Lost and found at the Paris Opéra
A pearl at the Bastille, a treasure chest at the Palais Garner

Other than the apartment of the friend who put me up and put up with for a week-plus in Paris early this month, the places where I spent most of my time were the Palais Garnier and the Opéra Bastille, the two homes of the Opéra de Paris. In a future post, there will be more to say on Mozart's Così fan tutte and Debussy's Pelléas et Mélisande­, both led by the company's music director Philippe Jordan. Today, we turn our attention to a new production of Verdi's Don Carlos, a repertory performance of George Balanchine's full-length ballet Jewels, and the serendipity of finding them, as an astronomer might say, in conjunction.

For my coverage of the background and the merits of Don Carlos, please click through to my review for the Wall Street Journal. Suffice it here to say that Jordan and the director, Krzysztof Warlikowski, presented a historic reconstruction of the original five-act, French-language score as the composer delivered it for the premiere in 1867, restoring long-lost passages cut for length on that occasion and cancelling later revisions that are now standard. Even so, there was a missing piece: the bouncy little ballet "La Pérégrina," from Act III of the opera.

Depending on context, "La Pérégrina" translates as "The Wanderer," "The Pilgrim," or "The Lady from Abroad." Whichever rendering one likes, the title points two ways: first, to the French-born Elisabeth de Valois herself, and second, to a priceless pearl she wears, a gift from her husband, Philip II of Spain, the size of a quail egg. History tells that La Pérégrina was fetched up from the depths of the Gulf of Panama by an

African slave.[1]The scenario in the original libretto of Don Carlos spins a yarn involving a fisherman who descends on Philip's behalf into the enchanted grotto of the Queen of the waters: a metaphysical valentine made to order for the choreographic fantasy of Auguste Bournonville.

Don Carlos in French in 2004. Back then, the class clown Peter Konwitschny staged the ballet as a slapstick pantomime, pressing the five principals in his international cast into extra service for a daffy hommage to I Love Lucy. Konwitschny called his little show-within-a-show "Eboli's Dream," and if more of the same is what it will take to get "La Pérégrina" a foothold in Don Carlos, I say we're better off without it. There's also the inconvenient truth that almost any way you slice it, the opera is very long: right now, the Paris production is clocking in at four hours and 40 minutes.

Yet in principle, I regret the absence of "La Pérégrina." Don Carlos is a prime example of French grand opera Parisian-style in its heyday, when dance interludes were de rigueur—as sacrosanct a cog in the machinery as the halftime show at the Super Bowl. Surely this historic revival of the Ur-Don Carlos by the company for which it was conceived would be the occasion to test the antique formula, to reinvigorate it, or to fail nobly in the attempt.

Merrill Ashley in Ballo della Regina, created for her by George Balanchine.

In a congenial production—not Warlikowski's cauchemar, not Konwitschny's black farce—the ballet master George Balanchine, were he still among us, could surely have shown a way. Indeed, he came close in 1978, when he set "La Pérégrina" for his New York City Ballet as the free-standing Ballo della Regina. True, he did away with any story line. Yet allusions to the underwater fairy grotto remain in the color scheme of pink and pale aquamarine, in scalloped hemlines, and above all in steps and gestures that play like spray off breaking waves.

Almost as if to make up for the absence of dance where the template of French grand opera demands it, the Paris Opéra Ballet brought back Jewels, Balanchine's great gemstone triptych, for a run of 14 performances across town at the Garnier. Newsworthy? Not especially. The production dates back to December 2000. Yet a more festive evening than the ninth performance, on October 4, can scarcely be imagined.

Proprietary as New Yorkers may still feel about Balanchine nearly 35 years after his death, his legacy belongs to the world. From the Royal Ballet, the Royal Danish, the Mariinsky, the Bolshoi, and La Scala on down, the most prestigious international troupes dance Jewels, as do elite American ensembles from Miami to San Francisco and Seattle, and others we may know of only by name (if that) as far afield as Buenos Aires and Hong Kong. And perhaps uniquely—in contradistinction to Swan Lake, Romeo and Juliet, and other full-length pillars of the repertory—Jewels leaves no room for new "interpretations," narrative, psychological, or choreographic. Jewels exists exclusively in the steps Balanchine dreamed up to his chosen music: a Gabriel Fauré potpourri for "Emeralds," Stravinsky's Capriccio pour piano et orchestra for "Rubies," Tchaikovsky's Symphony No. 3 (minus its first movement) for "Diamonds." Jewels is what it is.

My history with Balanchine goes way back. I was 14 and living in Zurich when his New York City Ballet took over our opera house with Apollo, Allegro Brilliante, Agon, Episodes, The Prodigal Son, and La Sonnambula. (Most kids start with The Nutcracker, which I caught up with in my early 20s.) My memories of Midsummer Night's Dream, Chaconne, Symphony in Three Movements, Robert Schumann's 'Davidsbündlertänze', Mozartiana, and more­—not to mention Jewels and Ballo della Regina—go back to their premiere seasons.

The seven principals in Emeralds at the Palais Garner.

Yet none of this quite prepared me for the shock of Jewels­­—here Joyaux­­­­—on the stage of the Garnier, most glamorous of opera houses. Even the architecture of the stage contributes to the surprise. First, the Garnier has a much deeper stage (88 feet) than the place Balanchine knew as the New York State Theater (54 feet). Second, the floor is raked, which is to say tilted forward, adding extra dynamism to every move towards the footlights. The sheer amplitude of the choreography in this space takes the breath away. Nowhere, I imagine, is the effect more exhilarating than from the first row of the orchestra. In most theaters, that's too close a location for comfort, but here, the gulf across the pit is ample, the view of the stage floor unobstructed clear to downstage edge. (Further back in the orchestra, sightlines can be a big headache. As in many another historic theater, seating at the Garnier is not staggered.)

Unconcealed enjoyment, generosity, and pride in his work: Mathieu Ganio in Emeralds.

Other pleasures by no means to be taken for granted: ravishing violin soli in the Fauré and Stravinsky from Arnaud Nuvolone and the vibrant musicianship of the entire Orchestre Pasdeloup under the alert baton of the Estonian maestro Vello Pähn. Also the costumes by Christian Lacroix (which I've considered at length elsewhere). Once an apprentice in the atelier of Karinska, to whom Balanchine attributed 50 percent of the success of any of his ballets she dressed, Lacroix set out not to outdo Karinska but to adapt her ideas to the ornate framework of the Palais Garnier. Among other things, he favored velvet over silks and satins. Thus, his wardrobe seems more voluptuous, if you like, where hers may have shown more flair. Either way, we are speaking of nuances.

Rubies: Stravinsky's Capriccio requires a sharp attack.

Best of all, of course, was the dancing, sublime at every level. Watchful as hawks, indulgent as mother hens, Balanchine fans used to cluck that his corps de ballet—and especially the women—were "all over the place," taking liberties that ought to be the prerogative of the prima ballerina. That wasn't the case in Paris, yet there was nothing cookie-cutter or mechanical in the ensembles of "Emeralds." Regal yet gracious, the all-female supporting cast showed immaculate pointe work, buoyancy, and upper-body eloquence to the fingertips.

As many make a point of repeating, Balanchine told his dancers not to "act." On the evidence, what he scorned was the show of fake emotion. That was not to say that he favored a blank façade. To my eyes, the unconcealed enjoyment, generosity, and pride in their work on the faces of the corps were thoroughly in his spirit. The two principal "Emeralds" couples (Hannah O'Neill with Mathieu Ganio, Eleonora Abbagnato with Stéphane Bullion) and the airborne trio (Valentine Colasante, Sae Eun Park, and Jéremie-Loup Quer) projected those same qualities on an appropriately grander scale, with more distinctly personal inflections.

Alice Renavand redefines her role in Rubies.

"Rubies" demands a sharper attack and received it. The petite Léonore Baulac took charge from the get-go with sky-high kicks front and back that struck like lightning bolts. Paul Marque, a whiz-bang on the rise, sparkled as her partner and in his jazzy solo riffs. In the spiky second female lead, a part Balanchine typically assigned the iciest filly in his stable, the lissome Alice Renavand rose to every challenge with a summery grace.

And finally, "Diamonds," executed to the highest standards, with the same combined zest and luster lavished on the previous sections. According to critical lore, "Diamonds" was inspired by the tapestry series The Lady and the Unicorn, among the chief glories of the Musée de Cluny, that treasure house of medieval art on the Left Bank.

Maybe so, but to these eyes, "Diamonds" has long seemed the sublimation of all that is most bewitching about Swan Lake. Marius Petipa's spellbound maidens, the national dances performed at court, and above all the tragic love of Prince Siegfried and the elusive Odette—by way of allusion, it's all there. In roles created on Suzanne Farrell and Jacques d'Amboise, Amandine Albisson and Hugo Marchand captured the resonance. True to the Balanchine credo, they did not overlay their great pas de deux in the Andante elegiac movement with "acting." Yet a moment came, dictated by a mysterious cadence in the music, when in a heartbeat Albisson's spirit withdrew and Marchand's inner world dissolved with subliminal yet shattering force.

No acting, please. Amandine Albisson and Hugo Marchand tell their story in the Diamonds pas de deux.

Of course, such a journey could not end at such a place. The prancing scherzo remained, and the polonaise, with the full cast, cascading like Niagara.

---

[1] The most recent owner I can track down was Elizabeth Taylor, for whom Richard Burton picked up La Pérégrina at Sotheby's at the fire-sale price of $37,000. At her estate sale in 2011, mounted on a diamond necklace by Cartier, it fetched a cool $11 million.