The Making of Hearts: Le Ballet des Coeurs

An Intimate Diary of Meeting Michael Smuin, Director of the San Francisco Ballet
 

My young career seemed to blossom with every note I was singing, a far cry from my first singing contest at the age of 11, standing proudly on the stage of the Casino de Marrakech, where the film Casablanca had been filmed decades before.

I was now in San Francisco, as a young teenager in 1970, feverishly learning songs from every record my father brought with us, and there were a lot of them. By 1980 or so, I had progressed from a one-night stint at a cabaret called Chez Jacques, to a year of sold-out shows at the Plush Room, and another year of sold- out performances at the 1177 Club on Nob Hill. I received an invitation from the Swig Family to sing at their famed Venetian Room as the first and only local talent, followed by invitations from the Opera House to be featured at their Fol De Rol Gala, singing alongside the likes of Régine Crespin. The opportunities and adventures seemed endless, and I said yes to everything.

I was building a strong audience, singing the songs my father loved as well as the songs of Edith Piaf. I had just experienced my first heartbreak and felt like my world had collapsed. One day, in my room at my parents' house, I played an Edith Piaf record. The first song that came on was C’est L’Amour ("It’s love, it’s love that makes you cry, it’s love that makes you dream; without tears, you cannot claim the right to love. With all the tears you have shed, you now have claimed the right to love again!"). It was exactly what I needed to hear—that I would love again.

I took it upon myself to learn all of her songs, over 200 of them, wanting to go beyond the obvious ones like La Vie en Rose and No Regrets. Equipped with a lot of chutzpah, I decided to write a concept and scenario for a ballet based on my favorite film of all time, Les Enfants du Paradis (Children of Paradise), with a musical score of Edith Piaf’s more obscure songs. One that struck me deeply was Le Ballet des Coeurs ("The Ballet of the Hearts"), which seemed to tell the story of Children of Paradise, a film by Marcel Carné featuring Jean-Louis Barrault in the sublime role of Baptiste, a pantomime who never spoke in the film.

I must admit, I had seen this film about 30 times, and in the darkness of the cinema, I would speak every word spoken by each character—I knew the film and its story so well. I even dared to ask the owner of the Castro Cinema to let me watch it for free because I couldn’t afford the tickets. Amused by my passion, he obliged—what a perfect heart he was! Little did he know that a year or so later, I would ask him for an even greater favor: to screen the film for Michael Smuin and the entire corps de ballet of the San Francisco Ballet, which he did on a Monday morning at 9 a.m.

After spending days, weeks, and months at the San Francisco library conducting historical research on the making of the film, its creators, and actors, I felt ready to go to the San Francisco Ballet to present my creation—the marriage of Children of Paradise and the songs of Edith Piaf. I was prepared to propose to Michael Smuin to choreograph my concept and let me sing the score.

At the time, I was living at my parents' home on 32nd and Balboa, so I took the 38 Geary bus to Van Ness and walked to the San Francisco Ballet building. Excited beyond words, I entered this magical place and confidently asked to speak to Michael Smuin, as if I had a scheduled meeting. The person at the desk told me that I couldn’t just walk in and ask to see Mr. Smuin; I needed an appointment. I politely asked that my message be conveyed to him—that Raquel Bitton was downstairs and ready to talk to him.

We French have this “je ne sais quoi” attitude of confidence that can baffle others. I was asked to sit down, so I did, clutching my treasure in my hands. I waited for hours, but no one came to invite me up. I was asked multiple times to give up, but non, pas moi! Not me. I waited, from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Every dancer who came through the doors pointed at me as if I were some oddity, until finally, a grey- haired gentleman approached me and asked how long I intended to wait. Passionately, I explained that I had Michael Smuin’s next treasure in my hands and that he needed to see me. Noticing my French accent, he seemed amused, and as fate would have it, I was speaking to none other than Jean-Louis Leroux, the conductor of the San Francisco Ballet and a Frenchman himself.

Ouf! Vive la France!

He told me to wait but not to expect much. Ten minutes later, he returned and invited me upstairs to Michael Smuin’s office.

I had heard so much about Michael Smuin, and now here I was, standing before him with my heart pounding. I was surprised to find a small man with abundant curly grey hair, in his underwear—a tight Speedo—changing his pants. Embarrassed, I glanced at Monsieur Leroux to see if we should step out and give him privacy. He said in French, “Il est Américain! Il n’est pas timide!” ("He is American! He is not shy!").