A firm believer in the classical ballet, in Russian ballet, if you will, Dolin, like his kinsmen in British ballet, gets about his business with, on the whole, a minimum of fuss. Socially, and I speak from a profound experience and a personal knowledge drawn from my own Russian roots, the Russians are unlike any other European people, having a large measure of the Asiatic disregard for the meaning and use of the clock, the watch, the sun-dial, or even the primitive hourglass. Slow movement and time without limit for reflection and conversation are vital to them, and unless they can pass a substantial portion of the day in discussions, they become ill at ease and unhappy. But, although deliberate enough in most things, they have a way of blazing out almost volcanically if annoyed or affronted or thwarted. In this latter respect only, the English-Irish Anton Dolin may be said to be Russian.
When Dolin’s dancing days are finished, there will always be a job for “Pat” as an actor—at times, to be sure, with a touch of ham, but always theatrically effective. He is one of the few dancers who could ever be at home on the speaking stage.
In the early founding days of the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo, I was very anxious that he join Massine as one of the leading figures of the company. Dolin shared my desire, and was eager to become a member, but there did not appear to be any room for him; and, moreover, with Lifar and Massine in the company, matters were difficult in the extreme, and plagued by the winds of complexity.
Dolin’s lovely mother, to whom he is devoted, lived with him in New York during the period of his residence here. Now that he is back in England, at the head of his own company, the London Festival Ballet, she is with him there. It was she, a shrewd pilot of his career, who begged me to take “Pat” under my wing. A gracious, generous lady, I am as fond of her as I am of “Pat.” When he was offered a leading dancing and choreographic post at the inception of Ballet Theatre, he sought my advice. I was instrumental in his joining the company; he helped me to take over the management of the company later on.
His “Russianness” that I have mentioned, releases itself in devastating flares and flashes of “temperament.” These outbursts express themselves very often in rapid-fire iteration of a single phrase: “I shan’t dance! I shan’t dance! I shan’t dance!” Yet I always know that, when the time comes for his appearance, “Pat” will be on hand. Neither illness nor accident prevents him from doing his job. There was an occasion on tour, in the far north and in the midst of an icy blizzard, when he insisted on dancing with a fever of one hundred three degrees. He may not have danced with perfection, but he danced.
Today, and in the past as well, there are and have been some who have not cared for his dancing. Certain sections of the press have the habit of developing a pronouncedly captious tone in dealing with Dolin the dancer. I would remind those persons of the perfectly amazing theatrical sense Dolin always exhibits. I would remind them that, in my opinion and in the opinion of others more finely attuned to the niceties of the classical dance, Dolin is one of the finest supporting partners it is possible for a ballerina to have. Markova is never shown to her best advantage with any other male dancer than Anton Dolin. My opinion, on which I make no concessions to any one, is that Dolin is one of the finest Albrechts in the world today. Without Dolin, Giselle remains but half a ballet.
As a re-creator, he has few peers and no superiors. I can think of no one better qualified to recreate a masterpiece of another era, with regard to the creator’s true intent and meaning, nor do I know of any choreographer who has a greater feeling, a finer sense, or a more humble respect for “period and tradition.”
As a dancer, there are still roles which require a minimum of dancing and a maximum of acting. These roles are preeminently Dolin’s, and in these he cannot be equaled.
As for Anton Dolin, the person, as opposed to Anton Dolin, the artist, he is that rare bird in ballet: a loyal friend, blessedly free from that besetting balletic sin—envy; generous, kindly, human, always helpful, ever the good comrade. Would that dance had more men of his character, his liberality, his broadmindedness, his ever-present readiness to be of service to his colleagues.
Although “Pat” is not above certain meannesses, certain capriciousness, he has an uncanny gift of penetrating to the heart of a matter, and his ability to hit the nail on the very centre of the head often gains for him the advantage over people who have the reputation of being experts in their particular callings.