“Dancer” by Colum McCann
A novel that captures the wild, glorious life of Rudolf Nureyev -- beautiful, arrogant and brilliant -- and the tragic country he abandoned.
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Early in Colum McCann’s novel “Dancer” you realize that this fictionalized account of the life of ballet genius Rudolf Nureyev isn’t really about Rudolf Nureyev. The first half, especially the unblinking initial 10 pages, a hypnotic rush of brutal war imagery and an unfurling of the devastation that a winter campaign visits on men, is about Russia. The last half of the book, after the young peasant dancer becomes a beloved, controversial icon, revels in the strange glow of celebrity. Obviously, the contrast between the two could not be more stark. The effect is similar to watching Nureyev explode from the stage to the air: an unearthly transformation, an angry spectacle, an overwhelming charge.
It’s all part of McCann’s technique: He starts wide and slowly closes in on Nureyev, swirling around and around him like the whirl of sand that produces a genie. When the dust settles, there should stand the beautiful, arrogant dancer, hands on hips, jaw clenched, leg muscles tight — or so we hope. Certainly, McCann briefly summons up Nureyev, and right down to the startling size of his you-know-what, but Nureyev, whoever he is, disappears just when McCann gets close. At times, this can be frustrating; by the end of “Dancer,” McCann proves his method to be entirely appropriate for his elusive subject.
The novel begins with the dancer as a poor rebellious child. McCann depicts the gray, claustrophobic, war-torn despair that Nureyev will eventually leave behind: “The local guards stood weary against the pillars under red metal signs for rural electrification that swung in the breeze — Our Great Leader Is Bringing Electricity to You! — and a smell penetrated the air, foreshadowing the soldiers, sweat and rot, and each winter afternoon a 6-year-old boy, hungry and narrow and keen, sat on a cliff above the river, looking down at the trains, wondering when his own father would be coming home and whether he would be broken just like the ones they were lifting from beneath the steam and the bugles.”
McCann’s attention to Russia eventually makes Nureyev’s departure, and his glamorous life afterward, all the more stunning. Very soon after his father returns from the war, the boy begins taking dance lessons in secret, a surprising betrayal to his poverty-stricken family. We don’t see inside the young dancer’s mind, but at the same time we know that this is Nureyev — head held impossibly high, walking proudly, his back to the world — brave enough to believe that he owes a greater duty to his gifts than to his homeland or even to his family.
Suzy Hansen, a former editor at Salon, is an editor at the New York Observer. More Suzy Hansen.



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