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| When Russian impresario Sergei Diaghilev first presented his Russian ballet and opera troupe in Paris in 1910 it was as though a thunderbolt had struck the European art world. At a time when the performing arts in Europe was stuck in a stagnant trough of moribund mediocrity, a spontaneous combustion had exploded in remote St. Petersburg, where the classically trained dancers of the Mariinsky Theater, ignited by the revolutionary didacticism of Isadora Duncan, had erupted in an atonal, countermeasured reaction to the conventions of classical ballet. Sweeping into France like a Winged Victory, Diaghilev brought in his wake the innovative choreographic concepts of Michel Fokine; the set and costume design of Léon Bakst; the incomparable ballerinas Pavlova and Karsavina who inflamed the imagination of Europe and married royalty; and the centerpiece of the troupe, Vaslav Nijinski, a leaping, slithering faun whose sex act with a wood nymph’s scarf scandalized society and nearly provoked the collapse of the French government. This is what the critic from The London Daily Mail had to say about Les Ballets Russes production of “Le Pavillion d’ Armide,” presented in London in 1911: “One of the most enchanting creations ever seen on any stage.” Le Figaro described Bakst’s set and costume design for “Le Dieu Bleu” as “the zenith of decorative art.” No less an authority than Frances greatest living artist, the sculptor Auguste Rodin, wrote in Le Matin, “I would wish that…The Théâtre du Châtelet would arrange other [performances] to which all our artists might come for inspiration and to communicate in beauty.” The European public is a fickle beauty like Thamar, the man- eating Queen of the Caucuses in the ballet of the same name, reclining on her divan waiting for the next unwary traveler to seduce and ultimately destroy. Only instead of luring victims by waving a scarf out of the window of her redoubt, as in the ballet, Europa lures them by waving euros and notes of pound sterling. The latest victim of this deathly embrace would seem to be America’s National Football League, seduced by the lure of big euros into leaving the safety of its home country, where its market is saturated to the point of bursting. They have taken over London’s Wembley Stadium to present a regular season game between the New York Giants and the Miami Dolphins, cities craftily chosen by the league because of the large place they occupy in the imagination of Europeans. The official line is that all 80,000 tickets to the game have sold out, though that stretches the credulence of this observer, who feels that a lot of complimentary tickets must have been distributed to expatriate money managers working in the City of London to distribute to their employees. Nevertheless, the international audience is going to be treated to a purely American exhibition of irrational exuberance. Both teams are set to put on a show complete with cheerleaders and truckloads of beer. What the European reaction will be to the arcane rules that have evolved with the American game is anybody’s guess, but I definitely feel that when the London sportswriters and theater critics pronounce their final verdict, the judgment will not be favorable to the Americans, particularly in light of the fact that their exhibition follows so closely on the heels of the Rugby World Cup, which just ended last week in Paris. The American game displays some glaring deficiencies when compared to rugby, notably that there is a delay between each play. Also, Europeans are not going to be friendly to the concept of defensive blocking, which prevents players of the opposing from enjoying a clear shot at the ball handler. The reason this article begins with a reference to ballet is that shielded behind a wall of burly defenders, a sort of choreographed ballet takes place involving the offensive quarterback and his running backs that has evolved to a complexity that would astound even Georges Balanchine, what with the running patterns designed to confuse the opposition and pirouetting steps of the quarterback that would not be out of place in a royal command performance of “Petrushka.” It’s as though Nureyev were performing with a chorus of grunting sumo westlers in the execution scene of “Schéhérezade”, where the emperor’s janissaries kill all the women in his harem for consorting with the African slaves while Nijinski slithers across the stage on his belly like a water moccasin. You even got dancing girls in the form of cheerleaders. All that remains to be added would be a tenor like Chaliapine to sing the death scene from “Ivan the Terrible.” The most seductive aspect of the NFL game from the standpoint of European spectator is sure to be that most optimistic of American innovations, the forward pass, which is unknown in rugby. This provides the clearest insight into the psychological distinctions between the Europeans, who are only permitted underhanded lateral passes, and the Americans, whose quarterback, after weaving and evading opposition tacklers with a dance that evokes Harlequin danced by Nijinsky in Folkine’s “Carnaval”, sets himself up behind a fortress of defenders and, posing like the Statue of Liberty, lets loose a rocket through the sky to the waiting hands to one of his agents, who is then permitted to gallop like a Palovtsian dancer, defenders trailing behind him to knock off potential tacklers, as he romps to victory in the end zone. It’s the American Dream writ small, a come-from-behind Hail Mary pass on a wing and a prayer designed to snatch victory form the steel jaws of defeat. Not to beat an analogy to death, but it’s the “Firebird” set loose from the hands of the hunter and returned to save him from the grisly clutches of the ogres. This one redeeming feature of the American game will certainly release a hormone of exhilaration in first-time spectators, but is it enough to enable the game to catch on in Europe? Not likely. They are likely to view it as a diluted version of their old game, which they proudly vaunt as being played without safety equipment. Then there is the question of cultural rivalry. For British (and, even less likely, European) spectators there is no emotional attachment to watching two foreign teams. They don’t have a dog in this fight. Even if the NFL were to establish a London franchise, it would still be Americans playing against other Americans. At least with basketball, (and, in certain European countries, baseball), there are a lot of native players to stimulate nationalist sentiment. Unlike cricket, soccer and rugby American football is a parochial phenomenon limited to only one country, so international tournaments are out of the question. Regardless of the critical reaction, and being a casual reader of British press publications I believe they will go after American football like pit- bulls just for the sensationalism, this writer’s guess is that British interest will sink like the Spanish Armada. But hey, I could be wrong. I’ve spent my whole life being wrong (anybody care to buy some Eurotunnel shares?). The average Briton is so closely wed to the American way of life that it’s practically a 51st state already, except that they drive on the wrong side of the street and their version of English sounds like an old Errol Flynn pirate movie. They might go bonkers for American football! And then the NFL – players, managers, team executives and league officials alike – will dance to the bank like the Dance of the Earth scene from “Le Sacre du Printemps”, drunken revelers being showered with pound notes and euros while the cheerleaders sing the Hallelujah Chorus. Right on! |
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