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                                                                                1992 WINTER OLYMPICS, Page 58

Fire On Ice


Now that the daring, dancing Duchesnays are the favorites, are
they playing it too safe?

By JILL SMOLOWE -- Reported by Rhea Schoenthal/Oberstdorf


    In the top ranks of ice dancing, there are couples who
dazzle with their crowd-pleasing flair and those who enrapture
with their graceful lines; duos who amuse with their spunky
choreography and those who astound with the technical brilliance
of their footwork. But rarely do a couple bring such artistry
and innovation to the sport that they leave unerasable tracks
in the ice long after they have retired from amateur
competition. In 1984 Britain's Jayne Torvill and Christopher
Dean did just that with their gold-winning Olympic performance
to Ravel's Bolero. Now come France's Isabelle and Paul
Duchesnay, a sister-and-brother team as explosive and exotic as
Torvill and Dean were cool and polished. If the British
champiwere elegance on ice, the French pair set the rink afire.

    As the reigning world champions, the Duchesnays are
favored to capture the gold medal in Albertville. Win or lose,
however, they have already secured their place among that elite
handful of partners who have transformed the sport. In 1988 they
broke ground with their primitive Savage Rites routine at the
Calgary Games. Although they were shunned by the judges,
finishing a distant eighth, the Duchesnays were clearly the
people's choice.

    Four years later, dragging the judges and the sport behind
them, they exemplify a bold, contemporary approach to ice
dancing. While the two top couples from the former Soviet Union
favor exacting, classical lines, Isabelle likens the Duchesnays'
effect to "picking up a pail of paint and going splash, splash."
The appeal of the two styles is strikingly different. "One is
a Picasso, the other a Renoir," says Isabelle. These days a
jarring number of other competitors also want to be Picasso.

    The adulation and emulation pressure the Duchesnays to
produce something newer still. And that, as they well know, is
a risky venture. A year ago at the European championships in
Sofia, they gambled on an abstract program titled Reflections.
Skated to pianist George Winston's New Age music, the program
bombed with a few judges and many spectators. After a
disappointing second-place finish, the duo hastily prepared a
new four-minute program in time for the 1991 world
championships, just six weeks away. With choreographic
inspiration and direction from Christopher Dean -- whom Isabelle
married in May -- the Duchesnays prepared an upbeat sequel to
their 1990 Missing routine and glided away with their first
world title.

    In the Olympics they will be on thin ice once again. Last
month the Duchesnays withdrew from the European championships
after Paul suffered a flare-up of an old groin injury. The
default neither jeopardized the Duchesnays' berth on the French
team nor presaged a no-show in Albertville -- "We will be there
if we have to crawl," Isabelle assures. But it cost them a
valuable opportunity to preview their new long program, an
intricate dance choreographed by Dean and set to music from West
Side Story. A routine that relies on such familiar strains is
unlikely to meet with the resistance Reflections did. But this
time the Duchesnays risk the unthinkable: appearing trite. "With
West Side Story, it's twice as hard to come up with something
that will impress people," admits Isabelle. "We're trying to
show people that even with the old stuff, you can turn it
around and do something else."

    They have always skated at the edge -- and sometimes over
it. Originally intent on the more athletic pairs-skating
competition, the team switched to ice dancing in 1978 after
Isabelle fractured her skull during a training session. In 1987
they had to skip the French nationals after Paul's blade sliced
open three of Isabelle's fingers. Two years later they missed
the European championship while Isabelle recuperated from three
knee operations. Just last August, Isabelle was injured once
more, this time pulling a tendon and snapping a bone in her
foot. Though she was back on the ice after only two months of
rest, a 1 1/4-in. screw now holds the fractured bone in place.

    The children of a Canadian father and a French mother,
they hold dual citizenship. Paul, 30, was born in the Lorraine
region of France, while Isabelle, 28, was born near Montreal.
For years, Canada judged their skating second rate. After being
relegated by the Canadians to an alternate berth for the world
championships in 1985, the Duchesnays accepted an offer to
compete for France, then moved to the German town of Oberstdorf
to train with Martin Skotnicky. Despite their mixed ancestry --
plus a German home, a Slovak coach and an English choreographer
-- their loyalties are undivided. "If it were not for the
French," says Isabelle, "we would not be here today."

    On the ice, it is impossible to detect where one
Duchesnay's effort ends and the other's begins. They insist that
their musical, athletic and competitive talents are equally
matched. "We split the stunts up fifty-fifty," says Isabelle.
Concurs Paul: "There isn't one who's lazier than the other.''
Having spent almost every day of their lives together since
adolescence, they claim to be totally in synch. "I know exactly
how he feels on the ice every minute of every day," Isabelle
states. Remarkably, the two say they have never considered
splitting up the team. "Even if we lose," says Isabelle, "we'll
go professional together."

    Off the ice, the differences emerge quickly. Isabelle, who
is pursuing a degree in psychology, tends to take the lead.
Impulsive and peremptory, she is quick to cut Paul off and
correct him when she believes he has misspoken. Whether
listening or speaking, she conveys nervous energy, often
jiggling one leg or the other. "I fly off the handle," she
admits, "but Paul is strong too." Paul, who has completed a
degree in molecular genetics, is as soft-mannered, courteous and
obliging as Isabelle is wired and impatient. "People who see me
stimulated on ice are disappointed when they see me in reality,"
he says. Interjects Isabelle, not one to brook any criticism of
her partner, even from Paul himself: "He's such a puppy dog off
the ice, but give him a pair of skates and he turns kamikaze."

    These days, both are in killer mode, training as much as
six hours a day. "Tilt it more! Arch your back!" Dean prods
them during workouts in Oberstdorf. Sometimes the sessions are
brutal. "I'm glad my mother isn't watching," Isabelle says. "We
step on each other's feet, cut our hands. Paul was hospitalized
once with a nose hemorrhage." Isabelle's melodramatic
description may be part of the Duchesnays' Olympic psych-up. As
front runners, they have to work all the harder to maintain the
diehard, embattled anxiety they will be relying on to spin their
dreams and defiant artistry into gold.