A lesser contribution to the repertoire was a symbolic piece, The Eternal Struggle, staged by Igor Schwezoff, in Australia, to Robert Schumann piano music, orchestrated by Antal Dorati. It served the purpose of introducing two Australian designers to America: the Misses Kathleen and Florence Martin.
There was a duo of works by David Lichine, one serious and unsuccessful, the other a comedy that had a substantial audience success and which, since then, has moved from company to company. The former, Protée, was arranged to Debussy’s Danses Sacré et Profane, in a Chirico setting and costumes. The latter, Graduation Ball, Lichine had staged during the long Australian stay. Its music was an admirable selection and arrangement of Johann Strauss tunes by Antal Dorati. Its setting and costumes were by Alexandre Benois. Much of its humor was sheer horseplay and on the obvious side; but it was completely high-spirited, and was the season’s comedy success.
A third work, credited to Lichine, was The Prodigal Son, a ballet that was the outstanding creation of the last Diaghileff season, in 1929. Set to a memorable commissioned score by Serge Prokofieff, by George Balanchine, with Serge Lifar, Leon Woizikovsky, Anton Dolin and Felia Dubrowska in the central roles, it had striking and evocative settings and costumes by Georges Rouault. De Basil had secured these properties, and had had the work re-done in Australia by Lichine. Lichine insisted he had never seen the Balanchine original and thus approached the subject with a fresh mind. However, Serge Grigorieff was the general stage director for both companies. It is not beyond possibility that Grigorieff, with his sensitive-plate retentive mind for balletic detail, might have transferred much of the spirit and style of the original to the de Basil-Lichine presentation. However it may have been, the result was a moving theatrical experience. My strongest memory of it is the exciting performance given by Sono Osato as the exotic siren who seduces the Prodigal during his expensive excursion among the flesh-pots.
During this Hollywood Theatre season we also had Le Cotillon, that had served originally to introduce Riabouchinska to American audiences. We also, I am happy to remember, had Fokine’s Firebird, in the original choreography, and the uncut Stravinsky score, together with the remarkable settings and costumes of Gontcharova. Its opening performance provided a few breath-taking moments when Baronova’s costume gave way, and she fought bravely to prevent an embarrassing exposure.
During their tenure of the Hollywood Theatre, we managed one creation. It was Balustrade. Its choreography was by George Balanchine. Its music was Igor Stravinsky’s Violin Concerto, played in the orchestra pit by Samuel Dushkin, for whom it was written. Stravinsky himself came on from California to conduct the work. As is so often the case with Balanchine, it had neither story nor theme nor idea; it was simply an abstraction in which Balanchine set out to exploit to the fullest the brittle technical prowess of Tamara Toumanova. The only reason I could determine for the title was that the setting, by Pavel Tchelitcheff, consisted of a long balustrade. Unfortunately, despite all the costs, which I paid, it had, all told, one consecutive performance.
The close of the season at the Hollywood Theatre found me, once again, in a perplexed mood. The de Basil organization, riddled by intrigue and quite out of focus, was not the answer. Its finances were in a parlous state. I disengaged my emotions and surveyed both the negligible artistic accomplishments and the substantial financial losses. I turned a deaf ear to de Basil’s importunings to have me undertake another American tour, although I did sponsor engagements in Boston and Philadelphia, and undertook to send the company to Mexico and South America.
As matters stood, neither the company nor the repertoire was good enough. I still had one more season tied to the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo, and that, for the moment, was enough of trouble. I argued with myself that the Denham difficulties were sufficient unto one day, without deliberately and gratuitously adding those of the “Colonel.”
Fresh troubles arose in Philadelphia, from which point the company was to depart for Mexico City. Tamara Toumanova’s presence with the company was one of the conditions of the Mexican contract.
It will not be difficult, I think, for the reader to imagine my feelings when, on my arrival in Philadelphia, I was greeted by Toumanova with the news that she was leaving the company, that her contract with de Basil had expired, and that nothing in her life had given her greater happiness than to be able to quit.
De Basil was not to be found. He had gone into hiding. I went into action. I approached “Gerry” Sevastianov and his wife, Irina Baronova, to help out the situation by agreeing to have Baronova go to Mexico in place of the departing Toumanova. She consented, and this cost me an additional considerable sum.