Robbins.

In 1987 I talked with ten prominent choreographers, asking them which dance works they would like to see in revival. Frederick Ashton told me he would like to see Fokine's Thamar again, Antony Tudor asked for Clustine s Fairy Doll for Pavlova, Agnes de Mille wanted her own The Four Marys, and Merce Cunningham didn't believe in revivals. Alvin Ailey enthused over Doris Humphrey's With My Red Fires, Glen Tetley cited Vigano's Prometheus, Paul Taylor suggested Nijinsky's Till Eulenspiegel, Alwin Nikolais chose Wigman's Dance for the Earth from Sacrifice, and Robert Joffrey selected Nijinsky's original Rite of Spring. Jerome Robbins told me he wanted to see a revival of Julius Reisinger's 1877 Bolshoi Swan Lake, as well as Nijinsky's original Rite of Spring, and "any of the ballets by Balanchine that we've lost"

Today, eleven years later, their responses make a fascinating historical footnote for a couple of reasons. One, the choice of works these choreographers were interested in at that time. And, two--noting that Balanchine died in 1983 and Graham (unavailable for inclusion in these interviews) died in 1991--the thought-provoking transition that this list now represents. Cunningham, Taylor, and Tetley are still very much with us. The others are not. Robbins died in July. (See pages 54-56.)

Robbins was a dominant force in our field. He moved with great facility between Broadway and ballet, the first of these being the source of his considerable fortune (which he has shared with us in the form of the Jerome Robbins Foundation, which includes the largest dance film archive in the world). Ballet, which he preferred, satisfied his intense, personal vision of the world of art. He was a perfectionist onstage, but this proved to be a two-edged sword that forced him to demand the absolutely highest standards of himself and others, and sometimes incapacitated him with fear, deep fear of criticism and failure.

I think Robbins wanted to please people. But it is no secret that he, well, could be peculiar about things--bristly. In private conversation, de Mille, his contemporary in professional terms, did not have anything good to say about him personally, but she admired his choreography extravagantly although they were rivals on the same stages. Robbins had a greater choreographic dexterity and dimension of human experience in his work than de Mille had in hers--and she certainly knew it. De Mille's Americana was a far cry from Robbins's grittier, more contemporary view, often rich with humor and wit. Robbins cast a very long shadow of influence in many areas of theater.

Although many dancers who knew Robbins professionally do not remember him kindly, he could be very stimulating to work with if you believed in his intense approach to choreography that demanded a dancer think, feel, and understand the role. Among many well-known stories about him is the Broadway show rehearsal during which, while ranting at his dancers, he walked backwards and fell off the stage into the orchestra pit. Nobody present spoke up to warn him: murderous silence. Robbins was criticized sharply because he cooperated with the now-discredited House Committee on Un-American Activities in 1953. As a frightened young man threatened with exposure, he named names of friends and fellow artists--while others risked their careers, blacklisting, and jail for refusing to sing. I suspect Robbins regretted that decision, and he probably paid for it in many ways the rest of his life. But I also think we'll never know what really motivated him to do many of the things he did--including the prolific creation of some of the finest dance works of our time. As far as I know, he did not write an autobiography.

If de Mille can be credited with integrating choreography into the Broadway show, then Robbins must be credited with taking that evolution further by incorporating the choreographer into the Broadway show. He was among the first great Broadway choreographer-directors who gave their final staged products a feeling of wholeness and integration. His West Side Story (1957) and Fiddler on the Roof(1964) come to mind. But there was also a range in Robbins's work that is unmatched anywhere else. His fast-paced, Mack Sennett-style, Keystone Kops chase ballet for High Button Shoes (1947) is a breathtaking choreographic tour de force of spectacular invention and split-second timing. By contrast, his 1972 ballet Watermill for New York City Ballet is an hour-long, ritualistic, mesmerizing ("diabolically slow," Lincoln Kirstein sniffed) meditation on the cycles of life.

I remember when I visited Robbins for the 1987 interview about revivals. He was known for reconsidering what he had said and then accusing the reporter of inaccuracy. After an interview, he sometimes insisted on seeing the transcript, which he might rewrite or scrap entirely. The moon, the weather, his dinner--who knows what contributed to those difficult situations. But after we got settled, I took out my tape recorder and placed it on his desk and said very carefully, "I hope you don't mind if I tape this interview, Mr. Robbins." He gave me a flinty look and said, "No, but . . ." and then took out his own tape recorder and put it on the desk next to mine. "I hope you don't mind if I tape you."

"Ah," I said, trying to make light of this situation, "and so I will have a tape of your tape of my taping you taping me." "Exactly" he replied, unsmiling.

Exactly.