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Princess Buppha Devi was twenty-three when she danced for General de Gaulle on the terrace in front of Angkor Wat. That was over thirty years ago, in 1966, before the Vietnam War and the Cambodian holocaust, when Cambodia was a very different place. In his memoirs, Sihanouk Reminisces, her father, King Sihanouk, recalled the occasion. “One of the highlights of the de Gaulles’ stay was a visit to the temples of Angkor and the spectacular son et lumière I arranged in the venerable setting of Angkor Wat, the magnificence of which had never been seen before. De Gaulle was spellbound by the fireworks and by the performances which followed.”

This is how Sihanouk’s biographer, Milton Osborne, described what was normally laid on for visiting Heads of State: “All would watch the traditional classical Cambodian dances performed to the music of the pinpeat orchestra, a mix of drums, gongs, traditional clarinets and strings. Seen for the first time, this was a truly exotic scene as dancers, richly clad in silks shot through with gold thread, played out stories drawn from ancient Indian legends. At times the dancing was slow and measured, full of abstract grace. At other times it was marked by buffoonery, as dancers playing the parts of monkeys in aversion of the Ramayana scratched for fleas beneath their armpits. Adding a special touch of glamour to these performances was the fact that the principal female dancer was Sihanouk’s beautiful daughter Buppha Devi.”

Cambodian classical dance – or court ballet, as it is sometimes known - dates back to the time of the Khmer Empire at Angkor (the ninth to the fifteenth century) and has been associated with the Royal Court of Cambodia for over a thousand years. It is composed primarily of episodes from the Reamker, which is the Cambodian version of the great Hindu epic, the Ramayana. Although it is based on the Indian epic, the Reamker contains many episodes that do not exist in the original, and, unlike the Brahmanist Ramayana, it is interpreted from a Buddhist point of view. It is also a uniquely Cambodian representation of social relationships and the moral universe, where the dancer embodies the Khmer ideals of beauty, grace and continuity – continuity not only between past and present, but also between the realm of the gods and that of men.

Cambodian classical dance has always been under the protection of the royal family with dancers traditionally being taken into the Palace and being brought up there. Even today, when dance has become less associated with the royal family, it is not unusual for dancers to spend a certain amount of time at the Palace. A special building, the Chan Chaya, meaning of the Shadow of the Moon, Pavilion, intended for performances of classical dance, was constructed by King Sisowath, Sihanouk's great-great-uncle, within the Royal Palace compound. In 1906, Sisowath took a troupe of nearly one hundred dancers to France. There the sculptor, Auguste Rodin, then aged sixty-six, was entranced by the dancers when he saw them perform at a reception given by the Minister of Colonies in the Bois du Boulogne in Paris. “The Cambodians,” he wrote soon afterwards, “have shown us everything that antiquity could have contained. It is impossible to think of anyone wearing human nature to such perfection; except them and the Greeks.” Rodin drew the dancers over and over again, saying, “The friezes of Angkor were coming to life before my very eyes.”

When I interviewed Princess Buppha Devi recently in Phnom Penh, she told me that she had learned “to dance almost as soon as she could walk.” Her mother, a commoner, was also a dancer, but it was her grandmother, Queen Kossamak, who took charge of her and moulded her as a dancer. In Cambodian classical dance, a dancer usually dances only one role, or at the most, two. Princess Buppha Devi’s role was always that of “Apsara”, as the heavenly dancing girls who decorate the walls of the temples at Angkor are called. In pre-Vedic Indian mythology, the Apsara were water nymphs who lived in lotus pools. They were very beautiful and sometimes lured men to their deaths; they were also associated with fertility rites. Apsara was also the name of Sihanouk’s first feature film; Princess Buppha Devi starred in the title role.

De Gaulle wasn’t the only world leader to be captivated by the Princess’s dancing and by her beauty. She also performed for General Tito, China’s Chou en-Lai and President Sukarno (the last admired her so much that he apparently asked Sihanouk for her hand in marriage), as well as for Jacqueline Kennedy and Princess Margaret. But, when the Khmer Rouge seized control of the country in 1975, the dancing had to stop. Millions of Cambodians died and many fled their homeland. Princess Buppha Devi was amongst those who left. She went with Queen Kossomak to Peking in 1973, and she didn’t come back to Cambodia until 1991 when her father also returned home after years of exile. Many of the years away were spent in Paris where Princess Buppha Devi encountered Cambodian musicians and dancers who had also fled the terror. There she gave lessons to young dancers and, in 1982, she visited the refugee camps that had been set up along the Thai-Cambodian border in order to teach dance. Princess Buppha Devi is now Minister of Culture and Fine Arts in her country’s government, a job she takes very seriously. But Cambodian classical dance, which she regards as part of the national heritage, remains her passion.

One Monday morning in early October, on the first day back at school for the students at the Faculty of Fine Arts, where both classical and traditional dance are taught (as well as Khmer literature), I went to watch Ouk Phalla rehearse. Phalla is a prima ballerina and also the dancer who is said most to resemble Princess Buppha Devi in the role of Apsara. I had interviewed her at the school few days before. Like all classical dancers, she began her rigorous training as a child when she was just nine years old. She first performed in public at the age of thirteen. Now aged twenty-three, she is as beautiful as a lotus blossom and as graceful as a willow. I asked her to show me how far back she could bend her fingers. Effortlessly she pushed them back until they touched her wrist.

Minutes after Phalla had returned from changing into her practice outfit, a piece of dark cloth folded to make a pair of loose trousers and worn with a silver chain belt, and a tightly-fitting low-necked blouse, the Princess, flanked by her three Pekinese dogs, arrived to supervise the rehearsal. The rehearsal orchestra started up: a double-sided drum, a gamelan (which is a sort of oriental xylophone) and a big wooden wheel festooned with tinkling bells. Simultaneously a chorus of four elderly women began a kind of high-pitched, nasal chant. While the dogs jumped on and off the stage and ran round and round, Princess Buppha Devi carefully scrutinised three dancers, including Phalla, as they performed the Apsara dance.

The dance can involve as few as three and as many as nine dancers (one of whom is always the star – in this case, Phalla). It had a curious, dreamy quality to it, a serenity and a kind of timelessness as though it could go on forever. This was in part because of the music which seems other-worldly, in part because none of the movements were fast – they were all slow and graceful but intensely controlled – and in part because of the ethereal beauty and incredible sweetness of expression of Phalla.

As the Pekes frisked around Phalla’s contorted legs, their mistress demonstrated nuances of gesture to the dancers. At nearly sixty, the Princess retains the grace and flexibility of a much younger woman, as does Em Theay, another dancer (and former teacher of Princess Buppha Devi), who still dances and teaches although she is sixty-nine.

Em Theay is one of the few dancers left from before 1975. Many died during what Cambodians always refer to as “Pol Pot time”, a period, as every Cambodian whom you meet will tell you, of exactly three years, eight months and twenty days; others have died of old age. Em Theay, she told me, had been the Queen’s cook; her father “servant to the old King.” At the age of seven, she was chosen to train as a dancer by Queen Kossomak and when Sihanouk became king, she went to live at the Palace. Her role was, and is, that of the Giant or Reap, a part that is traditionally played by a strong woman (Em Theay is, however, tiny by Western standards); she was happy to demonstrate for us some of the gestures and steps, and also to show us several albums of photographs of her in the role and at the Palace where she still often spends her days.

When the Khmer Rouge came, Em Theay was forty-three. She was forced to go to Battambang Province in the northwest of the country. “Everyone knew I was a dancer and they liked to see me dance,” she said, “I also looked after children. I sang songs to send them to sleep and people would gather round to listen.” Now Em Theay teaches at the National Theatre and at the Faculty of Fine Arts (in the old days, she even taught Princess Buppha Devi). She still performs and, when we met, was preparing for a show in Singapore. Both her daughter and her granddaughter are dancers, but she fears for the future of Cambodian classical dance. She says that the government is not sufficiently careful enough about safeguarding Khmer culture and civilization. Her fears are echoed by Ouk Phalla who says, “Young people prefer Karaoke to classical dance.” Phalla believes that it is her duty as a dancer to preserve her heritage, to help Cambodia and to be a symbol of Cambodia. In this, she echoes Princess Buppha Devi’s claims for classical dance. “The dance is sacred; we do it for the glory of God.”

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