the old man of la Mancha is a Norma Desmond from “Sunset Boulevard” ahead of his time, living in his illusions. Thus, during the theatre scene, fascinated by an actor playing the role of a knight, Don Quixote climbs onto the stage and asks to be dubbed knight (in the novel, an inn-keeper simulates the dubbing). The spectators, who laugh at him, reinforce his humiliation. And to annihilate any form of heroism, Pabst has the hidalgo die whilst battling against the windmills (doubtless the cult scene of the novel par excellence). The parallel with the ballet is interesting because although Nureyev’s Don Quixote also collapses after his encounter with the windmills, he gets up straight afterwards in almost comic fashion.

Joviality is, then, at the heart of the ballet, the choreographer placing the love story between Kitri and Basile in the foreground, something that exists in no other adaptation (not even in Cervantes). In the course of the three acts, the knight errant is a secondary element, appearing only for the cult episodes. He serves only to reinforce the principal intrigue: that of Kitri and Basile, who do everything they can to pursue their romance in spite of obstacles. In Nureyev’s wake, one film maker used Don Quixote as the vehicle for another narrative.

Between 1955 and 1969, Orson Welles tried to adapt Cervantes’ novel. However, after numerous catastrophic episodes (including the death of the Spanish actor supposed to play the hero!), the film remained unfinished until 1992, when Jess Franco edited the rushes and added some visual effects. In this film, reminiscent of Pasolini in its direction, Don Quixote and Sancho fail in a modern world. As in the ballet, humour is quite widely present (Dulcinea rides a Vespa!) and, more importantly, the hero, entrenched in the past, provides a view point on contemporary Spain, thus becoming more or less of secondary importance. What counts for Welles, as for Nureyev, is that, underpinning the story of Don Quixote, “real life goes on”. This is illustrated notably in the ballet in the scene following the Prologue – a festive street scene contrasting with Don Quixote’s retreat into deliriums and illusions.

The same highly cinematic procedure is quite clearly found in the work of Arthur Hiller. In 1972, he adapted the musical The Man of la Mancha which, in 1966, had won five Tony Awards. Miguel de Cervantès, played by Peter O’Toole, is imprisoned by the Spanish Inquisition and recounts the story of Don Quixote to his fellow prisoners. With his back to the camera, as he pursues his narrative, he puts on make-up in order to get under his hero’s skin, like in the theatre. The scene is set, the other detainees hide beneath sheets to imitate the horses and it is only in the next scene that the illusion becomes complete with a veritable set and real horses.

A transition from reality to illusion, like in the prologue to the ballet, referred to above. After reading his umpteenth book on chivalry, Don Quixote falls asleep, drifts into his fantasies and dreams of the Dryads who are to appear later in the mist. On waking, he is no longer in the real world but in his own reality. It is doubtless for this reason, later in the ballet, that, with his sword, he destroys the puppet theatre that is playing his own story. Only his own reality counts, fiction does not exist.

Sometimes serious, at others pitiful, heroic or timeless, this mythical figure fascinates and transcends the arts. Alongside the ballet, a new film adaptation by Terry Gilliam (the shooting was so catastrophic that it went on for 20 years) will be released in 2018. The Man of la Mancha has not yet revealed all his secrets.

Making a break with the supernatural aspects of Romanticism, Don Quichotte recounts with humour the thwarted loves between the barber Basilo and Kitri, the innkeeper’s young daughter. In 1981, inspired by the spirit of the Commedia dell’arte, Rudolf Nureyev passed on a cheerfully amusing and energetic work to the Paris Opera Ballet. He further strengthened the ballet’s comic action and accentuated the swirling, giddying rhythm of the choreography. From the moment she enters on stage, the beautiful Kitri sets the tone. Spanish folklore and brilliant bows combine to create dazzling dance. In the rehearsal studio, Étoile dancer Dorothée Gilbert and coach Monique Loudières re-explore the fiery colours of the ballet.

As the year draws to a close, Don Quichotte marks the return of shimmering tutus to the stage of the Opéra Bastille. First introduced at the Paris Opera and consecrated with La Sylphide in 1832, the tutu has become emblematic of the classical ballerina. Rudolf Nureyev told his dancers they needed to “wear the tutu”, in the sense that they should assume the costume and learn how to present it to the audience’s gaze. But what is the story behind the tutu that made it synonymous with the ballerina? We talked to Martine Kahane, former director of the Paris Opera’s Library-Museum, and Anne-Marie Legrand, in charge of the Palais Garnier’s Atelier flou*.

Martine Kahane: The term “tutu” has three possible origins, although none of them have been confirmed. First of all, we think it may refer to the costume’s double layer of tulle. However, “Tutu” could also be interpreted as an endearing term for a young girl's behind. Then again, the word may find its root in the suggestive expression “panpan tutu” (a French term for a spanking) used jokingly by the Opera’s subscribers in days gone by.

M.K.: It marks a stage in the evolution of dance costumes. If we go back to the costumes for the court ballets, we can see they tried all types of costumes made out of fabrics somewhat on the heavy side. The advent of the tutu is also interwoven with the history of textiles: as time passed, court, civil and stage costumes all became increasingly lighter—until the Victorian era would once again constrain women with starched, high-neck collars, long floor-length skirts and long, tight-fitting sleeves.

Essentially speaking, the advent of the tutu in the 1830s coincided with an extremely rich artistic environment. Initially—and particularly in the case of La Sylphide—the romantic tutu resembled a summer dress, falling to mid-calf, with a modest décolleté and little “balloon” sleeves. With the passage of time, the dress would become shorter and take on greater volume. The sleeves would disappear and the décolleté become ever more pronounced. Finally, decorative elements would be added to the bustier and the platter to result in the tutu we know today—that is to say, a shorter one which facilitates the movement of the legs and the upper body. The fantasy value of the tutu would be such that long, short, and straight versions of the tutu would follow.    

M.K.: In the eyes of many of the great romantic artists, the world had been spoiled by materialism and they would strive to make it a magical place again. All the artistic movements would conjure up mysterious creatures, ethereal women who existed more as spirits than actual creatures of flesh and blood. A woman was neither a wife nor a mother: she was an eternal fiancée, who, just as in love, could only find fulfilment in death. A woman was condemned to wear white, the colour of purity. Henriette de Mortsauf, the heroine in Honoré de Balzac’s Lys dans la vallée, is testimony to the quasi-equivalence between literary heroines and the female characters in romantic ballets.

   

M.K.: The entire history of the dance costume is linked to technique and body developments, in turn linked to the canons of beauty and to health and decency. As the movement of the arms and legs became more pronounced, there was a desire to show more of the body in order to better highlight the technique. This would ultimately lead to the leotard, the symbol of a completely liberated body. With the increased popularity of sport, a healthy body became something that needed to be shown off. Finally, cinema also changed our notions of acceptable behaviour as well as our relationship with the body: given that the body is not physically in front of the audience, the actress, like the spectator, could free herself of many things. Of course, tutus also got shorter after the First World War, as they did again after the Second due to the fact that raw materials were so hard to come by.

Anne-Marie Legrand: When I arrived at the Paris Opera in 1982, they were still making "cerclette" tutus. Up until then, they had epitomised the Paris Opera’s style. These were comprised of a band of tulle which in turn was gathered and inserted into the centre of the flounces to reinforce the tutu and ensure its durability. The process that went into making them was a jealously-guarded secret and, at the time, it was only passed on by word of mouth. We could not be trained outside the studio. When Rudolf Nureyev arrived, he asked us to make "galette" tutus for Raymonda (1983), Swan Lake (1984) and La Bayadère (1992) among others. Compared to the "cerclette" tutus, the amount of tulle used for each flounce is far greater. The platters are larger, which gives the dancer a wider port de bras. By rule of thumb, the radius of the tutu should correspond to the length of the dancer’s arms so that the latter can touch the rim with her fingertips.   

A-M. L. : The galette tutu is heavier than a cerclette tutu, due to the greater density of tulle. For current productions, we’ve gone from thirteen to eleven flounces for reasons related to production time, weight and cost. The edges can be straight or denticulated. You can identify these by the hand-cut ruffles which are also a characteristic of the galette tutus of Rudolf Nureyev's times.

   

A-M. L. : A tutu is composed of a trousse (a term used for the panties) onto which we sew the flounces, from the shortest to the longest (11 to 13 flounces). We then fit a yoke approximately 6-cm high on top. When that operation is complete, the tutu resembles a large rosette. The whole thing is then “banded” by a multitude of long, loose, hand-sewn stitches which constrain the garment and give the tutu that “pancake” shape which we called a tulle platter. Then, depending on the artistic specifications, it can be trimmed with lace, pearls, sequins, etc.… as per the designer’s inspiration. Finally, we add the bustier, which completes the costume. Due to the large number of flounces, a tutu with a so-called “English” tulle platter requires a longer production time: approximately three and a half days, whereas the skirting for a romantic tutu with four flounces only takes a day and a half to complete.