flipsy

Damian Woetzel says he'd be "very interested" in being Peter Martins' successor at NYCB. (NY Times, December 31.) Christopher Wheeldon says he's not, so he's starting his own smaller company. (NY Times, January 4). Peter Boal says nothing, but he's already had his own troupe, and now runs a major company. Helgi Tomasson runs the oldest ballet company in America. Nilas Martins has a pickup group that dances in Central Park. And then there's Suzanne Farrell. (Of course, no one knows when the job will be open. But ... ) Question: who do you think should succeed Peter Martins, and why? This is not a poll, but a discussion, so please write about as many candidates as you want. The list above is just for starters.

Harvard hotshot Damian Woetzel says he's interested. Christopher Wheeldon says he's not (NY Times, January 4) but he wants to run his own company. Peter Boal says nothing, but already is running a major company. Helgi Tomasson runs the oldest ballet company in America. Nilas Martins has a pickup group that dances in Central Park. And then there's Suzanne Farrell. Question: Do we need a forum on who should succeed Peter Martins? I think it's a good idea, because I believe the discussion should not just be left to the "powers that be at NYCB." The public has an interest in this, no?

Returning, if only briefly, to a less vexing subject: Thanks to Paul Parish for his comparison of Act One to Joyce’s story “The Dead.”(12/3.) It made me take a new look at the party scene. After many viewings, I think I am finally starting to see the threads that connect it all. As Paul noted, Dr. Stahlbaum is a crucial character: the host, the master of ceremonies, the dance leader, the disciplinarian, even the good son – e.g. when he takes grandma’s hand for one figure in the grandfather dance, so she won’t be left without a partner. The party is the kind of multi-generational event that occurs only around Christmas and such festivals, and it serves as a kind of wide-shot of civilization, a metaphor for continuity. What makes Balanchine’s and Joyce’s party scenes so extraordinary is that they don’t just show the wide-shot but the close-up details, illuminating not just the well-known story of civilization but all the conflicts within it. Everybody may be at the same party, but they all have their own agendas, from Drosselmeier’s peculiar mission to Fritz’s need to make chaos out of order. Even the maids can be fascinating. What are they thinking as they come and go? I’ve seen other companies do the party scene, but none like NYCB. These parts were created here, and are part of the culture. It’s funny that grandma is often played by a teenage apprentice – such as Kathryn Morgan today (12/23/06) – but it might also be an important rite of initiation. At both performances I saw this week, the grandpas were played by young men better known for their leaping -- Troy Schumacher and Giovanni Villalobos. Both of them were just right: creaking but not doddering, ancient but still able to dance. On the other hand, Adam Hendrickson as Drosselmeier showed way too much youthful athleticism. Young Drosselmeiers need to watch the old masters, Andrei Kramarevsky and Robert La Fosse. Krammy has always been my favorite; his cape swirls are very Bolshoi. But I am coming to like the way La Fosse plays Drosselmeier as a roué. It’s as though you can smell the gin on his breath.

Somebody mentioned the “hard-sell” in a recent Nutcracker review, and I thought of that phrase several times at tonight’s (12/21/06) performance. It seems to me that Balanchine’s choreography is rewarding and demanding enough without anyone trying to add anything to it. Just mind the music and do the steps, full out – it’s all there. But a few of the featured dancers seemed to think that their job was to “push the envelope,” alternately speeding up and stretching out the choreography so that it bent the musical phrasing nearly to the breaking point. This used to be the property of second-rate club singers trying to put their personal stamp on standards. Ashley Bouder has impressed lots of people with such tricks – and alarmingly, one of them may have been the teenage Tiler Peck, who marred an otherwise brilliant performance as Dew Drop by being too self-consciously lightning-quick with those straight-leg crossover steps, and later too lengthy with the preparation for her tour jetes. Peck is too good a dancer for this, she doesn’t need it. I must add that her arabesque exits were luxurious, her fouettes were relaxed and full, and her slow turns in the finale were absolutely carved in the air. Likewise, Candy Cane Daniel Ulbricht didn’t need to jerk himself around so fast in those twisting turns inside the hoop. Tchaikovsky had the rhythm right. Teresa Reichlen as Coffee also looked like she was overdoing it. This is the most feline piece of choreography Balanchine ever did, and cats don’t strain themselves. That’s the downside, and I led with it because I’m afraid that hot-dog aesthetics are gaining strength by default in the present-day cultural vacuum of NYCB. Having said it, let me now praise those who just gave us the steps, and made the sublime world of Balanchine’s Nutcracker come to life again. Ana Sophia Scheller can do anything, but doesn’t seem to feel the need to overdo it. She looked as if she was actually having fun with the fussy choreography of Marzipan, frisky as a lamb in her gargouillades. Giovanni Villalobos did all the jumps as Tea, but the best part of his performance was the funny little mincing steps and finger-gestures of his Chinaman. Glen Keenan and Ashley Laracey were in full bloom, leading a corps of luxuriant flowers. But setting the tone for all of act two was a regal Sugar Plum Fairy. Maria Kowroski’s arabesques are so expansive that a magic wand seems to fit naturally at the top. Everything she did in this performance seemed extra-large and sure, e.g. the flying leaps onto Charles Askegard’s shoulder, rarely done with such abandon. The kids were also classy, in the best tradition of this show. Harrison Coll danced like a perfect little prince, but with the aggression of a fighter when he needed it. And little Fritz was the first to show me exactly what’s wrong with this kid: In Jonathan Alexander’s interpretation, it’s a clear case of ADHD. When he runs across the set to yank his sister’s hair, we see that he just can’t help it. Maurice Kaplow conducted. The horns were unpredictable, as always, but the tempi were unassailable.

In the annals of The Nutcracker, it’s probably a rare feat for a dancer to triumph both as the Sugar Plum Fairy’s Cavalier, and also as Drosselmeier. But last weekend, as Miami City Ballet opened its holiday season at the Philharmonic in Naples, Luis Serrano did it twice in two days. Serrano played the old man at the matinees, then turned around to do the cavalier in the evening performances. If you didn’t read the program it would be next to impossible to know that this was the same guy. As the cavalier he was a spinning, leaping Danseur Noble, a perfect gentleman with his fairy consort. As Drosselmeier, he was a doddering, myopic, cranky old man, single-minded in his mission of introducing an innocent girl to the mysteries of the erotic imagination. This Drosselmeier wears a frozen sneer, and eats most of the nuts he cracks for the children. And he keeps his impassive, matter-of-fact demeanor even as he takes on his demonic role, directing the mice in their assault on Marie. These days, most performers put at least a little Disney into their Drosselmeier, making him into a kindly eccentric, a cleaned-up cartoon version of creeping old age. Serrano eschews all that, and the minimalism of his approach allows the dark symbolism to emerge in the mice, the Nutcracker and the frankly phallic Christmas tree. MCB’s tree is made of cloth, and unfurls upward like a cobra before lighting up like fireworks. In the shadow of all this, Marie’s anxiety attack is entirely credible. The role of the cavalier could not be more different, but it’s also susceptible to the dumbed-down approach. Serrano, though, rejects the easy way of turning him into a disposable Ken doll for Princess Barbie. Instead he goes about his work with the same dispassionate intensity he brought to Drosselmeier – here a super-wrangler for the ballerina, who clears the space with javelin jetes and scythe-like turns a la seconde. MCB’s marketing slogan this year is something about being superhuman, which seems over the top, but Serrano lives up to the hype. Watching him in either role, one does not wonder whether we might be able to do the same. It’s clear we couldn’t, or wouldn’t. So he opens the door to existence beyond the mundane – the realm of art. Mary Carmen Catoya and Jennifer Kronenberg also did double duty, performing as both the Sugar Plum Fairy and Dew Drop. It was a satisfying double-double. Kronenberg defined both roles in the matinees, sure on her feet and strong through the core. Then Catoya came along and added a little more flair – extending higher and diving deeper into each role. Both these ladies exuded the cool radiance that makes the air so rare in Balanchine’s Land of Sweets. So did Katia Carranza, who thrilled with her arrow-like extensions in a low lift by cavalier Serrano. Other definitive performances came from Haiyan Wu, who opened up the Arabian dance with willowy limbs and precise chimes of the finger-cymbals, and from each of the Delgado sisters, Patricia and Jeannette, with pointes like pins leading the Marzipan shepherdesses. Newcomer Alex Wong outdid nearly everyone I’ve ever seen in the Chinese dance. His split leaps were impossibly high, wide and quick – I think he even threw in an extra one at the end before scrambling back into his box. Watch this guy. Tiffany Hedman and Charlene Cohen looked expansive and joyous as the demi-flowers. Cohen’s battements were truly grand, not just over her head, but perfectly shaped through the foot. A kick like this, emerging from layers of wildly colored tropical chiffon, was MCB magic – Christmas in Florida. Nutcracker season is a chance for everyone to shine, and some of the younger members of the corps sparkled repeatedly. Among them were the mysteriously serene and supple Kristin D’Addario, and the voluptuous apprentice Maira Barriga, not always in sync with her sisters, but justifying the distraction, e.g. with a juicy twist of the torso in the Spanish dance. Last but not least, there’s Zoe Zien, who has come into her own in her second year in the corps. Zien is small, but seems to expand as she articulates every joint of every limb to set off her movements, flashing her fingers like fine jewelry. She put the icing on the snow. What’s not to like? Very little, except for the near-total absence of boys in the children’s parts. There were plenty of Fritzes in the audience. So come on parents, how about letting them raise a little hell on stage?

It's been a long time since I saw such a scene at the New York State Theater; a smiling choreographer taking hands with grateful dancers for curtain call after curtain call. That was the scene tonight after the premier of Alexei Ratmansky's "Russian Seasons," which, unlike most premieres in recent years, looks like a natural addition to the NYCB repertory. Distantly derived from Russian folk dances, with six couples in different colors, it's reminiscent of Robbins' Dances at a Gathering, but with a lot more punch and depth. Composer Leonid Desyatnikov takes his tunes and texts from Russian tradition -- with soulful, sliding violin solos and an earthy mezzo-soprano. The songs are sad, in the Russian style -- a young girl engaged to an old man she hates, another whose soldier boy doesn't come home from the war, and a closing hymn about how in the next world, we need nothing but six feet of earth and four boards. But the last line says Alleluia, Alleluia, thine is the glory, our Lord! Why were the dancers grateful? Because here they had a choreographer who created for them, on them, seeing their gifts and exploiting and expanding them. Ratmansky understands the potential in the feminine lyricism of Jenifer Ringer, the aggressive brilliance of Sofiane Sylve, the tragic ethereality of Wendy Whelan. He differentiated them and gave them each something to dance that they could make their own. The whole cast looked thrilled -- the usually dour Alina Dronova kicking up the dust as she revealed her Russian roots, Sean Suozzi tucking up his legs for maximum daylight, Abi Stafford and Georgina Pazcoguin flashing one radical angle after another. But in the end, the ballet belongs to Whelan and Albert Evans, a pair for all seasons. Their closing pas de deux is a tragic denouement and a benediction all in one, just like the words to the song. Go, see.

All-female dance ensembles nearly always look as though they're lacking something, but that's not the case with the Caitlin Corbett Dance Company. Corbett's favored cast -- in four of her six pieces presented May 7 at Boston University -- was a cluster of five or six women who move in dynamic, muscular fashion, usually in subgroups of two or three. Dancing in parallel, shifting formations, they make their mark with powerful turning leaps, falls, kicks, and thrusts of the upper body. Female power is the engine here, but it's not exclusively or even typically female; it's the kick of the human being against the obstacles and frustrations of life. And unlike much pusillanimous modern dance, this choreography has the dancers not just succumbing, but punching through. The most powerful piece on the program was a premiere, "Little Known Facts," a sextet set to a pastiche of spoken words and quirky songs by The Books, with a video of home movies and vintage newsreel material. The video, assembled by Ann Steuernagel, begins and ends with a black-and-white silent film of an avalanche coming down a mountain. It's an apt metaphor for the forces Corbett is invoking: natural, beautiful, and dangerous. The six dancers caught all aspects of it, in a performance that built in intensity to a typically perverse Corbett conclusion. At the end, all but a couple of dancers clear out, and the two are left in shadows, with the avalanche descending, and a woman's voice that says, in a tone of hurt resignation, "He really thought he could just stop." (Or something close to that.) The aftereffect is one of powers let loose, inevitable and uncontrollable, and ultimately tragic. Outstanding among the dancers were the diminutive dynamo Kaela Lee, her whiplash movements set off by the softer and more generous gestures of Meghan McLyman, and the fierceness of tall, wiry Alissa Cardone. Also on the bill was a new duet for a man and a woman, Victor Tiernan and Nicole Pierce, that was supposed to be a contrast of male and female torsos in Corbett's typical parallel movement. However, the experiment fell victim to Boston's bluenose traditions. Somebody freaked out upon learning there was to be full frontal female toplessness, so Pierce had to perform in a brassiere. The censorship literally obscured the point of the piece, and maybe of the whole program: that women are indeed different from men, but they can do nearly everything that men can, and in many cases are more interesting to watch.

I saw the video of Verdy and Villella in La Source in the Dance Collection of the NY Public Library, at Lincoln Center. It's black and white, silent and incomplete, but it was a thrill to see. Verdy's details are exquisite, and Villella does a series of leaps, opening out from an etrechat into a 90 degree plus extension a la seconde, that no gazelle could match for grace. See for yourself!

For a New Yorker who sometimes feels frustrated with NYCB, a weekend with Miami City Ballet in Ft. Lauderdale was the perfect cure. Western Symphony in particular was a smash. I was amazed to feel tears springing to my eyes as the curtain rang down on that townful of madly twirling cowboys and dance-hall girls. In New York the ballet has gotten tired over the years; the dancers seem to be mocking the western cliches rather than re-energizing them. Not so in MCB! Villella has the whole cast running at a gallop, and loving it. The climax came right where it needed to be, with outrageously leggy turns and twists by the Diamond Lil figure of the fourth movement. Principal Michele Merrell set the standard for sophisticated raunchiness on Saturday, and corps dancer Allyne Noelle matched it on Sunday. Backing them up was a terrific corps, with long-legged Kristin D'Addario sticking out as a future queen of the saloon. As for the men, these are real cowboys -- gauchos, actually, but cowboy culture is as indigenous to Latin as to North America. Guys like Luis Serrano, Renato Penteado and Carlos Guerra look completely at home where the buffalo roam, and their swaggering style even rubs off on colleagues like Mikhail Ilyin and Kenta Shimizu. I had begun to think of Western Symphony as a dated piece, but the immigrant blood of this company renews America's frontier spirit, with a bang. As for La Source, I agree that Haiyan Wu has captured the subtlety and grace of the Violette Verdy part, but she does it in her own way and makes it new. She is an artist of the upper body, using the arms, wrists, hands and fingers to stretch out the musical phrases, giving them her own extremely free but still totally musical interpretations. She also projects an air of calm, the same feeling but in a different mode from Verdy's Gallic sophistication. Wu seems more enraptured in the moment, less conscious of the details and more into the flowering of the whole lovely sequence. I also agree that La Source makes an odd, incomplete impression, but I think that impression fades the more times you see it. And it fades completely when you look at the old videotape of Verdy and Villella. They make it look like a masterpiece. Push Comes to Shove is a clever piece of programming in between these two ballets at opposite ends of the Balanchine spectrum, but I think this work of deconstruction fails in its mission to undermine the logic of classical music and dance. For one thing, the jokes are all right on the beat, just on the surface of the music. Still, the company gave it their all -- Jeremy Cox and Luis Serrano worked some laughs out of the male lead, though no one gives it quite the cross-wired bursts of combustion that were invented on and for Baryshnikov. Wu and Andrea Spiridonakis had their own takes on the nuttiness, Spiridonakis bursting into enormous extensions literally at the drop of a hat, and Wu inventing an upper-body wobble and bobble that served as a perfect non-sequitur to her ballet movements. But Push seems like a thankless task for such dancers, who are not at all cynical about their art.

I saw Bouder as Dewdrop last night, and I must say I'm tired of her rubato and witty musicality. It strikes me as a gimmick -- playing with the music for effect, rather than exploring its emotional qualities. "Waltz of the Flowers" has musical depth, not flash. Sorry to be a pill, but I do think this brilliant dancer is in danger of developing a shtick rather than an art. Among the artists last night: Giovanni Villalobos as the head hoopster, with effortless electricity. Melissa Barak as a seductive coffee -- not spectacular but sinuous and warm. And most of all, Jennie Somogyi as a radiant Sugarplum -- once again, not dazzling, but supremely centered, cool and sweet.

On Wednesday night, ABT put on a varied program of early 20th century works --- Les Sylphides, Apollo, and The Green Table. Apollo is the only one of the three that came off as a timeless masterpiece, but the other two had their moments I was impressed by Maria Riccetto, with back-to-back solos in Sylphides and Apollo. She has plenty of passion but in both cases it was more contained and precise than the other female principals. In Sylphide she and Beloserkovsky matched their beats in the air as if they were moved by the same spirit. As Calliope in Apollo she was the most modest of the muses, but held her own in the company of Murphy and Herrera. Apollo was the highlight of the evening for me -- all three muses seemed to pull something out of the engagingly boyish god, danced by Ethan Steifel. He and Herrera struggled to set up the lift where she swims on his shoulders-- but once they got it, the moment was there. I hadn't seen Green Table since the Joffrey did it in the 60s, and it seemed to me to have aged a bit. The dramatic imagery is very much from the idealistic, let's-put-an-end-to-war period that the world gave up on some time ago. But there are some images that still strike home, mainly the opening and closing tableaux of the foppish diplomats posturing around their table. ABT uses women as well as men in these parts, and it works extremely well. David Hallberg's Death was also more than a hackneyed symbol. he gave it an oddly effective combination of stiffness and power, and just a hint of compassion as he performed his grim reaper duties.

Amen to drb. I lost count of the curtain calls for Vishneva and Corella, but I haven't heard such stomping and screaming at the Met in years. She was the picture of Giselle; floating wraithlike arms, beautifully curved feet, delicate beats, a waist that bends generously both ways. But most of all she was the character. Her mad scene in act one was like Ophelia undone. In act two she was the steadfast lover, strong enough to outlast the merciless wilis. And as you say, her partnership with Corella was love at first sight. Their curtain calls were touching -- she really stays in character, and he was gallant and humble, retrieving bouquets no matter where they landed and presenting them to her. Vishneva rules!

I saw Play Without Words today -- the last day of its run in Brooklyn -- and was disappointed. I wanted to see it because it's based on a 1960s movie by Joseph Losey (screenplay by Harold Pinter) that frankly has the sexiest seduction scene I've ever seen on the screen -- Vera Miles as a housemaid, draped over a chair and turning her upper-class master into a blob of silly putty. But the movie was about more than that -- like all of Pinter's work, it was a disturbing look under the surface of British society. What Matthew Bourne has done is to take the seduction scene and turn into a whole show. Two upper-class Brits are engaged to be married, but through the agency of the guy's sinister servant each winds up lusting after and tangling with a working-class sex object. This enables the sinister servant to humiliate his master. Each of the key parts is played by two or three dancers, and the seduction scenes are sexy indeed, and beautifully danced. For some reason, though, during the second half of the show I began to get a premonition that it would all end right where it began, with the master back in his comfy chair and the housemaid marveling at the fancy decor. Sure enough, that's what happens. The message is that nothing has really happened -- this was all a nasty little fantasy about the "real feelings" that go unexpressed between masters and servants in merry old England. The doubling and tripling of the parts has the effect of underscoring the unreality of what we're seeing. If it could be happening in multiple ways, we realize that it isn't really happening at all -- hence the premonition that there will be no denouement, nothing learned, nothing changed, in the characters or in us, the audience. This, I think, is actually a formula for success in commercial theater -- and Matthew Bourne has certainly scored a success. Play Without Words played to a packed house and got a roaring ovation. Bourne is a clever guy, and his dancers and musicians are top-drawer. But Play Without Words is aptly titled -- it has nothing to say.

I have resisted joining the Ashley Bouder fan club for two years, but last night (Saturday 1/29) she won me over, with irresistible performances in La Source and Octet. During her rise through the corps and soloist ranks, I often felt she danced like she was bucking for a promotion -- trying to knock your eyes out by doing every little move bigger and brighter than the competition. But now she has her promotions, and as a principal she is simply a knockout. Everyone talks about her "amplitude", and it's remarkable, but I'm just as impressed with her clarity of gesture. Last night she did some pas de chats that seemed to define this step, so dear to Balanchine's heart, clearer than anyone I can recall since Violette Verdy. La Source is all about delightful details, and here's a dancer who can make them delightful from any distance. OK, Ashley, you win, and I'm happy to give up. Octet was interesting to watch, despite the excessive symmetry typical of Martins' machine-age choreography. Darci Kistler, the other ballerina, kept up with Bouder and showed her a thing or two about the expressiveness of the upper back and arms. This was the sort of pairing you could turn into a soap opera plot, but let's not. It was just excellent dancing. Also on the program: Tarantella, a last-minute swap for Eros Piano, no explanation offered. Megan Fairchild was bouncy, piquant, and gorgeous in her crimson bodice. Her partner, Joaquin de Luz, had energy but acted more like a pirate than a lover boy. The program ended with West Side Story Suite, which to me is a cynical mess. This is great musical theatre, and lip-synching ballet dancers just can't make it live, though many of them tried valiantly. It also gave the whole program an imbalance of many more male dancers than female (Octet has a male corps). What happened to "ballet is woman?"

My favorites -- Calegari and Meunier. Thanks to Oberon for his vivid recollection of Meunier's performance. For my part, I will never forget her ronde des jambes in the air as she went down that diagonal line -- she had more kick in them than any female dancer I've ever seen. Calegari was just the opposite, thin and diaphanous. That silver costume with its transparent panels seemed to turn her into the picture of an actual dewdrop. And her smile was serene and ethereal -- like a demi-goddess in a renaissance painting. What a role! The chance to top yourself, over and over, and carry the corps with you.

Friday was my first Nutcracker of the year, and in some ways it was like the ghost of Christmas past, but in other ways a fresh treat. The familiar parts included Kramarevsky as Drosselmeier -- he must be close to 80 now, but he hasn't lost an ounce of his flamboyance and nuttiness, flinging his cape wide as he exits for the last time with real ballet turns going on under the costume. Also, another in a long line of diabolically cute Fritzes, this one named Steven Lobman, trained in tantrums by Garielle Whittle, who never seems to miss in casting this part. When he exits with his final fit, he looks like he's actually trying to injure his father. As for the new treats, there's a raft of new apprentices and corps members, which proved a blessing for the snowflake dance. This can look ragged and tired unless everyone is flinging herself into it fully. And these kids did. (There's no individual glory in the snowflake dance -- I talked to one apprentice's father who said that from the fourth ring, he can't even pick out his own daughter in the swirl!) Elsewhere, some new folks did stand out: Amar Ramasar added extra mock frenzy and at least one new pratfall to the Mouse King role. Aaron Severini was crisp and spirited as the toy soldier. As for the principals, I agree with Oberon that Ansanelli was superb. Last year I felt she was trying to blow the audience away with her explosive timing. This year she has toned it down just enough so that she's still dramatic and vivid, but more contained in the music. She's approaching Sugar Plum territory, that rarefied zone of calm maternal magic ruled by the likes of Jenifer Ringer and Darci Kistler. (You have to be able to look natural with a troop of 10-year-old angels dogging your steps around the stage.) Reichlen had her moments as the Dew Drop, mainly her big arabesque and grand jete exits, but I have to agree that her dancing was a bit loose. Her size does not make it easier to pull off those quick articulations, such as the grand pas de chats or the ronde de jambs in the air. But she's beautiful, and the audience liked her debut. And yes, Ellen Bar was warm and elegant as a purple flower. I particularly liked Amanda Edge's Marzipan in the last scene, where she gets to run and jump a little after all that teetering and mincing around in the main variation. I think it's great that Balanchine rewards that ballerina with a frolic in the finale. Ah, Nutcracker. The perfect cure for Seasonal Affective Disorder, and a thousand other ills. I'll be back.

I saw Friday and Saturday night's performances, and wouldn't really disagree with any of Jack's insights. But here's my own take, composed in the air on the way back to NY. Someone once wrote that Balanchine's Divertimento #15 was like cut glass, and that's the way it looked when MCB opened their fall season with it at the Jackie Gleason Theatre. The ballet seemed to be an essay in angles and directions, with quick turns revealing different aspects of the body in motion, especially the diagonal shapes. The dancers were ready for it, always on time and nearly always in the perfect shape, giving the audience a collection of crystal clear pictures to flow along with Mozart's transparent score, adding depth and dimension to the music. Among the most sparkling images of the Friday and Saturday performances were Haiyan Wu's extensions and Mary Carmen Catoya's turns, and the leaping turns of Mikhail Nikitine in the male solo. Jeanette Delgado's high-arching limbs were tops in the corps. After this elegant curtain-raiser, the company got down and dirty with Trey McIntyre's Reassuring Effects of Form and Poetry, and Paul Taylor's Piazzola Caldera. Reassuring Effects is a wild scramble for four men and four women to a Dvorak serenade, with lots of crazy lifts and falls, crotch-flashing and even one instance of apparent crotch-grabbing. But it's all done in a spirit of fun, even a repeated exit where the men drag the women off the stage, cave-man style. I saw it twice and liked it better the second time. The first night it struck me as the perfect Miami ballet, all speed and flesh and color, a dazzler without much depth. The second time I was able to see more, including maybe a hint of reality in the relationships. The remarkable MCB dancers are able to dance at a torrid pace without looking frenetic. And they are always dancing with each other. Andrea Spiridonakos stood out as ideal for this kind of thing, with her long limbs and in-your-face gestures. Piazzola Caldera is a series of sexy tangos in a bordello bar, with a divertissement for two falling-down male drunks. Jennifer Kronenberg took on three guys, including the two drunks, and they all wound up under the table. Kronenberg combines subtropical sizzle with continental angst, a potent package. Another temptress was Charlene Cohen, an eccentric floozy with a big red rose in her hair. This was hot stuff, but once again in a spirit of fun. Edward Villella made his presence felt in every way, from the mix of the program to his own personal appearances -- a pre-show talk from the stage, and after the show, standing at the door with his wife Linda to shake hands with patrons and ordinary folk alike. What would Miami be without him? Let's hope that question doesn't need an answer for many years.

ABT's program for Saturday afternoon, October 30, had just about everything a ballet lover could want: Balanchine's Theme and Variations, followed by three classic pas de deux, and Kylian's Sinfonietta. It showed the depth and breadth of the company's repertory, and demonstrated once again that they have the greatest collection of spinners and leapers on this side of the ocean. Over the top in both categories has to be Angel Corella, who exploded into the air and whirled like a tornado in the pas de deux from Le Corsaire. His partner was Gillian Murphy, perfect in her turns, and wearing a slightly bemused expression at the incredible antics of her slave boy. Just as lovely in a different way were Xiomara Reyes and Herman Cornejo in Fokine's Spectre de la Rose. Cornejo managed to be sweet and magical yet powerful and manly, the image of a young girl's dream. I read Michael's comments from last week, but I don't understand why a spectre shouldn't be a demi-character. I liked it. Theme and Variations was neat and elegant, and Michele Wiles and David Hallberg both showed aristocratic technique and bearing. But I would say both of them lacked the expressiveness and abandon in the upper body that puts the icing on Balanchine's cake. Paloma Herrerra and Marcelo Gomes did the Black Swan pas de deux. I think this is difficult to present out of context. While the leaps and turns were there, I never got the feeling that there was a seduction going on. It felt a little heavy and forced. For me, the ultimate treat on the program was seeing Monique Meunier in Sinfonietta, the first time I've seen her since she left NY City Ballet two years ago. I believe she exerts more force into the floor and into the air than any other female dancer in the world, and watching her float upward from a sauté in arabesque makes everyone else look merely human. I devoutly hope that ABT will find a way to treat Monique as what she is -- Unique. I don't know what Sinfonietta is supposed to be, but to me it looks at like a European version of Dances at a Gathering -- with more angst and energy than the American original. Maxim Beloserkovsky was also great in it, ripping around the stage with his feet elegantly pointed and his long hair flying wild.

Watching Eiko and Koma's "Snow" from the top balcony of City Center was a little like flying over Mout Fuji, while watching pilgrims inch up the path to the summit. The dance unfolds on a floordrop of swirling blue and white, with just a few paper snowflakes drifting down. The movements are glacial. Man and woman approach, struggle, circle around each other, come together again. The woman falls to her knees at his feet; the man pulls away, as the light fades and a haunting vocal melody returns to silence. It's not much in the way of action or plot, but it was the most indelible image of Friday night's program at City Center. Every moment of the dance was like a painting in slow motion. It was an evening of striking images. Among them: Reggie Wilson's Fist and Heel Performance Group, which was four guys in ghetto clothes, stomping, bopping and chucking each other around, out of sync with a slow wailing spiritual, sung a capella by a gospel quartet. This piece was truly African-American, combining equal parts of both continental cultures, a powerful mix of frustration, oppression, and joy. Bare-chested Desmond Richardson's solo in a ragged red tunic, gyrating and vibrating to music by Prince. Athletic dancers of the Boston Ballet, drawing circles with hands, feet, arms and legs. "Plan to B" by Jorma Elo featured lots of ronde des jambes, turning leaps, pirouettes in second and other sweeping round gestures, but not much in the way of development. And finally, Paul Taylor' dancers, piling up in heaps and dashing around in pairs, tracing the patterns of Bach's music. This "Promethean Fire" is not my favorite Taylor piece, mostly because I think the emotional, sometimes frantic quality of the movement does not fit with the formal restraint and power of the music. I should add that the audience loved it. It was another $10 capacity crowd at City Center's Fall for Dance Festival, with lots of young people who came to enjoy themselves, and they did.

They were sold out by the time I got there, too, but I went anyway and found a nice lady who GAVE me an extra ticket. There was also a scalper selling them for $20 on the sidewalk... so if you really want to get in this week, you probably can.

The tail end of Hurricane Jeanne was lashing New York City last night, but it didn't daunt the dance-hungry fans who packed City Center (at $10 a seat) to see the opening night of the new Fall for Dance Festival. The crowd was a scene in itself, so antsy for dance that they whooped when the curtain went up, and didn't quiet down until after the Dance Theatre of Harlem had finished the opening section of Agon. The program was a mixed bag of ballet and modern, new and nostalgic. Agon was a solid opener, first performed in 1957 on this same City Center stage, by New York City Ballet. DTH's version of Balanchine brings out the jazzy parts. Outstanding were Duncan Cooper in a sinewy Sarabande, and Akua Parker twisting herself around two men in the second pas de trois. She has the "almost angry" body that Balanchine asked for, and a fierce game face to match, but she also let in a little irony to match Stravinsky's neo-renaissance gentility. The biggest ovation of the night went to the Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane Dance Company, which put on a communal version of Continuous Replay. This started out in 1978 as a solo, based on a sequence of 45 hand and arm gestures. Last night the gestures were repeated by more than 50 members, alumni and friends of the company, who gradually filled up the stage, most entering naked and coming back later with clothes on. They started out in silence, and ended up with a raucous rock score. If you liked the 70's, or wish you had been around for them, it was a celebration. The rest of the program fell a bit flat, literally in the case of STREB, a company that specializes in circus-type horsing around. Their first piece consisted of dancers bouncing off a trampoline and landing flat on their faces on a mat below. The second featured the same six dancers slamming themselves against a transparent barrier and landing flat on their backs, like hockey players. They all kept smiling, so it must not have hurt too badly. To me, this was what TV producers call "eye candy." The finale was a re-creation of Merce Cunningham's 1965 opus, How to Pass, Kick, Fall, and Run. It's a lovely exhibit of Cunningham's refined everyday movement and ironic, friendly relations between dancers. The dancers were as alert and exact as ever. But the same could not be said for John Cage's sound score, which consists of slightly smug Zen-type jokes and parables, read at a meditative largo by Cunningham himself and David Vaughan. This was oh so 60s. Cunningham's work depends on a dynamic interaction between sound and sight, and in 2004 this looked like a mismatch.

If it weren't possible, I wouldn't be interested in ballet. I agree that the classical vocabulary can be perceived as limiting, but Balanchine showed us time and again how it can take on new depth and meaning. Pick your own examples -- I'd start with Serenade.

Thanks for all these thoughtful responses. Two more thoughts of mine: I agree that this is one of Martins' better works. That's why I felt it was appropriate to take it on -- NOT to talk about a flaw in a particular ballet, but an infection that has spread through a whole era. I agree with Alexandra that unremitting angst is as tedious as unremitting cheer. The big question is -- how do we address life, on stage, in its depth rather than in its shallow extremes. I believe there are answers out there. (I'm going to lurk for some time and see if I can get my thoughts on this together ..)

A few thoughts on choreography, provoked by Tuesday evening's (6/15/04) NYCB performance of Concerto for Two Solo Pianos. One of my favorite Balanchine sound bites this year was in the PBS special where he defends himself, light-heartedly, against the charge that he doesn't make "story" ballets. (This is a paraphrase, from memory) -- You have a boy and a girl on stage, a pas de deux, already you have a love story. How much story you want? -- Well, that's just about enough story for me. But in Peter Martins' Concerto for Two Solo Pianos, you have a girl and two boys on stage, the two both dancing with the girl, but somehow you don't have a story. Sometimes it seems as though something is going to develop, notably in the physical tension between Alexandra Ansanelli and Sebastien Marcovici, but then a curious thing happens: Ansanelli suddenly goes limp and appears to have lost all consciousness of what she's doing or who she's doing it with. Then the action begins again, only to be interrupted by another sudden psycho-physical collapse. In fact the ballet ends with Ansanelli draped limply over the two boys' arms, her head lolling as if she's in a stupor. I point this out because it was particularly frustrating, in a ballet with dynamic music, and with a ballerina of extraordinary sensuality and expressiveness, and also because I think it is a typical Martins gesture. It has a certain "modern" connotation -- the cutting off of empathy,, the episodic and spasmodic retreat from emotion -- but to me, it's a cop-out. This kind of thing is easier to do than to push the story forward, to make something or allow something to happen between the characters. It's the problem, I think with much modern choreography, both ballet and modern dance. Instead of a story we have the ruins of a story, wrecked by the choreographer's inability or unwillingness to show relationships developing rather than self-destructing. Or maybe it's just the problem with the "modern" age. (Let's not forget that that age is officially OVER.) Balanchine never fell for it. Even in something like Episodes, where the relationships are literally turned upside down, nobody ever drops out of consciousness or relationship. Am I wrong?

The Mark Morris Dance Group opened a brief home stand this week at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, with a New York premiere of "All Fours," and a world premiere of "Violet Cavern." The new works showed the choreographer and the company at the top of their game. "All Fours" is a title you might wonder about until you see that it's just about numbers: a lead foursome plus an ensemble of four men and four women, dancing to String Quartet number 4 (!) by Bela Bartok. Done in street clothes on a bare stage, with only changes in lighting to mark the changes in mood, this has the look and feel of a Greek drama. The story is played out by the four protagonists, in white, two men and two women who carry on what seems to be an impassioned argument in movement, involving all four in shifting combinations. This action is bracketed by the eight-member chorus, which begins and ends the piece with strongly accented unison moves, repeating an upward gesture of prayer and despair. My only regret was that it didn't go on longer. I would have liked to see more of the four lead dancers, especially the women, Marjorie Folkman and Julie Worden, who moved with a fierce purpose that made me think of the likes of Antigone and Medea. I was looking for some change or resolution in their squabble, but that's not what Morris is about, I think. His choreography is not so much pointed toward dramatic conclusions, but life itself, which goes on and on with one complication just leading to another. That's the essence of the longer piece on the program, Violet Cavern, to live jazz by The Bad Plus. The action consists of dancers crossing the stage in different combinations and endless variations, under what looks like a bunch of clotheslines hung with paint-spattered banners. One recurrent image is a threesome, with one dancer walking across the stage, holding the upstretched hands of two others who are sliding across on their backs. I called this "walking the dogs," and it's part of what I think of as Morris's urban choreography: it's a street scene, with multiple stories that we see only in passing, but an energy that encompasses all. It ends with nearly all the dancers settling down to the floor in the dark, but two, at opposite diagonal ends of the stage, continuing to whirl in the light with their arms upraised, even as the music ends and the curtain falls past them. Just right for the "city that doesn't sleep."