My friend Serge was asked to create a new production for the Macedonian National Theatre Ballet Company – another one of those big cast story ballets. He asked me to assist. Tito was dead, Macedonia was still part of Yugoslavia and I was about to discover what working under a communist system was like. It was a challenge – especially for someone accustomed to the logic of North American society.
When we arrived, we were taken to a hotel situated in the mountains surrounding Macedonia’s capital city, Skopje. The building was practically deserted – except for the many sour looking maids in their sac dresses and opened toed platform sneakers that they wore with socks. Considering that there was no public transit worth speaking of and the fact that we were miles from the theatre, we couldn’t stay there. We moved to another hotel in the downtown core. It was a sad little building that had seen better days and was across the street from the dilapidated train station that stood as a monument to an earthquake that had leveled the city a few decades before. My room was a dim narrow space filled with shabby mismatched and broken furniture – it looked more like a second-hand shop than a hotel room. Hardly welcoming but I had stayed in worse. Every morning we would go downstairs for breakfast. The breakfast room was usually empty – with the exception of a couple of scowling waiters who sat at one of the back tables and smoked. Every morning there was a stand-off. The waiters would stare at us and wait – hoping that we would eventually get up and go away. Eventually, one would push himself up from the table and slouch over to us to take our order.
My first impression of Macedonia? Scowling people, broken furniture, dilapidated buildings. Wow – this was gonna be fun.
One of the first things that I was told when I arrived in Skopje was to “watch out for Albanian men because they rape and murder women”. I thought about this for a moment and then finally said “I thought Albania was a closed border country since about 1945”. “It is,” I was told. “So how did they get out?” I asked. I was met with a confused look. Then it dawned on me. “How long have these Albanians been living here?” “Since before the war” “So doesn’t that technically make them Yugoslavians?” This time I was given a look of horror. As a child of the North American melting pot it would take a long time before I would begin to understand (not condone) the intricacies of ethnic hatred.
When we first arrived at the theatre to work with the ballet company, we were taken to the main studio to watch their morning class. This is a pretty common practice. You watch the dancers going through their daily routines and from there you can start to make your casting choices. Normally when you go to watch a professional ballet company class, you begin to see the similarities of that particular group. Every company has a signature look that is developed either consciously or not – how they hold their arms, how they take off for jumps, similarities of muscle development, etc. The class at the Macedonian National Theatre was comprised of people of varying sizes and degrees of fitness – thin with defined muscles to chubby and paunchy. Most surprising was that their ages seemed to range from about 18 years old to mid forties. Naïve idiot that I was, I was delighted. “Oh wow, this is great; the retired dancers take class too.” For a person who loves dance as much as I do, I am always happy to see people who still embrace the art form even when their active careers are over. Someone leaned over to me, “Debbie, this is the company.”
My puzzlement continued for days, especially after we attended a performance the next night. The company was dancing one of those heavy Russian staples of which I have forgotten the name. Two dancers still to this day stand out in my mind. Dragi and Dragi. Both were about six feet tall with pronounced beer bellies. They both shuffled onto the stage to take their places. Standing on the sides they both slouched in casual stance while one Dragi was absent-mindedly scratched himself throughout the show. Definitely not what I was accustomed to seeing on the stage. Welcome to dance under the Yugoslavian system. As I looked at the company, I realized that it was not all bad. Some dancers had real talent and the majority was fair. The trick was going to be to highlight the talented, use the majority and hide the dismal.
The next surprise came with casting. The principal roles were easy enough to decide but when we began to work our way down the rest of the casting, we came up against the communist system. Plus some unspoken rule that principal dancers only do principal roles, soloists only do soloist roles and so on. Our problems began when we made the mistake of casting three of the youngest dancers into featured roles – featured roles in crowd scenes. Apparently they had just graduated from the ballet school and therefore weren’t high up enough in the company hierarchy to warrant such attention. It took a couple of days of ongoing negotiations with management but we finally reached what we considered was the best possible cast for the ballet. Another surprise. We were informed that the casting was to be sent to the dance committee (which is comprised of dancers) for final approval. The dance committee had a couple of its own ideas on how we should cast the ballet and sent back a final casting that wasn’t a hundred percent of what we had chosen but by this point, Serge and I figured that as long as we had the first cast principals and soloists that we asked for – we’d be OK.
Rehearsals were held every morning. After a three to four hour lunch break, they resumed in the evening. After the first week, one of the rehearsal masters mentioned that I should be honored that the cast showed up for the evening sessions. I was confused. In North America as a dancer, you do what direction tells you. What you want is not a subject for discussion. It was explained to me that when most of the company went home for their break after the morning session – they simply didn’t come back no matter what rehearsals are scheduled. Wow – interesting system they had there. Apparently – firing someone for breaking the rules was a long and drawn out process – and pretty much impossible. The direction rather than fight the trend, simply took to scheduling the soloists for the evening sessions rather than larger group dances. Obviously no one had told me because I was scheduling groups as I had needed them – regardless of the time factor.
Second impression of Macedonia? Scowling people, broken furniture, dilapidated buildings, racist views, fat lazy dancers and bureaucratic red tape. Wow – the fun just wasn’t gonna stop!