Attitudes.

TO APPLAUD or not to applaud, that is the question. Or, more complicatedly, how much or how little should one applaud? And if you can applaud, how about the why, when, and wherefore of cheering? And if cheering is OK, how about booing? And if you can throw bouquets at a ballerina--perhaps you read the inhuman interest story recently in The New York Times about the wild and crazy guy who travels the world slinging bouquets at ballerinas and operatic divas who have taken his fancy--how about dead cats? Apparently this latter projectile was quite a tradition in the nineteenth-century Imperial Russian Ballet, although, I am glad to say, not one I have noticed more recently.

Audience participation is a very important aspect of the performing arts. It is the final act of a cycle that starts with the purchase of a ticket, continues with a performance in accordance with the contract that the ticket represents, and ends with this gesture of appreciation from the ticket-buyer indicating that the contract has been faithfully executed. Yet if the audience member feels that the performance has not been up to snuff, perhaps on occasion it is appropriate for applause to be either Hinted or totally withheld.

FORGETTING the dead cats or even rotten tomatoes, let's start this overview of audience participation with the floral tributes. Playwright George Bernard Shaw, in his sometime capacity as a music critic, observed that he would believe better in the sincerity of flowers bestowed at the end of performances if he occasionally saw disappointed audience members leaving the theater with bouquets drooping and unthrown. After all, even to bring flowers--or to send them--does represent a certain predisposition for pleasure that sets one apart--whether as relative, lover, or never-say-never fan from the regular, paying, show-me audience. Then there are all those indiscriminate look-alike bouquets often given to dancers at the end of performances. Are these gifts from a hopeful and grateful choreographer, or are they better explained by the small-print message sometimes seen on playbills noting that "Flowers have been provided by Mr. or Mrs. X." And, surely you've wondered this: Are they later recycled?

Applause itself is a far more subtle thing, even at its coarsest demonstration. Yet, don't you often get the impression, especially in classical ballet, that the applauder is secretly applauding himself? By applauding, say, Mr. Serge Pantz, for some supposed technical feat, he is not only saying "Bravo Pantz!" he is also saying "Bravo Me!" for spotting that moment of supreme expertise. I have noticed, however, that unfortunately this audible mix of knowledge, appreciation, and gratitude frequently occurs when our self-appointed aficionado is actually punctuating a moment of total ordinariness, if not downright mediocrity.

Another unhappy aspect of applause--or shouts of bravo, brava, or bravi, not to mention those rock-concert-style whoops of pleased amazement--is the way in which it breaks into the mood of the dance. American Ballet Theatre has just produced Michel Fokine's Le Spectre de la Rose for its New York fall season. I haven't seen it yet, but I will bet any money that a whole idiot burst of yahoo applause will meet the Spectre's final exit through the window--effectively destroying the ballet's crucial moment when the Young Girl awakens from her reverie. Shame, shame on the ignorant noisemakers! There was once a now long-abandoned tradition among British ballet audiences that Les Sylphides should be performed with no applause until the final curtain, and any attempt to applaud its individual solos would be loudly (and often disturbingly) shushed.

WERE WE to pass a moral moratorium on applause during a performance such as exists in the music concert hall, even here issues of proper behavior can arise. Let's go back to booing. This is an extraordinarily public gesture, almost like throwing a eat, although admittedly less extreme. A solitary booer, however, even in the midst of general enthusiasm, creates an effect that goes beyond its solitary presence. It flavors the entire reception far more pointedly than would a single cheerer. It is like a single drop of black ink in a glass of water that disproportionately colors the entire mix. It is also unpleasant for the performers (no one, I suspect, actually tries to give a performance that our booer in his wisdom deems bad to the point of insult) and unsettling for the rest of the audience.

I suppose the whole issue of applause comes down to a question of manners. And, as in most questions involving manners, moderation is the golden rule, although enthusiasm should never be checked or honest gratitude ever withheld. That said, I do think that applause should be linked to judgment. Remember, not every performance is worthy of a furor. Or, for that matter, a dead cat!

Senior Consulting Editor Clive Barnes also covers dance and theater for the New York Post.