One Tuesday evening in July, I made my American Ballet Theater debut in “Swan Lake” at the Metropolitan Opera House.
That sentence would have thrilled me back when I was a starry-eyed ballet student. But could teenage me have guessed it would describe an arthritic 42-year-old, wearing not pointe shoes but character heels?
On that unreal night, I appeared as a supernumerary, the term for a ballet extra. Being onstage, although well out of the spotlight, brought once-familiar sensations flooding back: the particular dry-mouth feel that comes from nerves and heavy lipstick, the sweat-and-velvet musk of the costumes. But nothing can quite prepare you for your first look into the Met audience — faceless and staggeringly vast.
Some of Ballet Theater’s large story ballets bring in dozens of supers, as they’re called, to round out the stage picture. It is not typically a glamorous job. Supers’ hours are often long and late; their pay is negligible. As background characters in warhorse ballets like “The Sleeping Beauty” (120 supers) and “Romeo and Juliet” (59 supers), they get little glory. They often portray assorted villagers or townspeople, even corpses.
But they also get front-row seats to the stage action. At the royal ball in Act III of “Swan Lake” — where the hero, Prince Siegfried, is seduced by the deceptive Black Swan, Odile — six supernumeraries play noble guests. I stood onstage for nearly the whole act, fluttering a feathered fan and reacting subtly to the storytelling. During the famous Black Swan pas de deux, I was mere feet from the stars Chloe Misseldine and Daniel Camargo — close enough to feel the sweat that whipped from Camargo’s brow as he pirouetted. (Gross, but thrilling!)
My stage partner for the evening was Ulrich Suss, who goes by Iggy, and has performed super roles with Ballet Theater for 36 years. (He asked me to give his age as “50s.”) As a super, “you may not be doing anything important,” he said. “But to watch those glorious dancers up close, in combination with the beautiful music — it’s magic. I will never tire of it.”
Supers are more than living scenery. Ballet can seem like a place where everybody is approximately the same (young) age and the same (lithe) shape. Supers, who may or may not have dance backgrounds, are often much older or younger than company members. They make the stage world look more like the real world, adding richness as well as fullness.
Nancy Raffa, a former Ballet Theater dancer and now a director of repertoire at the company, has supervised supers for two decades. “The supers are a vital part of making the production feel active and luxurious, yes,” she said in a video interview. “But they also make it more meaningful, more real.”
The Metropolitan Opera uses hundreds of background actors over the course of its nearly 40-week season, paying $30 an hour for rehearsals and a minimum of $92 for each performance. The performers might include television or theater actors totally unfamiliar with opera but in need of extra cash.
By contrast, Ballet Theater’s summer Met season is just five weeks long. And supers are technically volunteers. The company provides an honorarium, approximately $25 a call, whether a rehearsal or a performance. Those meager enticements mean the super pool is full of ballet students, former dancers and aficionados — people who really love ballet.
The broad age spectrum encompasses a fascinating cast of characters. On one end are the children, most of whom are serious ballet students, aspiring to someday dance the choreography being performed center stage.
Sometimes, young supers’ professional dreams come true. Jose Sebastian, now 38 and a Ballet Theater soloist, was a super in several productions when he was a child. “I was in total awe of all the stars,” he said. “To be onstage with them really fueled this growing love I had for ballet.” More than 20 years ago, he supered as one of the trumpeters in “Swan Lake,” playing a fanfare for the evil sorcerer Von Rothbart. Today, he dances Von Rothbart.
On the other end of the spectrum are veteran supers like Suss, who have been doing these roles for decades. Most seasons, Ballet Theater holds open auditions for the adult parts; repertory directors and stage managers evaluate hopefuls based on their musicality — and, crucially, whether they’ll fit the existing costumes. “We just aren’t able to tailor costumes for 50 supers on top of 80 dancers,” Danielle Ventimiglia, Ballet Theater’s production stage manager, said.
But the loyalists who return season after season — who have proved their reliability, and whose measurements are on file — sometimes get invitations from the production team. Suss, a trained dancer, is part of that select group. He also performs at clubs under the stage name Iggy Berlin, occasionally running home after a show at the Met to change for a late-night performance.
With his distinctive theatrical flair, Suss is often entrusted with more involved super roles — like the beggar in Kenneth MacMillan’s “Romeo and Juliet” who, memorably, turns out to be a con artist.
Experienced supers, he said, often know more about a production’s history than company members do. And from their posts on the sidelines, they watch generations of dancers come and go. “I saw Julie Kent rise in the company,” Suss said of the former Ballet Theater principal, “and then all of a sudden there I was, giving flowers to her at her farewell.”
Certain supers have become indelibly associated with particular roles. When I arrived at the dressing room to begin my “Swan Lake” super journey — as a reporter, I’d been spared the audition process — I met three of them.
Janna Jensen and Theresa Khawly were to be fellow guests at the royal ball. Both former dancers, they originated these super parts in the production when it premiered in 2000, and have performed them ever since.
“The costumes were made for us,” said Jensen, whose dancing was reviewed approvingly in this paper in 1980. “That is unheard-of for a super. Such a luxury!”
Elaine Brownstein, the third of the group, was not performing that evening: I was taking her spot. (Despite her assurances that it was just fine, I couldn’t help but feel guilty.) She also trained in dance, and is both a longtime super and a longtime patron of Ballet Theater — as is Khawly, a former trustee.
Preparing for the show alongside these women felt like being initiated into a beautiful, strange little club. Brownstein handed me a giant purple cocktail ring, the sister to rings that Jensen and Khawly were already wearing. Khawly had given the baubles to the cast as gifts on the production’s opening night. Over the course of 26 years, they had become talismans, worn for every performance. (Outside jewelry is typically a no-no for supers, but in this case the wardrobe department turned a blind eye.)
As I tried on my costume, Brownstein hovered and adjusted and appraised. The sumptuous burgundy-and-gold gown was an old friend of hers, after all. She warned me about a torn ruffle on the underskirt that had plagued her the night before.
We trekked down the Met’s labyrinthine hallways to the hair and makeup room, where the company’s professionals wigged and crowned and rouged me with astonishing alacrity. And then, a scant hour after I’d arrived, it was time to head to the stage.
Most new supers have a studio rehearsal and a technical rehearsal onstage to master their roles. Because my part was relatively straightforward, and because I would be on the trustworthy Suss’s arm for its duration, my only practice came during the last five minutes of the intermission before Act III.
Suss walked me through our route. As the curtain rose, we’d promenade around the stage along with the rest of the royal assembly. After a brief exit, we’d go up a short flight of steps concealed by the wings and emerge on a small platform from which we’d watch the rest of the proceedings. Brownstein showed me the best way to gather my skirts as I walked up the stairs. “You don’t want to trip onto the stage,” she said. (New fear unlocked.)
I tried to remember the advice Raffa, the director of repertoire, had given about my character during our interview a few days earlier. “You’re an aristocrat,” she had told me. “You’re sophisticated.” She had said the costume would help, and she was right: Yards of brocade naturally slow your movement to a courtly pace.
Things began to happen fast. A stage manager called places. Iggy steered me to our opening position, facing the rear of the stage. The lights went out. I couldn’t see the curtains parting, but I could feel the change in the air pressure as they did.
And then we were moving, the stage aswirl with ball-goers’ skirts. As we made our first exit, I realized I’d been holding my breath. Up the stairs we went — I gave a silent prayer of thanks when I got to the top — and we arrived at our perch.
Unbeknown to the audience, a surprising amount of talking happens onstage at the ballet. As we watched the act unfold, Suss gave me occasional sotto voce guidance about how to react to the goings-on. (When Von Rothbart impertinently kissed the Queen’s hand: “Can he do that? Be shocked, very shocked!”) The lead dancers from the Polish mazurka divertissement, stationed next to us, traded through-the-teeth jokes about how, of all the princesses at the ball, their Polish princess was the best princess.
Soon came the big-ticket moment: the Black Swan pas de deux. The intensity of Misseldine and Camargo, legible from the highest balcony, was overwhelming at such close range. You almost couldn’t look at them directly. I had to remind myself that royal courtiers don’t applaud.
The ending came as suddenly as the beginning had. Odile and Von Rothbart’s evil trick was revealed with a flourish of pyrotechnics, and Suss and I, looking (I hope) suitably dismayed, whirled offstage in the smoke.
Though the show wasn’t over — somewhere, Misseldine was quick changing into her Odette costume for Act IV — it was time for me to head back to the dressing room with the other supers. We were abuzz with adrenaline, chattering about the highlights of the pas de deux.
As I returned the purple ring, I felt the spell of the evening break. But for the rest of the supers, the enchantment would continue: They would be back the next night, and the night after that, making the stage a little bit more magical.
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