Baryshnikov

By Adam Brownstein — Tokyo, Japan — July 12, 2026

Early on in our marriage, my Japanese wife endured an intense indoctrination into the most salient canon of Western culture.

This was, as you may guess, enjoying the full panoply of Friends (all 236 episodes from the first Rachel and Ross meet cute to the final glance through the keyhole of Apartment #20) as well as all six seasons of Sex in the City.

Though not really the target audience, I found watching Sex in the City with my wife to be fun. I particularly appreciated the steady stream of suitors vying for Carrie Bradshaw’s enduring love, trying to guess whom she would select in the end. There was the fleeting, yet inadequate publishing peer, Jack Berger. Later, the principled carpenter, Aiden Shaw, cut his way into her charms. And of course, the focal point of her romantic life, Mr. Big.

The one I was rooting for was Aleksandr Petrovsky, the emphatic romantic art doyen, fond of the grand gesture but ultimately emotionally unavailable to the heroine of the series. It was not that I found the Petrovsky character relatable (across the entire Sex in the City spectrum I am much more akin to Miranda’s Steve). Rather, since the tender age of 10, I had been a big fan of Mikhail Baryshnikov, the Latvian born imperator of all things dance.

After receiving political asylum in the U.S. from the Soviet Union in 1974 Baryshnikov wanted to challenge himself by learning new choreographic “languages” outside of his classical roots. Legend has it that his Studio 54 bestie, the indefatigable Liza Minnelli, co-hatched a bold crossover project entitled “Baryshnikov on Broadway”. The concept piece, which debuted on PBS in 1980 to much fanfare, afforded the grande danseur a bold onramp to the universe of American jazz and Broadway tap, pushing his physical boundaries to adapt to the specialized coordination, acting, and body isolation required for musical theater.

The powers that be at PBS cunningly slotted the dancing duo to premiere right after an episode of The Electric Company. Moreover, my parents, who were ardent show tunes aficionados, forced me to watch up against my will. I winced through the opening credits and soft explanations of the Great American Songbook, hoping for a quick end to my suffering. But as the curtain came up for the opening number from “Oklahoma” something clicked for me. The set, featuring the wide pastoral of the flyover States, framed the dancers perfectly. The title track from Oklahoma, followed by a tawdry rendition of “Ain’t Misbehavin’” with the buxom Nel Carter, demonstrated a stirring cocktail of movement, narrative and song.

Up until then dancing was something that I awkwardly attempted in the PE room at Walter Hayes Elementary School (go WILDCATS!). But now I saw it as a means of communication. Body talk could convey joy, and then, suddenly, morph into pain. It could tell a story. It could tell a joke!

Henceforth I began to appreciate the idioms of movement. Beyond Baryshnikov’s pure dance there was the hybrid of dance and slapstick, demonstrated by Gregory Hines’s cheeky Ethopian Shim Sham in “The History of the World Part I”. Slapstick could be sharpened by conflict per the timeless Jackie Chan, who, some say, used to sit in the front row of movie theaters to study what made people laugh in the rows behind him. Melissa McCarthy proved that slapstick could be a tad raunchy when she invited Not Air Marshall John to experience the heat from her undercarriage mid-flight in “Bridesmaids”.

And films about the Mafia showed that less could be more. Witness the stoic, predatory glance from De Niro’s Jimmy Conway when he determines that Morrie needs to get wacked over the Lufthansa heist. And what about Morgana King, as Mama Corleone, expressing cold disappointment when Talia Shire turns up with the feckless Merle at Michael Jr.’s first communion fête.

The dance of life, I have come to know, is hardly limited to the silver screen . And nowhere do I see this more than in Japan. The patterns of residency in Tokyo reveal a kind of choreographic order that lives in the big spaces and little moments here. Sit with a cortado at the coffee bar on the second level of Shinagawa Station, and you will spy a river of salarymen flowing down the center towards the mammoth towers of Canon, Microsoft and Sony. Flanking them to the right and left, are small streams of commuters wading in the opposite direction towards Takanawa. The whole thing looks counter intuitive; how can a tributary run against the larger river? That awkward balance is what makes it so hypnotic. Similar is the morning commute on the Toyoko Line from Yokohama into the deep heart of Shibuya; those waiting to board wait patiently to the side while the crush of express commuters escape from the densely packed train cars.

Many would point to the tea ceremony or sumo as the ultimate expressions of communication in motion for the Japanese. Their grace and power respectively are the stuff of legend. I actually have a minor case of PTSD when it comes to the whole tea ceremony thing. Many years ago, I attended a session designed for Padawans like me in the great temple complex of ancient Nara. It demanded that I endure about 45 minutes sitting seiza style on my haunches with my shins pressed flat against the floor. At the conclusion of the lesson I had seemingly lost all blood flow to my lower extremities. Beyond my idiosyncratic fear of tea ceremonies, they are also reserved for special occasions, not everyday life.

In contrast, there is a splendidly pedestrian tradition of movement in Japan for which I hold a special place in my schmaltzy heart. It is the exchange of business cards, a common two-step gig that many years languishing in middle management have allowed me to master. There is the great lead up, when the two most senior ranking members of each side are waved in to meet in the middle of the board room, like Roberto Duran and Sugar Ray Leonard in the Lousiana Super Dome. From there, each member unsheathes a single name card from a purpose built wallet. The card is presented with both hands, making sure that the name is presented facing out to the benefit of the recipient. The meishi is studied for a brief moment and then placed with a deft card into the top of the card wallet.

Next the minhag calls for a delicate waltz of hierarchy. Each senior member makes their way down through the ranks of the other company. The cards are exchanged a bit differently here, as the low level functionaries must bend beneath their honored guest as a sign of tribute. Once, when I was visiting an important customer I nearly pulled a hammy reaching low enough to fetch the card from the waiting thumbs of a junior manager. How odd, I thought; your company is paying mine millions of shekels for our software, yet you are the one extending reverence my way. What gives?

Finally, once seated, each member of the meeting deftly fans the received cards before them. The vibe is very Sean Connery vs. Sylvia Trench from their chemin de fer baccarat scene in “Dr. No”. Although to be fair, the meetings rarely conclude with one side attempting to off the other by way of a carefully placed venomous spider.

There are a thousand and one other examples of the power of moment here in Tokyo. The gentle bow of the little old lady who boards the #32 bound from Nozawa to Ikejiri-Ohashi. The affable proprietor of Le Petite Maison wine shoppe who motions with an outstretched palm for me to place my backpack in a wicker basket by the door. This is, of course, to prevent me from knocking over an end cap of Chinon. And the kindly wave of my most fit septuagenarian neighbor, Mr. Yoshino, as he races by me in Komazawa park during my snails pace morning 5K loop.

All of this movement stems from an invisible force that both guides and shapes the culture of Japan. It used to baffle me, but as I’ve grown older, it has afforded me great comfort. My spoken language makes hard won gains. My written skills, I sense, are regressing. But the visual queues are no harder than learning the box step. The key is keep your eyes forward, stay alert and smile as you go.