Lord of the dance

Rudolf Nureyev, the greatest male dancer of our time, died 10 years ago. On the eve of a season of his work on film at the National Film Theatre, John Percival celebrates his charisma, energy, originality and perfectionism

Two men dominated the world of ballet in the 20th century: Vaslav Nijinsky in its early years; Rudolf Nureyev more recently. Their names were known not just to balletomanes but to the wider public – they even had racehorses named after them. Both danced with the best companies and the leading ballerinas of their day; both invented ballets as well as dancing them, and also had memorable roles made for them by top choreographers. But there were two big differences. First, Nijinsky's career was short, because of illness; Nureyev's exceptionally long in spite of illness. Secondly, we can only imagine how Nijinsky danced, from descriptions, still photos and other illustrations; whereas Nureyev's dancing was recorded on film and video right from his graduation onwards.

So, the 10th anniversary of Nureyev's early death will be commemorated not only on stage (galas in Milan, Vienna, Paris, etc, and a special programme later at Covent Garden), but also with a unique tribute at the National Film Theatre: a series of performances through January showing him in at least a score of his roles, some of them to be seen more than once with various partners, plus several interviews. And this is only a selection of the vast vidéothèque assembled for the Rudolf Nureyev Foundation by his friend and colleague, Wallace Potts, more extensive than could be found for any other dancer.

What was so special about this man? First and foremost, he was a dancer of a quality such as rarely arrives more than once or twice in a lifetime. Which makes it all the more amazing that two other great dancers graduated in Russia together with him in 1958: Vladimir Vasiliev from the Bolshoi school in Moscow, Yuri Soloviev, like Nureyev, from the St Petersburg Vaganova Academy. An international youth competition in Vienna gave them all first prizes, but with Nureyev half a mark ahead of the other two. And there was another man, the Dane, Erik Bruhn, 10 years older, whom Nureyev venerated as a model of perfection.

The friendly rivalry among this group must have enhanced the effort each of them made to achieve their potential. But two factors made Nureyev supreme. There was his exceptionally fine teacher, Alexander Pushkin (no relation to the poet), who observed the fierce energy this pupil showed in his determination to make up for a late start at the school, and encouraged him to aim for absolute perfection of detail in his classical solos. You can see the result of this, above all, in the way he performed the Prince's solo at the end of The Sleeping Beauty: I never saw anyone match him in it. No wonder that Dame Ninette de Valois thought him such a nonpareil in the classics that she complained about any time that he spent on other activities.

There was another factor, however, which appealed even more to the public. Even when very young, he had made up his mind that a man, rather than going always for heroic ardour, which was the modish ideal at the time, ought to be allowed to dance as expressively as a ballerina, and should project a personal concept of each role instead of following set precedents. This was joined to the powerful presence that nature had gifted him, and the flair that he had already discovered, as a child, in folk- dance groups, for communicating with an audience. The result was irresistible.

And because he wanted to apply his gifts to as many different styles and contexts as possible, he not only delighted in having roles created for him by Ashton, Béjart, Van Dantzig, Flindt, Petit and others, but also became a pioneer among ballet dancers in working with modern-dance choreographers: Martha Graham, Murray Louis, Paul Taylor, Glen Tetley. All that, besides singing and dancing with Miss Piggy on The Muppet Show, "defending" (his word) Rudolph Valentino in Ken Russell's strange biopic, and touring North America in The King and I.

In addition, he found time to put on new versions of the classics for many different companies, to create several ballets from scratch, to direct one of the world's great companies at the Paris Opera, transforming its standards in the process, and to study conducting to the point at which he could give concerts in Vienna (a city with high musical expectations) and win applause from the orchestra when conducting Prokofiev's Romeo and Juliet at the New York Met.

So, what is the NFT season going to reveal? Will a new public, who never saw Nureyev live on stage, be as impressed as those of us who are revisiting our memories? Notoriously, something of the directness gets lost when a stage show is seen on screen. Yet I vividly remember how a group of Royal Ballet men, too young to have seen it live, burst into spontaneous, wildly enthusiastic applause when his solo from Le Corsaire was included in a private film showing. Aptly, that dance, with its immense leaps, opens the NFT season. Yet I am looking forward just as much to its exact opposite, a performance of Les Sylphides with Margot Fonteyn and the Royal Ballet.

Where Corsair is all glittering bravura, Sylphides is quiet and lyrical. Don't let that fool you; Nureyev dances a more difficult version of the man's mazurka solo than we usually see, and the lyrical quietness is achieved only by using a superb technique in a way that conceals the effort. But what gives most pleasure about this film is the way that the whole cast, corps de ballet and soloists, looks so good in it. This is a welcome reminder not only of how fine a company the Royal Ballet was in the 1960s (much, much better than it is today), but also of how greatly Nureyev contributed to it by encouraging, developing and inspiring the dancers with whom he worked.

His production of the famous "Kingdom of Shades" scene from La Bayadère showed the corps at its all-time peak, rivalling the Maryinsky Ballet, which had not long before introduced this work to the West. This was one of many ballets that Nureyev mounted based on the choreography of Marius Petipa, the Frenchman who did more than anyone else in the 19th century to create what we know as Russian ballet. Generally, he adapted them, to a greater or lesser degree, but always conscious of the old master's skills, even when inventing his own additions.

Two evenings should show that particularly: a French documentary about Nureyev and Petipa, full of examples, including what he made of the neglected old ballet Raymonda; and a British documentary chronicling his first attempt at that work, for the Royal Ballet's touring company at the 1964 Spoleto Festival, given an unexpected drama when Fonteyn had to drop out because her husband was shot and the young ballerina, Doreen Wells, stepped into the title role at the last minute.

Among other programmes are Nureyev's own full stagings of Swan Lake, The Nutcracker and Don Quixote, plus many shorter ballets. And I am not going to recommend which to see, since so much depends on personal preference. All I would say is that, with a man of such diverse gifts, and given how long we have waited for this season, it would be absurd for anyone really interested in dance not to catch as many as possible while the chance is there.

Rudolf Nureyev at the NFT, in repertory at the National Film Theatre, London SE1 (020-7928 3232) 1-31 January