wonder of dance?”
“All I really know how to do is function as a principal dancer and teach what I’ve learned. That’s why I mentor others, created a dance camp in Martha’s Vineyard. I hope one day also to direct my own company or school. We spoke earlier about the fragility of the dancer’s body, but the truth is that the art form itself is fragile. And while I’m not a crusader, I am interested in keeping dance alive the only way I know how—by maintaining respect for the history of ballet, while continually trying to promote innovation and progress.”
It had been more than a year since I last saw Ethan, when I noticed that American Ballet Theatre was coming to the Orange County Performing Arts Center for their 2007 season. He would be dancing the role of Prince Désiré opposite Gillian Murphy in the West Coast premiere of The Sleeping Beauty. Curious to know whether Ethan had maintained his powerful stage presence, I purchased a ticket. When Ethan made his entrance in the second act, the audience burst into applause. Adapted from Marius Petipa’s 1890 original choreography, Ethan’s role called for highly athletic moves—jetés, cabrioles, and entrechats—as well as subtle displays of character and physical strength for lifts, which he performed with astonishing ease and skill. Watching him perform, I knew that the only thing he had lost during his convalescence was time. His artistry and technical skill remained as vital as ever. During the bows, Gillian acknowledged Ethan by handing him a rose from her bouquet. Ethan accepted it and then tossed it lovingly to the audience. Then he kissed her on the lips in a clearly unrehearsed expression of pure joy.
New York, 2006Costa Mesa, California, 2007
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,
