Dance of the Sugar-Plum Quarterbacks

My 11-year-old granddaughter Alison made her dancing debut the other night at a recital of the Santa Monica Dance Center in Lincoln Junior High School Auditorium.

In our society it is mandatory that all members of the extended family attend such events in support of the blooming artist. Thus, a year or so ago, we attended the same granddaughter’s first piano recital.

As enchanting as these events may be, they tend to be overlong, since many pupils are being thrust into the public eye at the same time, and there is an occasional moment of tedium. But one must not falter.

My daughter-in-law Gail cooked dinner for us before the recital. There were nine of us in all, including Alison’s parents and her two younger brothers, a grandfather, two grandmothers, and a step-grandfather. I fortified myself for the evening with two glasses of wine.

The auditorium was packed. We had to park three blocks away. The recital began almost exactly on time. There was no preliminary talk. None of the dances was even introduced. They just began, one after another, and lasted for two hours. The music was provided by a tape.

The first number was pure classic ballet. Sixteen girls of various ages and sizes appeared on stage in pastel Isadora Duncan drapes. They performed all the classic exercises of the art--the leaps, the pirouettes, the glissades, the entrechats. Considering that ballet requires years of disciplined study and practice, they did quite well. If a few were rather unsteady in their arabesques, if the entrechats sometimes ended on flat feet, if a danseuse now and then bumped into another danseuse, one did not count it against the general achievement of grace and elan.

Succeeding ensembles wore a variety of costumes and performed a variety of dances from classic to jazz, tap and rock. Finally, my granddaughter appeared in her first number. Her group wore black leotards and tights, leg warmers and chain belts. A very sophisticated number. They danced to a song that was later identified to me as “Rock It to You.” I do not want to single her out from the group, which was uniformly excellent, but I was pleased to notice that my granddaughter danced with grace, skill and aplomb.

There were two boys--both of them very small. They played the role of clowns or mischief makers. I noticed that in most of the numbers there were one or two very tall girls and one or two very small ones. This casting, it seemed to me, must have been deliberate. It made for some charming effects.

Meanwhile, a distracting phenomenon was taking place in the auditorium. As each group finished its number, its members left the backstage area to appear in the auditorium itself. Since all the seats were taken, they infiltrated the aisles, creeping about in the dark like elves and changing positions constantly.

Meanwhile, their parents were standing up in the auditorium or coming out into the aisles to make flash pictures of the dances, presumably when their children were on stage. A mother knelt in the aisle just behind my aisle chair and took a flash picture just to the left of my left ear.

It made for a warm feeling of community.

In my granddaughter’s final number the group wore tall yellow petals on their heads and their foam-rubber skirts resembled pots. I assumed that they were supposed to be potted daisies. They seemed benign. I learned later, however, that they were man-eating plants, an idea inspired by the movie “Little Shop of Horrors.” I have always had trouble divining the meaning of a ballet from the music and the dance itself. In this instance the bizarre costuming was more engaging than the dance. But, once again, my granddaughter’s performance was blameless.

I am a little worried that there were so few boys in the school. Hasn’t the women’s movement had the reverse effect of attracting boys into activities once thought suitable only for girls?

Our nation’s high schools are training and spotlighting the boys who will someday be taking the places of Dan Marino and Joe Montana. Fresh talent is always coming up to fill the ranks of the major football, baseball, basketball and hockey leagues.

But where’s our next Baryshnikov coming from?

It takes two to pas de deux.