Judge Not a Culture by Its Footwear

It has been a glorious year for Los Angeles. The Lakers won back-to-back world championships and the Dodgers won the playoffs and then the World Series with fairy-tale improbability.

But Los Angeles is not a cultural wasteland distinguished only by its athletic teams. We have also achieved world-class status in the performing arts, as exemplified this week by the Joffrey Ballet’s “Nutcracker” at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion of the Music Center.

My wife and I attended the premiere of this timeless holiday favorite last week, and were guests at a black-tie reception before the curtain and a dinner afterward. I am always reassured by Los Angeles people who show up for such affairs in evening dress and engage in civilized conversation.

I was not even perturbed by the appearance of Gordon Davidson in white tennis shoes (as reported in The Times by Betty Goodwin). Mr. Davidson is artistic director of the Mark Taper Forum, a sometimes theatrically experimental house, and if he wished to initiate a trend toward informal footwear with black-tie attire, who was I to criticize? My dress shoes are tight, and I’d like to have worn tennis shoes myself.

I was rather let down to read further on that Mr. Davidson had a perfectly reasonable excuse. (He had forgotten to bring his dress shoes to work.)

It was a glittering crowd. Among the guests I saw two of our most distinguished citizens, Tom Bradley and Peter O’Malley, resplendent in tuxedos.

I thought the ballet was a delight. It always is. Like everyone else, I have probably seen “The Nutcracker” more times than any other ballet; and no matter how they change it, it is always shaped and contained by Tchaikovsky’s enchanting music.

It is the ultimate Christmas gift. This Joffrey version is placed in a mid-19th-Century American setting, like a Currier & Ives print. The battle between the toy soldiers and the mice is far removed from the winds of war. It is about as non as violence can be.

Martin Bernheimer has already used up all the appropriate nouns: “intimacy, speed, exuberance, naivete, enthusiasm, show-biz pizazz, historic sentiment and . . . an abiding spirit of affectionate dedication.”

I can only add a few, of lower caliber, that he missed: verve, vivacity, humor, sauce, impudence, vitality and an unrelenting sense of play.

I was especially impressed by the fantastic dancing of the Snow Prince (Or was it Fritz? Or the Nutcracker Prince? As many times as I’ve seen “The Nutcracker,” I’m never sure who is doing what). His leaps and pirouettes were the apotheosis of pure athleticism. I have often said that no ballet dancer could match the speed, leaping ability and coordination of a Pro Bowl wide receiver. Caveman thinking.

My wife said at intermission: “You have to admit it’s prettier than football.” Prettier, maybe, but no more beautiful.

By a happy chance, we saw “The Nutcracker” only a few days after seeing our granddaughter’s dance recital. I like to encourage children, but I don’t believe in overpraising them. They should respect the superior work of professionals, or what would they have to look up to? I told her later, “Your class is not quite as good as the Joffrey--yet--but of course that’s because of their years of practice, discipline and dedication.” I thought it was rather a neat lesson for her.

“I don’t do ballet,” she said.

She had me there. What her group had done at the recital was closer to rock than to classical ballet. Oh, well. The point was still valid.

It was a brilliant evening. When we walked out onto the plaza afterward I was pleased to see that the Department of Water and Power across the street had left its fountains on. Though they are usually on before the curtain, they are often off when the concert ends, thus denying us concertgoers one final exhilarating burst of Southern California beauty.

The new fountain around the Lipchitz sculpture was also in flower. Its slender plumes of crystal white water raised a shimmering wall about the lower bulges of that dispiriting work, veiling half its mischief.

A man and a small boy, holding hands, stood silhouetted against the sparkling wall of water, looking up. It was as poignant a scene as any in the ballet.