On Saturday, 1st February 2025, I had the pleasure of welcoming dancer and ballet pedagogue Peter Brandenhoff as the third guest in the “Conversations on Bournonville” series.

In this engaging conversation, we explored insightful topics such as the evolution of Bournonville’s training methods and the distinctive qualities that differentiate his stylistic approach, particularly in comparison with other classical ballet schools such as Vaganova and Cecchetti. 

Central to our discussion was the pressing question: Do the Bournonville Schools retain relevance for today’s dancers?

Join us as Peter Brandenhoff shares his valuable insights, historical expertise, and personal reflections on the enduring legacy of August Bournonville.

PETER BRANDENHOFF  
– CONVERSATIONS ON BOURNONVILLE #3  

Recorded at Store Kirkestræde, Copenhagen, Saturday, 1st February 2025.

Peter Brandenhoff’s artistic trajectory spans both European and North American ballet traditions, notably bridging Danish ballet heritage with American classical ballet practices.

Trained at the esteemed Royal Danish Ballet School 1982-1991, Brandenhoff embodies August Bournonville’s meticulous technical discipline and expressive stylistic heritage. 

His connection to Danish ballet tradition runs deep, enriched by a family lineage intimately tied to Denmark’s cultural and theatrical legacy. His mother trained at the RDB School, his grandparents, Tove Gabrielsen and Jan Holme, were distinguished dancers with the Royal Danish Ballet, and his family also includes a renowned opera singer. 

Though Brandenhoff’s professional career primarily unfolded in the United States, notably as a soloist with San Francisco Ballet 1992-2006, his artistic sensibilities remain rooted in Danish tradition. 

This dual perspective enhances his ability to interpret and teach Bournonville’s style with profound insight and nuance.

His scholarly and passionate exploration of the Bournonville technique uniquely positions him to highlight its ongoing artistic significance and pedagogical value.

After concluding his performing career, Brandenhoff turned his focus to teaching ballet in New York City, actively transmitting Bournonville’s rich legacy to a new generation of dancers.

Alexander Meinertz:
Peter, I know that the Bournonville Schools are not taught at the Royal Danish Ballet School today. Do you think your grandparents followed the Bournonville Schools?

Peter Brandenhoff:
No. We have come to believe they had the Monday Class every Monday, and the Tuesday Class every Tuesday and so on. But my grandmother was one of the rare dancers of her time who had started late. She entered the school at age 13, under special dispensation from Harald Lander. She said, “I don’t think I ever really learned the Bournonville schools.” Her best friend, who had been at the school since early childhood, also hadn’t been trained in the Bournonville schools.

What they remembered doing—and of course, memory can be unreliable as we get older—was that teachers like Karl Merrild would come in, select various combinations from different classes, and that’s what they would work on in a given session.

So the idea that: Monday, you do Monday’s class, and you complete all of Monday’s exercises before progressing to Tuesday’s class—all the way through the final level of the school… That seems dubious to me.

Alexander Meinertz:
So, at best, it could have worked like that before the 1940s—if at all?

Peter Brandenhoff:
Well, my grandmother started in the school sometime in the 1930s, so it would have been before even that.

Alexander Meinertz:
But I think the assumption is that Hans Beck was the one who compiled the schools. Are you saying you question whether even his generation was trained in that strict format—or whether the Monday-to-Saturday structure was just a theoretical framework?

Peter Brandenhoff:
I do. I do wonder if that’s really how they trained. As a teacher, when I think about teaching a Bournonville class, the logistics don’t quite add up. A regular ballet class is usually an hour and fifteen minutes—maybe an hour and a half.

But back in the early 20th century, when Hans Beck was compiling these classes and serving as ballet master, classes were often just one hour.

Now, here’s the issue: Each Bournonville school contains between 21 and 25 enchaînements—and that’s not even counting the barre work. You can get through barre in 10 to 15 minutes if you don’t stop for corrections, just moving through it quickly. But the enchaînements?

If you have 25 of them, there’s no way you’re getting through all of them in a 45-minute or one-hour class—unless everyone already knows them by heart.

So for the Monday-to-Saturday system to function as it’s described, it would require students to learn all of the material in advance.

And I doubt that really happened—because in a school setting, you always have a rotation of students. People are constantly coming and going, learning at different paces. I don’t think there would have been enough time for it to work that way.

Alexander Meinertz:
So, you’ve analyzed these schools now. You mentioned that you didn’t fully study them earlier, but later, as a teacher, you went back and examined the material more closely.

Can you tell us about the Bournonville schools? They’re not really taught in that way anymore, as far as I know. But they’ve been published a few times in books with notation.

And I believe there was also a video—one that Vivi Flindt organized, featuring some dancers. Maybe around 1993? I’m not sure.

Peter Brandenhoff:
Yes, but that video actually doesn’t feature the official Monday-to-Saturday Bournonville classes.

Instead, it includes steps from various classes—combinations that were recorded but aren’t officially part of the six-day system. Some of those enchaînements come from other notes left by Hans Beck.

Alexander Meinertz:
Right. Actually, I think there were two videos of Bournonville classes.

There’s the one that Vivi Flindt and Knud Arne Jürgensen worked on—the one we’re discussing now. But then there’s also another recording, which I believe was made later.

Yes, it was later. 2005, I think. That one was supervised by Frank Andersen.

Peter Brandenhoff:
Yes.

Alexander Meinertz:
And that’s considered the official set of schools.

Peter Brandenhoff:
Yes, that’s the official set.

So, my interest in this really came from the fact that I’m Danish—but I spent most of my dancing career abroad, primarily in the United States. Being a Danish male dancer with a Bournonville background made me highly sought after in some companies—it made me stand out. But at first, I felt a bit self-conscious when people would ask, “Oh, so you know all the Bournonville classes?”—and I’d realize I didn’t.

So, drawing on the advantage of my family history, I started coming back to Denmark on summer vacations. I’d visit my grandparents and their friends, ask tons of questions, and begin to piece together the classes and steps.

Now, I’m not the kind of dancer with a photographic memory for choreography. I don’t have every step memorized in my head. If you asked me to perform them all right now, some would come back, others wouldn’t.

But when I got into teaching, that’s when I really started analyzing them—because I kept encountering the same issue.

I don’t want to call it a problem, but—let’s say you’re asked to teach a Bournonville class. You say, “Of course!”—and then an hour and a half goes by, and you’ve only managed to get through three or four exercises.

By the end of class, the dancers are still hungry for more. They haven’t even gotten to the best parts—the fun stuff, which usually happens toward the end of the class.

But there’s just not enough time. You would need workshops to cover everything.

So I started asking: Is there a system to this? Why does each day of the week have its own school? What was the purpose of structuring it this way? Because the other major ballet training systems don’t work like that.

The closest system to this Monday-to-Saturday format is Cecchetti.

And when I studied Cecchetti’s method, I noticed a key difference: Cecchetti’s system is built around clear guiding principles. Each day focuses on a specific technical element in the ballet vocabulary, and the class is structured around that theme. For example, let’s say Monday is for turns. That doesn’t mean you only practice turns that day—but everything in class is designed to develop turning ability.

Bournonville’s schools don’t work that way. They’re simply a collection of steps.

So I started wondering: Why were they compiled this way? Was there a deeper purpose?

If you look at Vaganova’s system, it takes a completely different approach. Vaganova broke each step down into its fundamental ingredients. For example, if you need to perform a tour en l’air—a jump with a turn in the air—you must train: Jumping technique and turning technique

Vaganova structured her classes so that everything built progressively. From the first step at the barre to the final grand allegro, every exercise prepared you for what came next.

Both Cecchetti and Vaganova had a logical system—a methodology. Bournonville? Not so much.

Cecchetti also had another key difference from Bournonville. He didn’t prescribe specific exercises for specific days. Each teacher could vary the elements, depending on the dancers and their needs. Even Cecchetti himself didn’t teach the same Monday class every Monday.

And that made me question: Why do we have specific enchaînements for Monday, specific ones for Tuesday, and so on? How are they meant to be used for teaching?

Because, as I said before—you can’t just walk into class and say, “Okay, let’s do number one, now number two.” And if you’re working with dancers who aren’t familiar with Bournonville, which I often did in the U.S., you can’t just show them the steps and expect them to get it.

Of course, you demonstrate the steps, but ballet is ballet. A fifth position is a fifth position, a plié is a plié—so what exactly makes Bournonville unique?

That’s when I started realizing: the core of these classes is musicality.

I know people say that all the time—”Bournonville is about musicality”—but I really believe that’s what ties these classes together.

The Bournonville schools are a compendium of steps, many of which Bournonville himself may have taught in class. Some were likely remembered by Hans Beck and other students and compiled because they reflected Bournonville’s stylistic and musical choices.

So, at its core, I think what we’re preserving in the Bournonville schools is not just technique, but musicality.

Alexander Meinertz:
So the secret to the classes is to understand and to know that they’re actually about musicality rather than building a technique or building strength or?

Peter Brandenhoff:
Yes. They’re still about building technique and building strength because any ballet class is about building strength and technique. And when we look at ballet, that’s why I brought up Cecchetti and Vaganova, I mean, we’re still doing the same things.

What is it that makes a Cecchetti step, or a step given in the Cecchetti school particularly Cecchetti-esque? And what is it that makes a Vaganova step particularly Vaganova-esque? No offense to Vaganova or that system, but that music in the basic method of hers was mostly meant to just convey a strong beat that you would then do the steps in.

The way we were taught, what I remembered from the classes, we were never taught the classes in terms of strict beats. And counts. The way we dancers use counts.

We were taught it from how the music that accompanied the step and the combination, what that told us to do. And each of the steps seemed like it could only be this step that we were doing at this point in the music. Which makes for a very musical way of moving.

It can also sometimes make for a very non-thinking dancer, because it’s all just given to you. As long as you just follow the music, you just do the steps and hope for the best. With all of that, you still build strength and technique.

Alexander Meinertz:
So, this technique—or the Bournonville classes—are you saying that it’s only useful for training dancers to perform Bournonville ballets?

Peter Brandenhoff:
No, not at all. On the contrary. When I was teaching—especially during my years in New York—I found that Bournonville training had immense benefits for dancers who weren’t performing Bournonville at all. In fact, most of them probably never would though Bournonville is still taught in many ballet schools in the U.S. and often performed in school recitals and showcases.

But when you break it down properly, it offers huge benefits for all kinds of dancers. When I taught it, I combined elements of the Vaganova approach. I analyzed every single enchaînement, breaking them down into fundamental components—something that’s not always easy to do.

One of the challenges is that many Bournonville combinations are set to specific music. Either you need a musician who can recreate the exact rhythm, intonation, and syncopation of a piece—or you have to find another piece of music with identical rhythmic characteristics.

But once I started breaking things apart, focusing on specific technical aspects, I began to see connections to other ballet techniques that weren’t always obvious when looking at an entire enchaînement. 

It’s similar to watching a dancer perform a variation on stage. At first glance, you might not notice all the details—like the fact that the variation contains 17 pliés, or that a simple transition step is hidden within a series of intricate movements. But when you dissect the elements, you start to understand the mechanics more clearly.

Once I took this approach, I saw a drastic change in my students’ understanding of how their bodies connected to the steps, how choreography was structured, how Bournonville’s style shaped movement quality.

And, of course, the thing everyone talks about when it comes to Bournonville—their jumps improved significantly. Their takeoff changed, their landings became more efficient, their transitions from one jump to the next became smoother and more controlled. So yes—it’s hugely beneficial, even for dancers who will never perform a Bournonville ballet.

Alexander Meinertz:
I was going to ask you earlier if there were any specific moments or teachers from your time at the Royal Danish Ballet School that had a significant influence on you, but maybe you’ve answered it. But was there a moment, or could you say, how you realized the value of the Bournonville technique once you were outside of Denmark?

You said that people noticed it and saw it as characteristic of you. What was it they were looking for, or what was it they saw? It wasn’t just the jump.

Peter Brandenhoff:
It wasn’t just about the jump, and it wasn’t just about me. Yes, I had a good jump—I was a jumper. And, in the beginning, it almost felt like: as long as you came from the Royal Danish Ballet School and you were male, all doors would open for you.

I danced primarily with San Francisco Ballet and Hamburg Ballet, both of which were led by choreographers who valued individuality and storytelling in dancers. They wanted dancers who could do more than just “create a character” because they were cast as Albrecht in Giselle.

They wanted dancers who could convey something even in an abstract ballet—who could create a presence, a story, even when there wasn’t a predefined narrative. Of course, it wasn’t as abstract as neoclassical Balanchine ballets, where the dancers are just movement, and the audience can create their own interpretation.

But I think that’s one of the reasons Danish dancers were valued abroad. We had that understanding. That ability, however, didn’t necessarily come from the Bournonville Schools—it came from a much broader experience I had growing up in the Royal Danish Ballet. We were on stage a lot. I know there’s been recent debate about whether children are put on stage too much, but at that time, I felt there was a balance.

I never felt that any of us were overworked. Maybe we were on stage twice a week, but often, we weren’t even dancing—we were simply present, watching the performances unfold. And that was invaluable.

The Bournonville ballets are deeply rooted in storytelling. And by being on stage, we didn’t just learn to dance—we learned to observe. We saw all the smaller stories happening beyond just the lead couple’s narrative.

At that time, the theater was alive with everything—ballet, opera, drama. It was all in the same space, on the same stage. There weren’t separate buildings for different art forms. We’d run into actors, we’d run into singers—there was always this incredible creative energy around us. And that’s something you can’t teach. That’s not a technique. That’s an experience. And I think that’s what was noticed abroad.

Because when I left Denmark, I ended up working in companies that valued that sense of artistry.

Alexander Meinertz:
So, part of your education was really an awareness of other art forms of artistry itself—just from being in that building. That’s something you don’t have in Copenhagen anymore. It’s changed a lot. Now, The Gamle Scene—the Old Stage—is really just for ballet. It’s no longer this shared artistic space.

Peter Brandenhoff:
Yes, in that sense, Denmark today is actually much closer to what my life was like in San Francisco. There, we shared the opera house with the opera company, but our seasons were completely separate.

Alexander Meinertz:
Can you tell me something about you’ve touched on it a little bit but some of the characteristics of the Bournonville style. What characterizes a Bournonville dancer if that’s even possible?

Peter Brandenhoff:
Yes. I do think we can define what makes a Bournonville dancer. Of course, technique plays a major role—the technical elements are essential. But, as I said before, a plié is a plié, a tendu is a tendu. We’re still working with the same ballet vocabulary. Every dancer trains to jump high, turn, and land cleanly—those things exist in all styles.

But the main characteristic of a Bournonville dancer is musicality. It’s about how they use the music—not just dancing to the music, but dancing with it. A true Bournonville dancer never does anything that isn’t dictated by the music, but in a way that’s subtle, not obvious.

That might take some explaining. What I mean is, if the music speeds up, you don’t just move faster because the tempo increases. If there’s a trill in the music, you don’t necessarily mirror it with movement. Instead, you become another instrument in the orchestra, where two instruments can play different things, yet it merges beautifully.

The musicality ties directly into technique, particularly in the jump. And I know I’m probably going to get some pushback for saying this, but the Bournonville jump is higher, faster, cleaner, quicker, and sharper than the jumps in the other major ballet schools of that time.

I actually think that’s one of the reasons why George Balanchine had so many Danish male dancers in his company over the years. There’s a natural symbiosis between his choreography, his musicality, and the Bournonville jump. I’m not saying Balanchine’s work aligns with all of Bournonville, but in terms of jumping technique, there’s a clear connection.

And then—this is something I’ve said before—there’s also this idea of being a complete human when you dance. That’s something you don’t learn just by doing the steps or by training in the technique. You learn it by dancing in the ballets, being involved in the productions, and observing the stories unfold on stage.

Even if you’re playing a troll in A Folk Tale, you’re still human. You’re not just some creature. And this is a key distinction.

There are ballets where dancers become creatures. Take Jerome Robbins’ The Cage—that ballet only works if the dancer fully transforms into something inhuman. If a dancer in The Cage moves like a normal person, it falls apart.

But in Bournonville, you never abandon your humanity. It’s actually much easier to say, “I’m going to shed myself completely and just be steps.” It’s much harder to say, “I’m going to do the steps, but I’m also going to make them deeply personal and as human as possible.” And that’s what Bournonville dancers excel at.

Alexander Meinertz:
People often describe the Danish style as natural, effortless, and light. Is that connected to what you’re talking about?

Peter Brandenhoff:
Yes.

Alexander Meinertz:
Because “natural” seems to be a key word here. But at the same time, it looks trained—Bournonville himself wrote about this. I’m also curious to talk more about musicality. You’ve said that it has been preserved in the Bournonville schools, that you can learn musicality from them and, of course, from performing the ballets.

But what is it like for dancers who haven’t trained in Denmark? If you’re working with dancers abroad, you say they can learn a lot and improve as dancers through this style and technique. But is it difficult for them? Or does it come naturally?

Peter Brandenhoff:
It’s hard. At first, it’s very hard.

When I first started really using Bournonville material in my teaching, I quickly saw how difficult it was. I had always used small bits and pieces for inspiration, but when I started incorporating entire enchaînements in class, I realized this is too hard. And I saw something in my students that reminded me of my own experience in Bournonville classes as a student.

Not to offend anyone, but when I was in school, my teachers drained all the life out of Bournonville technique. It was pedantic. You had to do things simply because, “This is how we do it.” It felt old-fashioned—just repetition, drilling steps over and over without explanation. You had to memorize the exercises before anything else could happen. There was no breakdown of the steps. No understanding of the elements behind them.

As a teacher, I saw the same thing happening. The steps were too difficult, and suddenly, it wasn’t fun. And that’s completely opposite to how we describe Bournonville. People think, “Oh, I love Bournonville class! It’s so much fun!” Bournonville is fun, but it’s also really hard.

It’s hard because it’s intricate. It’s hard because the approach to musicality is counterintuitive to what many dancers have learned. A dancer who has trained in Vaganova technique all their life—and even those from a Cecchetti background, though Cecchetti has more similarities to Bournonville—will often struggle at first. So yes, it’s difficult.

But then, through trial and error, I started breaking things down. Instead of saying, “Jump higher,” we focused on how to prepare for the jump, how to take off, and what happens between jumps.

Rather than just expecting dancers to jump higher, we analyzed the mechanics behind it. And once we did that, I started seeing dramatic improvement. Dancers who believed they didn’t have a strong jump suddenly jumped one and a half times as high—sometimes twice as high—without changing anything else.

Once we broke it down and worked on the small technical elements, I sometimes introduced them through non-Bournonville steps first. For example, I’d say: “Let’s work on this Bournonville element, but first, we’ll apply it to a step you already know.”

If they were used to the big Russian-style technique—for instance, a running glissade into a grand jeté, like in Swan Lake or Black Swan—we’d start with that. But instead of using the traditional Vaganova running takeoff, I’d have them apply the Bournonville preparation. And when they realized that they actually got more height—and that in a small space, they could still get the same elevation—it became easier.

Many of the studios where I taught weren’t large. So when they saw that Bournonville technique allowed them to do more jumps across the floor, they became more open to it. Once they made those connections, we could go back and say, “Okay, now let’s learn the full enchaînement from one of the Bournonville classes.” And often, there was just one small element that needed to click.

For example, dancers are used to counting steps a certain way—“One, two. One, two.” But in Bournonville, it’s often “And a one,” or “One and a two.” Once they recognized that shift in rhythm and phrasing, everything became easier.

Alexander Meinertz:
I think I’ve often heard people say that one of the reasons for the difference in style and the variation and complexity of choreography in Bournonville, compared to Marius Petipa, was the size of the stage. That Bournonville had a very small stage, so dancers had to move a lot in a very small space, which made the choreography more vertical and with more changes of direction. 

If you wanted to keep people moving, those were the constraints he had to work within. And I think obviously there’s some truth to that, but maybe there’s more to it than that. What do you think?

Peter Brandenhoff:
I think there’s more to it than that. I think there’s absolute truth to it. And if I’m not mistaken, there’s an exercise in the Wednesday class that just moves side to side.

It’s a small step, some small jumps that move side to side, and when we learned it on the DVD that came out in 2005, there were two parts to the enchaînement, and they go from one to the next without stopping. But I was also told that at one point, dancers would do the first half, then walk a few steps—maybe three or four—before beginning the second half. It didn’t happen to music, but it happened within the music, like a pause, just as musicians sometimes hold a pause while the music continues.

When I first heard this, I was told that the reason for this break was that the studio wasn’t big enough to accommodate both parts of the enchaînement in one pass. The choreography hadn’t been designed to fit the room—it had to be adapted.

In terms of the choreography itself, Bournonville definitely created steps and aspects of technique that no one else was doing.

Alexander Meinertz:
Can you give some examples?

Peter Brandenhoff:
Even though it’s a naturally occurring element when you’re balancing, where you want to align your weight over your standing leg, Bournonville was famous for his grand jeté en tournant, where the dancer takes off facing the audience, possibly on a diagonal in a quasi position, and does a half-circle in the air with a jeté that moves backward, turning away from the audience, and then lands facing the audience again—sometimes turning all the way around.

Now, he didn’t invent the idea of turning while doing a jeté. Jumping while rotating has been part of the ballet vocabulary for a long time.

But what he did was introduce the element of leaving the head behind in the turn, rather than having it follow the body’s rotation. As the dancer begins to turn, they leave the head behind, almost as if they’re moving backward without looking in the direction they’re going. The body turns in the direction of travel, but the head lags behind, keeping the weight aligned over the takeoff leg.

Most students I’ve taught instinctively turn their head in the direction they’re traveling because that’s how they’ve been trained in most other styles. The moment they do that, they can’t execute the jump properly. They either don’t complete the full turn or don’t get enough height.

From what I’ve researched and experienced, no one else was doing this at the time. Cecchetti later incorporated it, but Cecchetti came 50 or 60 years after Bournonville. He also trained in Russia under Johansson, who was a student of Bournonville and had been sent there on Bournonville’s recommendation.

So this was something that simply didn’t exist before Bournonville. It wasn’t used in Baroque dance. In the Baroque era, if you moved to the right, you turned your head to the right. If you moved to the left, you turned your head to the left. You never did it the other way around.

That’s why I see this as one of Bournonville’s clearest technical innovations. I hesitate to call it an invention, because it’s really just another way of combining existing movement elements, but it was definitely unique to him.

Another thing, which ties into what we talked about earlier with big jumps, is that when you don’t have a lot of space, it’s harder to make a jump look big. 

When you have a large stage, you can use a big running takeoff, covering a lot of ground, which creates the illusion of a long jump. But if you don’t have that much space, that illusion doesn’t work. And if a dancer starts in one corner of the stage, takes two running steps, jumps, and lands in the other corner, it’s not particularly exciting for the audience.

So what I believe he did—and this makes a lot of sense to me—is that he took connecting steps that had never been used as jumping preparations and turned them into jump preparations.

One of these is the pas de bourrée couru. When we learned it in school, we just called it couru, which simply means “running.” In Baroque ballet, which preceded the Romantic ballet, there were around 90 different types of pas de bourrée, many of which aren’t really used anymore. So it’s not that he invented the pas de bourrée itself—it existed—but in Baroque ballet, it wasn’t used for big jumps. It was more of a way to create a quick change of direction or a transition between movements, and it didn’t travel very far.

I think Bournonville recognized a new use for this step. By combining it with his approach to musicality and rhythm, and by adding a deep plié and shifting the head over the takeoff leg, he was able to use it as an effective preparation for jumps.

This allowed the dancer to get more height and made the jumps more dynamic.

I don’t think he was necessarily concerned with height for its own sake. I think he was thinking about how to keep the movement exciting within the constraints of a small stage. If the jumps weren’t able to travel far, he needed to find ways to make them look just as impressive.

So those are my two clearest examples of what I believe were his innovations, developed in response to the limitations of space.

Alexander Meinertz:
There are two things I’d like to sum up from all this. One is that it’s interesting how, in trying to define the essence of the Bournonville technique, we keep coming back to musicality.

At the same time, when we talk about the Bournonville heritage at the Royal Danish Ballet, the focus is often on the storytelling—the idea that what makes the tradition unique is its narrative quality, how the storytelling tradition informs the dancers, and how that carries over into the rest of the repertory.

Today, the Royal Danish Ballet is a very international company, with fewer dancers raised in that tradition and trained in that technique, so the look isn’t what it used to be. But speaking to Amy Watson recently, I think she also feels that one of the keys to bringing it back is to focus on the drama and storytelling.

But maybe the musicality and technique are just as important—if not even more so.

Peter Brandenhoff:
I would say they’re equally important. And that’s where the recipe is.

It’s a little like cooking—you have to get the right balance of ingredients. If you focus too much on one, like adding too much salt, it overpowers the dish. So it has to have the drama, the dramatic element.

Alexander Meinertz:
The musicality and the technique. And even the mime, which in Bournonville is set to the music in a very specific way, compared to other traditions.

Peter Brandenhoff:
And that, to me, ties right back into musicality.

Unfortunately, I think that because so many of the mime-heavy ballets have been left out of the repertory for so long, there’s been a shift. Tastes change, audiences change, the world changes. Sometimes things start to feel old-fashioned. And particularly in dance, which is an art form that constantly renews itself, there’s a tendency to always move forward.

But I think it’s also important to allow things to be cyclical—to recognize that progress doesn’t always have to be a straight, linear path forward. There has to be space to look back as well.

In the mime-heavy ballets, because there’s more mime, you get an even greater sense of that musicality than you do in the ballets that are still performed regularly. 

Right now, the main ballets that remain in the repertory are La Sylphide, Napoli, and A Folk Tale, and of course, they contain mime. But limiting Bournonville’s legacy to just those ballets is like saying, “I’m going to present the works of this choreographer, but instead of performing all of the ballets, I’ll just take a few steps from each and give you a taste.”

There’s still a lot of mime in the ballets we have left, but the musicality of the mime, as I see it, is exactly the same as the musicality of his steps.

I also believe that Bournonville choreographed on multiple levels. I wasn’t alive to know the man, but from what I’ve studied, I get the sense that he was extremely deliberate. He didn’t just choreograph for the legs—he choreographed for the arms as well. And beyond that, of course, there’s the person inside the movement.

Nothing in his mime was ever just a simple, generic instruction like, “Now the mother tells her child to leave.” It was always more detailed than that. It was, “Go to the forest, down to the second bend, find the tree with the cherries, and sit there.”

And all of that is in the music.

Alexander Meinertz:
I think I’d like to ask one of the closing questions. You said you don’t know him, you didn’t meet him, but what are your impressions of him?

We’ve talked a lot about musicality, but it’s not something people usually associate with Bournonville. He didn’t have Tchaikovsky—he had lesser-known composers and what is often considered lesser music to work with. Yet now, we’re talking about his musicality as being, in some ways, superior to that of other schools.

And it’s also not something he talks about himself in his memoirs. He focuses on storytelling in his writings, and of course, he wrote technical manuals as well, but musicality is not something he specifically highlights in the way we are now.

So maybe one of the things that still needs to be uncovered and understood about him is this connection to musicality.

But what do you think of him? What do you think he was like as an artist and maybe as a person? You’ve come to know him through his work in a way that we, as historians and critics, don’t.

Peter Brandenhoff:
If I may start with what you said about comparing his musicality to other schools, I think we have to be careful with the word “superior.”

We care deeply about him and the style. I feel very strongly about the Bournonville technique and the Bournonville style, so naturally, I love it. But that doesn’t mean I love it more than something else—it’s just different. And differences make the world varied.

You also mentioned Tchaikovsky, and I think it’s important to recognize that training systems like Cecchetti and Vaganova were exactly that—training methods, just as the Bournonville schools are a training method.

Of course, there is musicality in all of them, because you cannot dance without music. Even if the music is only in your head, it’s what makes movement dance rather than just mechanical motion. But in those other systems, the music is secondary. They don’t prescribe that a particular exercise must be done with a particular piece of music or in a specific rhythm. You can take many of those exercises and play them in different meters—6/8, 2/4—and the feel of the exercise will change, just as any musician would tell you.

But when we talk about Bournonville’s musicality in his ballets and compare him to Tchaikovsky and Petipa, it’s important to remember that Petipa choreographed more than a hundred ballets. As far as I recall, he only worked with Tchaikovsky on three of them. You probably know more about this than I do, but many of Petipa’s ballets are lost. We may still have the music for some of them, but we don’t really know what they looked like.

Maybe there was something extraordinary about the combination of Tchaikovsky and Petipa, something that didn’t happen with his other ballets. Maybe we wouldn’t even know Petipa the way we do today if Tchaikovsky hadn’t written those three ballets.

It’s true that Bournonville didn’t write much about music in the way we’re discussing it now. But in both his theater work and his technical writings, he did touch on the importance of rhythm.

In Études Chorégraphiques, for example, he specifies that certain exercises should be done in a particular rhythm. I take that to mean—though this is just my interpretation—that when he states that something must be done in the rhythm of an allemande, for instance, it was clear to everyone at the time what that meant. He used Baroque dance terminology rather than the more modern ways we describe meter and rhythm today.

So when he says something should be done in an allemande rhythm, it’s not just a matter of meter. A minuet and a waltz can both be counted in three, but they are completely different in the way they feel, both in music and in dance.

I do think he was concerned with music, and I believe he worked with composers the same way Petipa worked with Tchaikovsky.

There are still choreographers today who work like that. They tell the composer, “I need 16 bars of music for this scene,” and once that’s choreographed, they say, “Now I need another 16 bars.” There’s an ongoing conversation between choreographer and composer—what is the mood, what is the feeling we want to create?

I am absolutely certain that Bournonville worked this way with all of the composers he collaborated with. They were all living composers, as was the norm at the time.

But of course, that also meant that his musicality was shaped by the composers available to him.

Would his choreography have looked different if he had been given a three-year position at the Imperial Court and worked with Tchaikovsky? They didn’t quite overlap in time, but if they had, would his ballets have evolved in a different direction because of a different sense of musicality?

That’s where Bournonville’s work becomes distinctly Danish. The music of Hartmann, Gade, and Paulli is not like what was being composed in neighboring countries at the time. It has its own unique character, just as his choreography does.

Alexander Meinertz:
So, I have to ask you—do you think Bournonville is distinctly Danish?

Peter Brandenhoff:
Well, you have to be a little more specific than that. Is he distinctly Danish? And what does that even mean? That’s the elephant in the room, right?

And—to be really annoying—I’d say yes and no.

He’s distinctly Danish by virtue of having lived and worked here, of course. But he trained in Paris—because at the time, that was the place to train. He absorbed influences from the people he worked with, the dancers he partnered with, and the techniques he learned.

Dancers are like sponges—we absorb from one another. So, I’m sure that he took inspiration from Italian-based training as well. He worked with this place—famously, of course—but he also danced alongside others at the Paris Opera, bringing back elements of what he experienced there.

But his ballets don’t look like Giselle. They are very distinct.

Now, is Giselle distinctly French? We tend not to say that—because it’s simply “ballet.” Yet, with Bournonville, we say, “Oh, he’s Danish!” I think that’s partly because we kept him here, in this little vacuum.

So when I say yes and no, the “no” part of my answer is that if you really break down his choreography, step by step—not the full variation or an entire ballet, but each movement—you’ll see that he was simply using the ballet vocabulary to suit his artistic vision, just like any choreographer would.

But the “yes” part is this: I think the reason we don’t see his ballets performed much outside Denmark isn’t because they’re mime-heavy. I actually think it’s something else.

It’s like British humor versus American humor—they’re just different sensibilities. Americans don’t always understand British humor, and vice versa. And German humor—does it even exist? (laughs) You see what I mean? There are cultural differences, and I think Bournonville’s ballets tap into something uniquely Danish.

Take Lifeguards on Amager. That’s a ballet where I understand every little detail on stage—all the subtle interactions happening in the background. That’s why the Royal Danish Ballet did so well with Petrushka and Coppélia.

Those two ballets rely on rich character details happening all over the stage. If you strip those away and just keep the main storyline—like you could with Swan Lake—it loses its essence.

And while Petrushka and Coppélia aren’t Danish ballets, there’s a Danish sensibility in them—the way they focus on human storytelling, humor, and small moments of life happening within the bigger picture.

Alexander Meinertz:
I think it’s fascinating that you mention Lifeguards on Amager because, as you say, everything about it speaks to you. It’s a piece that is deeply meaningful to you, but if you showed it to an audience in another country, it might not resonate in the same way. It feels like a very specific ballet—one that doesn’t necessarily translate across cultures.

Peter Brandenhoff:
It is a very specific ballet.

But at the same time, it has a core story element, just like Swan Lake or Napoli. And that makes me wonder—why hasn’t it traveled?

Why didn’t the Royal Danish Ballet take Lifeguards on Amager on tour? Yes, everyone wants to see Napoli, but Lifeguards has a great story—about a philanderer who cheats on his wife, and she catches him. It’s universal.

So why hasn’t it been performed internationally?

Alexander Meinertz:
That’s interesting. I think it ties into something Amy Watson has spoken about—this idea of finding the essence of Bournonville’s work and rediscovering the heritage.

But I also think there’s a balance to be found—between capturing the essence and preserving the specifics.

Peter Brandenhoff:
Oh, I absolutely agree. And I think that’s one of the key challenges.

Alexander Meinertz:
Because “essence” can be a very abstract thing. And Bournonville ballets are also very specific—both in their style and in their cultural context.

That’s the “regie” theatre idea —the idea that you can move a ballet to a different time period. With Bournonville, that doesn’t seem to work very well.

For example, Napoli is a very specific ballet. Bournonville himself said, “This is Napoli as I saw it.” He was recreating something he had actually witnessed.

So when you try to modernize or relocate a Bournonville ballet, it often doesn’t hold up. That’s something we really have to be aware of.

Peter Brandenhoff:
I completely agree.

And when we talk about essence, two choreographers come to mind.

One is Mads Ek, who took the essence of Giselle and did a brilliant retelling of it. Another is John Neumeier, who often takes classic story ballets and reimagines them—sometimes updating the time period.

And in those cases, it worked.

But you can’t do that with Lifeguards on Amager, because the story is deeply tied to its setting. That’s what makes Bournonville distinct.

Many of his ballets are based on Danish mythology and Danish history—and that’s why they might not translate well to an international audience.

The part of Napoli that feels Danish to us doesn’t necessarily feel Danish to someone outside Denmark. It’s a fine line.

So when people say, “Let’s preserve the essence of Bournonville,” I think we have to be very careful. Because what exactly is the essence? Is it the steps? Is it the musicality? Is it the dramatic element? Is it the mime? Which part defines Bournonville?

I like to compare it to cooking. Some of the best culinary innovations come from chefs who have spent their whole lives in the kitchen—who understand the tradition deeply before they evolve it.

But in ballet today, it often feels like people bring in outsiders—choreographers from outside the classical world—to “breathe fresh life” into something.

Sometimes it works beautifully—like Akram Khan’s Giselle. He’s not a classical ballet choreographer, but he understood the essence of that story and created something remarkable.

But with Bournonville?

If you don’t truly know and understand Bournonville, then I’d question what “essence” you’re actually working with.

Alexander Meinertz:
Let me ask you a final question. You just said that a Dane will see something Danish in Napoli. What do you see in Napoli that’s distinctly Danish?

Peter Brandenhoff:
The interactions between the people.

Alexander Meinertz:
So it’s present in all of his ballets—it’s not something unique to Napoli? Because Napoli is about Naples. It’s not about Midsummer in Denmark?

Peter Brandenhoff:
No, but it takes place in a foreign land—it’s set in Italy.

Yet, the way people interact on stage feels Danish. Bournonville staged what he saw in Italy, but he didn’t make the characters Italian. And I’m not saying he caricatured them either.

But the dynamics between the characters, the way the marketplace comes to life—it feels like a Danish town square. It just happens to be sunny, with Vesuvius in the background. That’s the part that feels Danish to me.

Alexander Meinertz:
Is Napoli one of your favorite Bournonville ballets? Or actually, which ballets are your favorites?

Peter Brandenhoff:
Well, as a male dancer—though I never danced James—I’ve realized over the years that I’m expected to say La Sylphide. Everyone assumes that’s what male dancers love most.

I did dance Gurn, and I do think it’s a great piece—an absolute classic.

But I’m quirky. I like ballets like Kermesse in Bruges, Kermesse in Bruges, and Lifeguards on Amager.

If I had to pick one, it would probably be Lifeguards—because it’s a fun story, it’s light, and you can watch it in two different ways: You can enjoy it as a simple, entertaining piece, or you can dive into the deeper story and really get invested.

It doesn’t feel overly heavy—whereas sometimes, La Sylphide has that weight to it. It’s almost existential—like reading Sartre, which I do enjoy, but still.

Bournonville was brilliant at fun, sprightly dancing—better than Petipa, better than Ivanov, better than Perrot. He had this ability to create joyful, effortless movement.

Another ballet that I love—though I’m not supposed to say this in today’s world—is Far from Denmark.

It’s full of fantastic dancing, but today, some of its portrayals are considered offensive. And I understand that. But if we strip away the costumes, the context, the cultural aspects, and just look at the steps—it’s brilliant.

And that goes back to what you were saying: you can’t actually do that.

You can’t take Far from Denmark or Lifeguards on Amager, remove all the cultural markers, and just perform the steps—because those details tell part of the story.

With Balanchine, you can do that—you can strip a ballet down to just pure movement, and it still works beautifully. But with Bournonville? If you remove the cultural elements, I think you lose essential context. So for me, Far from Denmark and Lifeguards on Amager are at the top of my list.

Alexander Meinertz:
There’s one ingredient we haven’t talked about.

When you read Bournonville’s own words—especially toward the end of his life—or look at reviews in the decades after his death, you see a recurring theme. Generation after generation, people say: “We’re losing the spirit of Bournonville.” And if that spirit isn’t there, then the ballets cease to exist in their true form. That spirit is what you’ve been circling around in this conversation.

Peter Brandenhoff:
Yes—but that’s not just a challenge for Bournonville. It’s something that every great choreographer’s legacy faces. A good example is Balanchine. The people who inherited his works—his dancers, the Balanchine Trust—they’ve done an incredible job of keeping the spirit of his ballets alive. Because so much of dance is alive—it exists in the moment, in the interpretation. And when the choreographer isn’t there anymore, something inevitably changes.

Alexander Meinertz:
Great, Peter. This has been very interesting—thank you. We’ll talk again.

Peter Brandenhoff:
We only scratched the surface today.