Points of view. (Kickoff).

RECENTLY, I ATTENDED FIVE PERFORMANCES OF TWO DIFFERENT BALLETS WITHIN A FEW DAYS AND WAS INTRIGUED BY THE CHOREOGRAPHERS' USE OF AN OFTEN-OVERLOOKED INGREDIENT IN THEATER DANCE: point of view. This effect allows us to see the action onstage from the perspective of one of the characters, but it is very difficult to establish through the wordless movement of dance. Still, point of view can add a powerful dimension to stage narrative. That is certainly what happened during those five performances.

John Cranko's Onegin was being performed during American Ballet Theatre's spring season in New York. Peter Martins's Valse Triste, set to Sibelius, was performed in Raleigh, North Carolina, during the spring season of Carolina Ballet.

In Onegin (1965) Cranko draws on the Russian poet Aleksandr Pushkin's 1823-1831 novel in verse, Eugene Onegin, and Tchaikovsky music other than the score Tchaikovsky wrote for his opera with the same title. Cranko combines and condenses theatrical action, creating dances that tell us what a character may be thinking or feeling. His work also has an elusive ingredient that I call content: movement that has meaning, that carries the weight of being about something; that sense of developing action that keeps us in anticipation of the next step or the next revelation of character.

In Onegin, Cranko explores the themes of honor and friendship by establishing several points of view. We do not just watch a story; we see it from the inside as it unfolds. Cranko's brooding antihero, Eugene Onegin, is a man ultimately without honor; the phrase, in translation, "If I am without honor, honor does not exist" is emblazoned in French on the front curtain. Onegin kills his close friend, Lensky, in a hot-headed duel, and betrayal of friendship is in the lowest ranks of human behavior.

An example of Cranko's use of point of view: Tatiana, a young woman in love with Onegin, writes a passionate letter to him which, in a fit of cruelty, Onegin tears up in front of her. Just prior to this famous scene, in a dream sequence created by Cranko, Tatiana imagines Onegin coming into her bedroom. We see him through Tatiana's eyes, reciprocating her love. We are shown the development of Tatiana's perspective through her wishful thinking, and the resulting dream pas de deux is one of the most eloquent moments in twentieth-century choreography. If Cranko had not controlled our point of view, we might have had just another pas de deux; instead, we experience the emotion--while knowing the tragic outcome that lies ahead--from Tatiana's perspective.

Martins's ballet uses point of view to reveal a mystery: Through whose point of view are we encountering these two dancers? Is she dreaming of him or is he perhaps dreaming of her? He lifts her from behind, but her gaze is fixed. She touches him, but he turns and does not connect. A delicate tissue of separation divides them, yet they are passionately involved. It's the sort of ambiguous dance you might want to see repeatedly with different dancers.

Theater and dance at their most potent can draw us inward, reveal aspects of characters who are projections of our own selves. It's no wonder that the desire for self-knowledge draws us back again and again.

Richard Philp has written a column called Kickoff for fourteen years. He has been an editor with Dance Magazine since 1970, was editor in chief for many years, and is known for his strong support of the arts.