On a Tuesday afternoon in July, I made my American Ballet Theater debut in “Swan Lake” at the Metropolitan Opera House.
That line would have thrilled me when I was a starry-eyed ballet student. But could I have guessed that it would describe a 42-year-old arthritic man, who wore not pointe shoes but character heels?
That unreal night I appeared as a supernumerary, as a ballet extra is called. Being on stage, albeit out of the spotlight, brought back sensations that were once familiar: the particular dry-mouth sensation that comes from nerves and heavy lipstick, the musky sweat and velvet of the costumes. But nothing can prepare you for your first glimpse of the Met's audience: anonymous and astonishingly vast.
Some of Ballet Theatre's long-standing ballets feature dozens of survivors, as they are called, to complete the stage picture. It's not usually a glamorous job. Supers' work hours are often long and late; His salary is insignificant. As background characters in warhorse ballets like “Sleeping Beauty” (120 supers) and “Romeo and Juliet” (59 supers), they get little glory. They often depict villagers or city dwellers, even corpses.
But they also get front row seats to watch the action on stage. At the royal ball in Act III of “Swan Lake,” where the hero, Prince Siegfried, is seduced by the deceitful Black Swan, Odile, six supernumeraries play noble guests. I was on stage for most of the act, waving a feather fan and subtly reacting to the narration. During the famous Black Swan pas de deux, I stood just a few feet from stars Chloe Misseldine and Daniel Camargo, close enough to feel the sweat pouring from Camargo's forehead as she pirouetted. (Disgusting, but exciting!)
My stage partner for the evening was Ulrich Suss, who goes by the name Iggy and has been playing great roles at Ballet Theater for 36 years. (He asked me to tell him his age was “50 years old”). As superintendent, “I may not be doing anything important,” he said. “But seeing those glorious dancers up close, combined with the beautiful music, is magical. I will never get tired of it.”
Supers are more than a living landscape. Ballet can seem like a place where everyone is roughly the same (young) age and the same (agile) shape. Supers, who may or may not have dance experience, are usually much older or younger than the company members. They make the stage world more like the real world, adding richness and fullness.
Nancy Raffa, a former Ballet Theater dancer and now the company's repertory director, has supervised supers for two decades. “Supers are a vital part of making the production feel active and luxurious, yes,” he said in a video interview. “But they also make it more meaningful, more real.”
The Metropolitan Opera uses hundreds of background actors throughout its nearly 40-week season, paying $30 an hour for rehearsals and a minimum of $92 for each performance. Performers may include television or theater actors who are unfamiliar with opera but need extra money.
By contrast, the Met Ballet Theatre's summer season lasts just five weeks. And supers are technically volunteers. The company offers a fee, approximately $25 per call, whether it is a rehearsal or a performance. Those few attractions mean that the super pool is full of ballet students, former dancers and amateurs: people who In fact I love ballet.
The wide age spectrum encompasses a fascinating cast of characters. At one end are the children, most of whom are serious ballet students, who aspire to one day dance the choreography performed center stage.
Sometimes, young superstars' career dreams come true. José Sebastián, now 38 and a soloist with the Ballet Theater, was a superintendent on several productions when he was a child. “I was totally amazed by all the stars,” he said. “Being on stage with them really fueled this growing love I had for ballet.” More than 20 years ago, he played one of the trumpeters in “Swan Lake,” performing a fanfare for the evil sorcerer Von Rothbart. Today Von Rothbart dances.
On the other end of the spectrum are super veterans like Suss, who have played these roles for decades. Most seasons, Ballet Theater holds open auditions for adult roles; Repertory directors and stage directors evaluate applicants based on their musicality and, crucially, whether they will fit in with existing costumes. “We simply can't make costumes for 50 supers plus 80 dancers,” said Danielle Ventimiglia, Ballet Theatre's production director.
But loyalists who return season after season, who have proven their reliability and whose measurements are on file, sometimes receive invitations from the production team. Suss, a trained dancer, is part of that select group. She also performs in clubs under the stage name Iggy Berlin, and occasionally rushes home after a show at the Met to change for a late-night performance.
With his distinctive theatrical style, Suss is often entrusted with more complicated super roles, such as the beggar in Kenneth MacMillan's “Romeo and Juliet” who, memorably, turns out to be a con man.
The super experienced, he said, often know more about the history of a production than the company members. And from their positions on the sidelines, they watch generations of dancers come and go. “I watched Julie Kent move up in the company,” Suss said of the former Ballet Theater director, “and suddenly there I was, giving her flowers at her farewell.”
Certain supermen have become indelibly associated with particular roles. When I arrived backstage to begin my super journey on “Swan Lake” (as a reporter, I had been spared the audition process), I met three of them.
Janna Jensen and Theresa Khawly would be invited to the royal ball. Both former dancers created these super roles in the production when it premiered in 2000 and have played them ever since.
“The costumes were made for us,” said Jensen, whose dancing was approvingly reviewed in this newspaper in 1980. “That's unheard of for a super. What a luxury!”
Elaine Brownstein, the third of the group, was not performing that night: I took her place. (Despite his assurances that everything was fine, I couldn't help but feel guilty.) She also trained in dance and is both superintendent and longtime patron of Ballet Theatre, as is Khawly, a former administrator.
Getting ready for the show alongside these women was like being initiated into a strange, beautiful little club. Brownstein handed me a giant purple cocktail ring, the sibling of the rings Jensen and Khawly were already wearing. Khawly had given the trinkets to the cast on the production's opening night. Over 26 years, they had become talismans carried at every performance. (Outer jewelry is usually a no-no for supers, but in this case the wardrobe department turned a blind eye.)
While I was trying on the costume, Brownstein hovered, adjusting and evaluating. After all, the sumptuous burgundy and gold dress was an old friend of hers. She warned me about a broken ruffle in her petticoat that had tormented her the night before.
We walked through the labyrinthine hallways of the Met to the hair and makeup room, where the company's professionals styled, crowned, and colored me with astonishing alacrity. And then, just an hour after my arrival, it was time to go on stage.
Most new supers have a studio rehearsal and a technical stage rehearsal to master their roles. Because my part was relatively simple, and because I would be arm in arm with the trusty Suss for the duration, my only practice came during the last five minutes of the intermission before Act III.
Suss walked me through our route. When the curtain rose, we walked around the stage along with the rest of the royal assembly. After a brief exit, we climbed a short flight of stairs hidden by the wings and emerged onto a small platform from where we watched the rest of the process. Brownstein showed me the best way to gather up my skirts as I walked up the stairs. “You don't want to trip over the stage,” he said. (New fear unlocked).
I tried to remember the advice that Raffa, the repertory director, had given me about my character during our interview a few days before. “You are an aristocrat,” he had told me. “You are sophisticated.” She had said the costume would help, and she was right: yards of brocade naturally slow your movements to a polite pace.
Things started happening quickly. A stage manager called places. Iggy took me to our starting position, facing the back of the stage. The lights went out. I couldn't see the curtains open, but I could feel the change in air pressure as they did.
And then we set off, the stage swirling with the skirts of the dancegoers. When we made our first outing, I realized I had been holding my breath. We climbed the stairs (I said a silent prayer of thanks when I reached the top) and reached our perch.
Unbeknownst to the audience, a surprising amount of conversation occurs on the ballet stage. As we watched the event unfold, Suss occasionally quietly gave me guidance on how to react to what was happening. (When Von Rothbart impertinently kissed the Queen's hand: “Can he do that? Be shocked, very shocked!”) The principal dancers of the Polish mazurka entertainment, stationed next to us, were exchanging muttered jokes about how, of all the princesses at the ball, their Polish princess was the one. better princess.
Soon the important moment arrived: the Black Swan pas de deux. The intensity of Misseldine and Camargo, legible from the highest balcony, was overwhelming at such a short distance. You could barely look at them directly. I had to remind myself that royal courtiers don't applaud.
The end came as suddenly as the beginning had been. Odile and Von Rothbart's evil trick was revealed with a flourish of pyrotechnics, and Suss and I, looking (I hope) suitably dismayed, spun offstage into the smoke.
Although the show wasn't over (somewhere, Misseldine was quickly putting on her Odette costume for Act IV), it was time to head back to the dressing room with the other supes. We were full of adrenaline, chatting about the highlights of the pas de deux.
When I returned the purple ring, I felt the spell of the night break. But for the rest of the supers, the enchantment would continue: they would return the next night, and the night after that, making the scene a little more magical.
