Manhattnik

So here I am in SF for business and too late for one set of SFB performances, and too early for Don Q. Ah well, at least I'll be back in time for Ringer's second Coppelia; I'll have to live without Borree's, at least for now.

So is that Maffre or Feijoo who's draped along the sides of the busses here in that billboard-sized ad for SFB in Possukhov's darn ballet?

I thought Elite Syncopations was ghastly the first and last times I saw it, 27 (Dear God!) years ago at the Met. In some ways, I don't think I've ever recovered from the sight of dancers like Makarova or Jennifer Penney in those -- costumes -- adorned with day-glow hands pawing them in indelicate areas. I suppose the costumes were to stand in lieu of the more-traditional orange fright wig to identify those of a harlot-ish persuasion. After all, this is a MacMillan ballet.....

Thanks for the report, Jeannie. I have wondered how the Kirov audience would take to Kowroski. I'm very curious about their reaction to her upcoming Swan Lake.

Pavlenko was sensational in Diamonds last year at the Met (as well as Emeralds and Rubies, for that matter). But, Fonteyn/Diamonds/Rose Adagio? Well, maybe when she was younger, after all, he did teach her Ballet Imperial way back when, although he was much more enamored of Moira Shearer, whom he also taught the role. I think I can say without fear of (much) contradiction that Fonteyn was not exactly one of Balanchine's favorite dancers, and I can just imagine his reaction to anyone saying someone danced one of his ballets "like Fonteyn."

Which is not to say you shouldn't enjoy picturing Fonteyn in any of Balanchine's roles if it works for you (I can see her in Night Shadow, actually, and the second movement of Western...).

So now I know why Charles Askegard had to partner Darci Kistler in Symphony in C last Sunday. It was, shall we say, interesting. On the whole, I think, Soto's outing last night sounds like the more painful one. Just. But that's for another thread.

I really wish I could've seen this Jewels. Sigh.

I guess the demis dances went off to the same place as "Clap Yo' Hands." I really wish they'd bring that bit back, with all its Apollo jokes.

Well, I was there for most of it.

Barocco: At this point, I think I could see Yvonne Borree hailing a cab on the street and feel my shoulderblades clenching. I'd rather dreaded seeing her tackle this most serene of ballets, and, while I saw none of the trembling and botches that have marred so many of her recent performances (well, the first bit in the adagio with Fayette, where he slides her along the floor then hoists her into arabesque rather like he's rasing a sail, was a total miss, but that was as much Fayette's fault), from her first entrance it was the visual equivalent of fingernails dragged across a blackboard. As a TV icon of my childhood would've said, "Oh, the pain, the pain!" Such tightness, such fear, such backing away from the beat like it's a wolf waiting to gobble her up. What happened to the woman who was so brilliant and aggressive in Square Dance only a few years ago (I couldn't bring myself to see her dance it this season)?

What made it doubly sad was that Borree clearly had a decent grasp of the role, and was trying, oh so hard, to make it work. Too hard. There was one repeated bit in the adagio where she was supposed to balance on one foot, and hold onto Fayette's arm, I think, while leaning away from him in what should've been a pretty cambre to the back -- instead, she moved with such tension, fighting herself all the way, that it looked like she was working out on one of those fiendish pull-down weight machines at the gym. Not pretty.

Somogyi was fine, although I can't help but wonder why she hasn't been given the lead yet. The corps was strong and, for the most part, together, although they were more dutiful and correct, and less fiery, than I'd like to see here. Wonder of wonders, Andrea Quinn conducted with patience and sensitivity, giving both the dancers and choreography time to breathe.

In Tarantella, Ulbricht was even more ebullient and airborne than at his debut in Saratoga last summer. His leaps brought gasps and cheers from the very full house, and he's strong and confident enough to play with the role. Fairchild was cute and cautious, content to turn in a respectable performance in a role in which if you don't go for broke, you might as well not set foot onstage.

Carousel, well, I'm beginning to wonder if there's a reason why Wheeldon loves his ballets to be dimly, excuse me, atmosphericly lit, and behind a scrim this time, no less. There are some nice bits here, and the music's heavenly, but I don't think Wheeldon gets Americana as well as he gets, say, ersatza Balanchine. The concept here was fine (boy meets girl at County Fair, I guess), and there were many lovely bits executed with his usual sure hand, but nothing really gels, and the whole's a lot less than the sum of its parts. I did like parts of the long duet for Ansanelli and Millepied (they both danced wonderfully, she with her usual mix of vulnerability and reckless abandon, and he with his increasingly apparent heroism), but I also began to wonder if Wheeldon was recycling maybe a bit too much. Americana heroine in a bright yellow dress? Now when have we seen that before, and just across the plaza? I was daydreaming about Ansanelli's wonderful Firebird of a year or so ago, then realized it was because up on stage they were doing Firebird. Very odd indeed.

Would that Martins had tapped Wheeldon for Reliquary -- he can do better ersatz Balanchine in his sleep than Martins can do wide-awake, apparently. And, no, I didn't see it this time, but took refuge in the lobby. I think this ballet's title speaks volumes about Martins' attitude towards the priceless repertory of which he's appointed himself the steward, and explains why he's done such an indifferent job at it. Feh.

Who Cares was a joy. Why on earth wasn't Askegard doing this years ago? He's absolutely perfect, and his charming hamminess makes him just perfect in the d'Amboise repertory. (The only thing hammy about Nilas Martins is his ... oh, nevermind. I can't bring myself to say it but you all know what I mean.) Ringer just absolutely owns McBride's roles in The Man I Love and Fascinatin' Rhythm. She's a nice girl who's perhaps had a few rum-and-cokes too many and is playing at being down-and-dirty for an evening. In Fascinatin' Rhythym she's practically doing a bump-and-grind out there, and loving it as much as we do watching her. Now if only she'd revive some of the missing tricky bits that McBride used to do so well. Somogyi is really blossoming in the Marnee Morris part; she's made it suit her strong, yet oddly retiring, persona. I felt in the duet that she was dancing as much for herself as for Askegard (although a somewhat romantic duet, it's no surprise that Somogyi turns her cheek to his kiss at the end). And such dancing -- her turns in attitude, alone and supported, could've made the show all by themselves, although her ferocious and dead-on rendition of the killer "My One and Only" solo was probably the high point of the evening for me, after Ulbricht's aerial exploits, that is. Not only didn't she bail on the fouettes, but the were single-double all the way through, like she was nailed to the stage. And she nailed all the other tricky travelling turns and quite rightly got brought back for an extra bow by the screaming audience. Van Kipnis was joyful, kittenish and playful, overcoming her slightly weak technique (where has her jump gone?) with some effulgent selling. But she's one dancer at City Ballet who always looks like she's happy to be dancing; if only she could bottle some of that and sell it to, say, Borree and Martins.

I don't know why they cut the demis (Peter doesn't return my phone calls fro some reason), but it sure seemed like there was some urgency to getting us out of the theater before eleven. I guess nobody's bought Quinn that Tivo yet, and her lickety split tempi in the ensemble parts of Who Cares?, particularly the finale, were almost unbearable. Regardless of one's opinion of the state of City Ballet's corps these days, they are all professionals, and it's painful to see their increasingly glazed smiles as they struggle to keep up with Quinn's oblivious time-keeping. It's not just that the dancers are suffering; it's Balanchine's work, too. Does anyone see? Does anyone care?

Delia Peters -- of course

Nina Fedorova

Cheryl Ware

Wilhelmina Frankfurt

Rachel Ruther --- oh, wait, nevermind. Old habits die hard.

Originally posted by Alexandra

Vulgar is now a universal good when it comes to company style?

Are you replying to my previous post, Alexandra? I don't believe I said that vulgarity is "good," (although Balanchine certainly had great use for it), or that a lack thereof is bad.

What I meant to say, and clearly didn't do so well enough to convey my meaning, was that I find the English style, as evinced by these dutiful students, to be so concerned with correctness, propriety and inoffensive deportment as to be, in places, dull. Really really dull. All the epaulement in the world won't revive a child who's had the life leached out of his movements, or the audience watching him, for that matter.

I think it takes a particular kind of artist, to infuse such dry academicism with life. I'm sure most BA regulars can name their favorite Royal Ballet artists and say, "But Monica Mason wasn't dry!" I won't say such dancers are the exception that proves the rule, but rather that although it's not impossible to overcome such stultifying training (How many American dancers hate Cechetti? May I see a show of hands?), clearly it's a challenge.

As I wrote, some of the kids onstage at Hunter looked like they were already up to the challenge, and, frankly, I'm sure that many of the others, once they grow up a bit, will gain the strength and personality necessary to bring this academic style to life.

Having seen the performance in question, I find Johnson's comments to be much harsher than the it merited, even had it been given by seasoned professionals rather than students. Although I was turned off by the dry, stultifying correctness (or striving for such), I didn't find the dancers as technically inept as Johnson, nor did I find the pretty-pretty classicism as objectionable; at least they weren't in metallic milliskin unitards performing origami on each other.

I felt myself wishing that someone had told these kids that it was OK to actually leap, and that space is sometimes meant to devoured, not just nibbled. The Flower Festival was just way too precious and low-octane for my tastes, and I found myself grateful that, despite his faults, Peter Martins at least likes women who can jump. I felt I would have to watch a few dozen of Janie Taylor's stag leaps as an antidote. I'll admit my eyes have been molded by Balanchine (who rather famously said of England, "You're awake and already it's vulgar"), but still....

I also got the distinct feeling that the stage was much smaller than these kids were used to (scrunching out much of the shape of Ashton's waltz from Swan Lake, making it more of a Pas de Doze than Douze), and perhaps a bit slippery, given the occasional bobbles here and there.

Despite all this, I found myself really enjoying the spunky blonde girl (Leanne Cope?) and a short but very bouyant boy whose name I couldn't even guess at. I got a kick out of the cute silliness of Wheeldon's Souvenirs, although the arithmetical processions of his early Le Voyage left me rather cold (as Mercurial Maneouvers does more and more these days, too).

I did leave the theater thinking I'd seen and heard enough sober, moody ballets to piano solos, piano concerti, piano fantasies to last me a few lifetimes. I would've been very happy for a campy Gypsy number or something. But iffy programming isn't the fault of the students!

Getting back to Johnson, even if this program was worse than a trip to the dentist with no novacaine, these kids didn't deserve his shredding. If some were weaker than others, they all clearly had good, strong training, and danced with commendable poise, if not always verve.

I've read a few other slice-and-dice jobs from Johnson, so pronounced that it undercut whatever interest I might've once had in his opinions (he's clearly rather passionate about ballet, even if it's the ballet which exists only in his head). It's fine (and rather enjoyable) to rip into appropriate targets with a few well-timed thrusts of the rapier, but Johnson's penchant for laying about with great force but little discrimination, makes me increasingly uninterested in each particular swing of his rhetorical battleaxe, and wondering instead just how much time he's spent in the shadows, grinding away at his weapon of choice, and why.

Originally posted by pville

My dream cast would be Nichols paired with Somogyi for Borocco

Well, it's been done.....

I like what the Trocks say: "Please turn off your cel phone or ve vill turn zem off for you."

Contrary to what the casting says, Ulbricht isn't making his debut in Tarantella -- he did this in Saratoga last July with Ashley Bouder. Unless a Saratoga debut doesn't count?

I've been going to, or from, Saratoga since 1956. Hah!

I am glad they're doing Midsummer again -- there's really nothing to compare with seeing that ballet on a balmy (well, sometimes they're balmy) night at SPAC. Coppelia is also fun, and, well, Swan Lake, well, it's worth seeing if you haven't.

The town has certainly changed, and will continue to. There's tons to do even without ballet; one of these days I'm actually going to have a mineral bath. One of these days.

Leigh, on Who Cares?:

They greatest compliment I can pay is I couldn?t recommend one over the other, I?d just suggest seeing both.

Perhaps among the women, but there was all the contrast in the world between the men! Nilas Martins (in the Weese/Somogyi/Taylor cast), who continues to prove himself a cypher in both senses of the word, once again looked to be waiting to punch out his timecard at the end of the day. To say he phoned in his solo would be an insult even to Verizon -- perhaps he was using two tin cans and a string. Martins is puzzling. He's clearly a well-trained dancer and a strong and careful partner, yet I wonder if he has figured out what he'd like to be when he grows up, 'cause it sure ain't being onstage.

Charles Askegard's debut (with Ringer/Ansanelli/van Kipnis) was so delightful, I had to wonder why he hadn't been cast in it long before. He was very much the giddy Midwestern lad thrilled to be on the town with such a trio of big-city ladies, and responded to each in turn with the attention and appreciation so missing from Martins' workmanlike partnering. Askegard, a formidable turner under any circumstances, brought down the house with his ebullient solo, and, if his portrayal was occasionally as broad as Park Avenue, well, so was d'Amboise's back in the day.

When I get rich I'm going to give NYCB an endowment just to bring back "Clap Yo Hands," the very Apollo-esque penultimate number (One man, three women, get it?) to a recording of Gershwin on the piano. I only saw it performed once (and not by City Ballet, more's the pity); I can't understand why such a sweet and funny bit of Balanchine playing with his own history is just never performed anymore.

Nichols' Saturday-matinee Mozartiana was indeed stunning from beginning to end (she seemed to take awhile to warm up at her first, on Thursday), and all the more impressive in that it came on the heels of her equally magnificent Chaconne on Friday night. Her swoopy, hair-down Elysian Fields duet with Martins left me almost unable to breathe from beginning to end, and her exit, carried by Martins with that unforgettable "swimming" circling of her front leg, will stay with me for a long, long time.

It's interesting that Nichols doesn't try to ape Farrell. Where Farrell would move large, jazzy and sexy, with hips and pirouettes far out of plumb, Nichols is quiet, effortlessly and perfectly placed, joyfully living in the steps and the music, a world, indeed, a universe to herself (and those of us fortunate enough to witness this amazing coda to an amazing career).

Nichols' Chaconne and Mozartiana were all the more remarkable in that she wasn't getting much help from her partners. While Nilas Martins (Chaconne) and Philip Neal (Mozartiana) were both adequate mechanically, neither showed any hint of a rapport with, or even appreciation of, the magnificent ballerina with whom they were dancing. Martins was dutiful with Nichols, and painfully low-octane on his own. The sad thing was that here it looked as if Martins really did want to be there in his solos, and make an impression, but it seems he's lost the knack, and the ability. Sometimes it is indeed possible to put the genie back in the bottle, but at the risk of not being able to get him back out when you really need him.

You never know whether Philip "Excuse me while I have a strange interlude" Neal is going to turn like a top or a draedel. He exhibited the latter Thursday night, and the former Saturday afternoon, where, with his elegant long line and soft jump, he danced Mozartiana about the best I've ever seen from him. But even at his best, Neal is a strangely detatched partner; as with Martins, he was supportive of Nichols physically, but gave her very little emotionally. While Martins just looked absent, Neal often looked focussed, but, as is his wont, not on his partner, his spot, or, indeed, anything on the stage, in the theater or, perhaps, on this planet.

The weekend ended on a perfect note with Jock Soto and Wendy Whelan giving an intense and heartbreaking rendition of the pas de deux in Agon. I hope we'll see these two dancing this many times more together, but there was something of the nature of a loving farwell in their profound, almost spiritual connection, so utterly opposite from that of Martins and Neal with Nichols.

I think the FCC would be very interested to hear about this. It's illegal to jam public frequencies (that is, all of them).

A brief recap of Tuesday night's highlights before I head out tonight:

Barocco was lovely, although I thought the corps looked an eensy bit ragged in places. Given how Balanchine ballets tend to look the first night they're given, I was just glad the girls had some verve and attack. Whelan and Somogyi were both divine -- this is perhaps one of Somogyi's best roles. (Remember a couple of years ago when she did it with Nichols?)

In Valse Fantasie, Ansanelli was well-served by her wonted wild abandon, although perhaps less so by her uneven technique. Angle looked quite fine as a replacement for Millepied; I hope this is a sign of good things to come.

Squeaky Door was, well, what it was. I don't think I need to see this for another ten years or so. Oddly, I found myself missing Alexopolous here -- Kowroski is just too loose-limbed to be truly squeaky, but she did nail the Door's predatory sexuality. Tom Gold flopped and splattered with great abandon as the Sigh. I did think the two perhaps made the roles more comic than necessary, although it's hard to think of restraint when one thinks of this ballet.

I had a rather different take on Bizet. The corps looked much better and more sprightly than they did at the dress rehearsal (I mean the first performance this season). I rather liked Abi Stafford in the first movement. She's gradually learning to use her technique as a means, instead of an end, and I do think she's beginning to actually hear, and respond to, the music. She's got a ways to go, as she does tend to retreat (sometimes rather smugly) into her technique, using it to hide from us, rather than to expose herself. As for Nilas Martins, well, it looked to me like he's just Given Up. He bailed on the double tour the the knee rather badly -- he didn't even go down to one knee but just sort of sketched a demi-plie, then bounced offstage. I've never seen Nilas go for broke in anything, but there was a time he could be counted on at least to give a scrupulous, if not necessarily scintillating, accounting of the choreography. Now he just looks like he wants to punch out his timecard and go home. I couldn't help but wonder what the two demi men, both of whom actually DID the double tour to the knee, might've been thinking as they watched the principal dancer bail. And this wasn't a fluke; Nilas was negligent and sketchy throughout.

As for Kistler, well, she was better than the last time I'd seen her do second movment, but it was still disconcerting. She was nicely radiant in the grand adagio parts -- the big developpe a la seconde, the penchee, the backfalls -- in no small part thanks to Jock Soto's magnificent partnering. But once she was on her own, her current technical weakness became all too depressingly apparent. Steps were sketched, fudge, blurred, glossed over. For instance, one of my favorite parts is when the ballerina does a little bit of bent-knee tippytoing forward on point, then spins into a big echappe en pointe with her back to us, spins to face us and tippy-toes backwards, upstage, then spins again into that echappe with her back to us.

A few days ago, Wendy Whelan made all this sharp and clear, springing into the echappes and holding them for just the right fraction of a second so we could appreciate those beautiful moments, when she springs up and out and checks her self in perfect equilibrium for a gorgeous fraction of a second.

Kistler just couldn't do it, although not long ago she could. The echappes were just a transition to be rushed through, and rather muddily. It's not a question of "blink and you missed it," they were never really there at all; only a bit more corporeal than Nilas' non-existent double-tour to the knee.

While in the old days of the movies, smearing vaseline over the camera lens was considered an appropriate way of masking the effects of the passage of time on actresses of a certain age, smearing vaseline on the choreography just doesn't work the same way for aging ballerinas. The second movement of Symphony in C should NOT look like Violette Verdi's "I-remember-when" solo from Dances at a Gathering!

In the fourth movement, Soto partners Kistler through a series of supported pirouettes, dropping to his knee after each (it's very dramatic on that charging fourth-movement music!), while Kistler swings herself through some big battements en pointe (or the like). I couldn't help but notice Soto never quite sank all the way to his knee, and his eyes and fingertips never stopped following Kistler's every movement (she was having a rough go of it), as if he were preparing to spring up and catch her instantaneously should she run into real trouble. Such focus and preparedness is one reason Soto's the best partner in the world (or at least New York); it was a bit awe-inspiring to watch, yet depressing to think that Kistler needed such careful attention.

At this point in her career, she's not doing herself a favor by clinging to roles she can no longer dance, nor is she being kind to her fans, who might rather keep their memories of when she was transcendant in this part, only a few years ago, if only Kistler would let them.

Taylor was much more comfortable in the third movement with Tewsley (who has a nice, big jump, and tosses Taylor around with happy abandon) than with Carmena, as has been noted. Pascal van Kipnes and Arch Higgins were both more than fine in the fourth movement, and the finale was its usual exciting self.

Now I have to get ready for Mozartiana....

I had originally posted a sixth choice in this poll: Alihaydee Carreno ("You have to be a guy to be macho?"), but decided to take it down as I became concerned that some might have interpreted Ms. Carreno's nomination as some manner of slur on her dancing, femininity, or both (in case the other person who voted for her was wondering what happened).

I actually thought Ms. Carreno's brief appearances were a delight -- a bit vulgar in a charming sort of way, but also with an engaging bravura, gutty show(wo)manship and sheer strength which looked as if she could've kept right on fouetteing through a brick wall without missing a beat. Given the context in which she appeared -- the coda of the Diana and Acteon pas de deux, in front of a few thousand wildly cheering Cuban ballet fans -- I thought her relentless, and, dare I say it, wild, approach was not only entirely appropriate, but artfully stole away some of Mr. Carreno's thunder, which was no mean feat as he had just finished doing a fine impression of Tarzan flying from tree to tree without the benefit of vines or trick photography. Or trees.

I also thought it would be wonderful if the only ballerina (but not the only diva!) on the program beat out the four macho men (and Ms. Carreno had been tied for the lead with Malakhov), but such perfection is perhaps best left to one's imagination. Besides, a joke isn't funny if ya gotta explain it.

My apologies to Ms. Carreno if any of the above came off as an aspersion.

I am now officially changing my dark-horse bet from Ms. Carreno to Mark Morris. Yes, he's a long shot, but I have faith in him, and the readers of BA.

After observing the manly men of ABT on PBS Monday night, I was reminded of a classic skit from Saturday Night Live (back when it was funny), the immortal gameshow, "¿Quien es mas macho?" ("Jack Lord es un poco mas macho que Lloyd Bridges!")

Thanks to the good folks at ABT and PBS, we're now poised to ask ourselves the same question, and, if we're brave enough, answer it.

Ya gotta admire a guy who can write "obfuscating panoply," though!

Let's not forget the Technicolor nightmare that was Malakhov's practice ensemble. A veritable one-man Riot of Color so extreme I could practically smell the tear gas.

Did anyone else consider the looks exchanged between the dancers while Morris was setting the work on them with his usual ebullience to be priceless? To my jaded eyes it was as if they were saying "Well, the check cleared."

And am I perhaps reading too much between the lines in the comment by Malakhov, where he describes his attitude in working with a choreographer by emphatically squeezing his lips shut with his fingertips, or the one shown immediately after, by Corella, where he says (and I'm paraphrasing from memory) that even if his choreography doesn't look good, his job is to make it look good?

I couldn't help but think they were making not-very-veiled comments about their experience of Morris, and the ballet he was making.

I loved the reviewer quoted in Ari's links thread for today about McKenzie's displaying his chest rug. I kept asking the TV, "Could you have that shirt unbuttoned any lower?" And the topless photo shoot was just plain embarassing.

Will "Babes of the Ballet" be far behind? "They're not just artists, they're wild, bohemian sex goddesses!" I don't think so! At least I hope not. Unless I could pick the babes.

Well, I saw it.

I think Anna Kisselgoff pretty much hit the nail on the head. Aside from some gorgeous clips and a few interesting comments, most of the show was a rehash of that perennial "Male dancers are really manly men." I expected to see Ethan Stiefel pull his motorcyle off the road and chop a few cords of wood or bulldoze some wetlands or plow the South Forty or something. Geez.

When McKenzie went on about how once upon a time ABT had five leading ballerinas, I yelled back at the TV "Well, you sure put a stop to that!"

(I really did love the clip of Carreno in Cuba dancing the coda from Diana and Acteon with an unidentified ballerina who was just a fool for fouettes. I think in Cuban ballet there's no top over which it's possible to be too far.)

And then there's shot after shot of Mark Morris rehearsing the guys in a real nothing of a piece for the four of them, which is supposed to be the culmination of the show. You couldn't tell from Non Troppo that these are four of the best dancers in the world. It was so cute and precious, and if I saw that attitude pirouette thing one more time I was going to hurl, uh, the TV out the window. For God's sake, Mark, who wants to see these guys pushing each other around in pretty arabesques or holding hands? Let them uncork a few of their favorite show-stoppers, puhleeze. Hell, I'd rather seem them do Variations for Four, and that's really saying something.

At least if Twyla Tharp were doing it she might've come up with something appropriately kitschy, like having all four guys do the solo from Don Q either simultaneously, or as a tag team. Or both.

Speaking of tag teams, I have decided that this is the answer to McKenzie's perennial "What do I give the guys to do?" problem. Rather than have Stanton Welch make another "Guys are pretty enough without women, but we need a token one anyway" dance like Clear, I think he should implement tag-team versions of the classics, like Spectre de la Rose. Now THAT would've been special. Corella, Carreno, Malakhov and Stiefel in a tag-team Spectre.

Or how about a tag-team Giselle?

We could have Malakhov's Albrecht about to expire before Myrtha and the Wilis, using his last gasp of energy to crawl (perhaps with Giselle's assitance) toward the cross -- where he tags Corella's Albrecht, who bounces in, fresh as a daisy, to take Malakhov's place. Suddenly Myrtha and the Wilis realize that they've go to do the dancing-to-death thing ALL OVER AGAIN from the beginning, with even flashier solos and brise volees by this Albrecht. By the time we get to Steifel, the Wilis have run out of steam and ectoplasm, and as the bell rings to signal the end of the match, they melt away in defeat, leaving the Four Albrechts free to search for new horizons to cross, or new milkmaids to ravish.

Oh, now I'm envisioning a La Sylphide with James played by Rowdy Roddy Piper. I need to take (several) sedatives and get some sleep.

See what this show made me do? It's all PBS's fault.

Just ask Michael. He knows who they all are even before they're apprentices. I wish I were cool enough to come out of a performance raving about dancers in the back row of the corps whose names aren't even printed in the program yet! The morning after I'm lucky if I can remember who danced the leads.

It's one of many condescending ads for ESPN, the "Entertainment" and Sports Programming Network. Or words to that effect. Other ones in the series proclaim that without sports we'd have nothing to wear (oh really?), and, it's implied, no reason to live.

It's really one of the lamest and most condescending ad campaigns I can remember. People who already love sports and probably already have their noses glued to ESPN 25 hours a day will doubtless feel validated, but I wouldn't be surprised if dancers and dance fans weren't the only group to find them very offensive. I hope it backfires on ESPN!

I don't really have anything against professional sports cheerleaders. They work hard at what they do, and if they can make a living at it, more power to them.

I still think the ads are puerile.

Delia, Nina Fedorova, Wilhelmina Frankfurt, Debra Austin, Cheryl Ware, Rene Estopinal.

Oh, I'm getting all verklempt.....

In those days women stayed in the company for more than a cup of coffee. Now I have to ask myself why I should bother learning who the corps dancers are, because in a couple of years most of them will be gone?

Well, it's hard for me to add much to what's been said about the matinee, but that's never stopped me before.

In Kammermusik, Sylve looked like she'd been dancing this sort of angular, faceted, fractured Balanchine forever. I just wish she'd been dancing Kowroski's role. I just adore Sylve's speed and magnificent jump. And, yes, it's been observed a few times that she can turn. I just want more, more, more. They're doing PC No. 2 in the Spring. Well, one can dream, can't one?

It's interesting that at a time when it seems like most of the ballerinas and almost all of the corps are doing their best to turn themselves into the Cheshire Cat (I swear, in Bizet Janie Taylor looked thin as a reed -- next to Wendy Whelan!), Sylve has heftier shoulders and more muscular thighs than most of the principal men, it seems. What a tank she is! I can't help but observe that after misusing Monique Meunier so badly that she bolted the company last year, the most exciting thing in the Winter Season (well, after Kyra Nichols' astonishing visitations) has been Martins' engagement of a ballerina who has the physique of Meunier on steroids.

There's a lesson to be learned here, well, several. It's not for nothing that one of the most common phrases I've heard to describe Sylve (well, by me, anyway) is that she's a "big, strong, healthy girl." At one time that might've been a polite euphemism for the f-word (no, not that one!), but I am rather enjoying Sylve's very modern blend of athletic power and feminine grace. She's not decorous, as ballerinas of ages past have been, yet she's also not an India-rubber sideshow freak, as are too many of today's "ballerinas." And, while, in admiration, I just called her a tank, that athletic femininity of hers sets her apart, at least in my mind, from some of the more celebrated warhorse ballerinas of decades past. (You know who I mean.)

Sylve's joy, power and speed (I'll never forget how she just gobbled up the stage with her pas de chats and pique turns in the coda of her two Nutcracker pas de deuxs), stands out even more than it might because it's in such sharp contrast to what I've been seeing in the corps. If many, if not most, of these girls are dancing like exhausted, malnourished waifs, well, perhaps that's because they ARE exhausted, malnourished waifs.

It's no secret that Martins is rather forceful about sitting down women who are heavier than he'd like, and it appears that the lesson of Meunier has not been lost on the rank and file. (Ringer is a bit of an exception, but it's clear she's become a niche dancer, much as Violette Verdy was decades ago.)

I think Kowroski looked better, and danced better, a couple of years ago when she wasn't as reedlike as she's become lately. It seems no sooner did she develop the core strength to hold together her gorgeous hyperextensions (and seemed to me to be well on her way to becoming an extraordinary dancer), she threw it away when she lost five or so pounds over the past year or so. Was it worth it?

Is it worth it for the women in the corps to look so emaciated? There are some dancers who can be extremely thin, yet dance divinely (the obvious example is Wendy Whelan), but most dancers have not been so blessed. And if the corps today would dance with the energy and elan I recall from only a few years ago, I wouldn't be caviling so about their apparent state of semi-starvation. (And perhaps girls in the corps would stick around for longer than the two or three years that now seems to be standard -- is there anything left now of NYCB's institutional memory?)

But the weak and parsimonious, energy-conserving dancing I've been seeing at the State Theater (of course, there are glorious exceptions) both depresses and frightens me, even more when set against the shining example of Sylve's power and joy. I'm not suggesting that NYCB change overnight into a company of Sylves (although I can imagine worse fates), but that for both the health of the dancers, and the repertory, the company step back from the precipice upon which it seems to be poised. Is it any wonder that so many dancers are out every night, and that the corps is always being fleshed out with ranks of apprentices?

I spent much of Haiku admiring Carla Korbes' beautiful, and quite curvy, physique, not the least of which were her gorgeously muscled, strong yet very feminine thighs (I don't know why bare-legs-in-toe-shoes ballets get such a bad rap!). Although Korbes isn't a powerhouse like Sylve (whom I expect to see on a box of Wheaties any day now), she does show that the range of balletic beauty need not be divided between Beanpoles and Amazons (after all, Balanchine liked the occasional Gloria Govrin-esque woman, and in later years, Farrell herself had quite lovely hips and thighs).

What is going on at City Ballet that there seems to be such an overpowering preoccupation with thinness? I have never had much patience with people who deride ballet for putting a premium on "abnormal" thinness to the detriment of dancers' health, etc., etc. I used to say, "Well, ballet isn't yoga -- you don't do it for your health." Yet, how can I defend the art form I love when too many of NYCB's dancers look like they're starving themselves, if not to death, then past the point where they can function optimally, or even acceptably, as vehicles for the art to which they've so admirably and selflessly dedicated their lives?

Hmm. I see by the clock on the clubhouse wall that I should've left my cozy cubicle ages ago. And I haven't even gotten to Ballade, Haiku or Bizet (much). I have a unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach that Tewsley will become the next Nilas Martins. But that's another post.

One of these days, I'm going to get that book and calculate the average and median number of years' experience of the corps de ballet, and compare it with, say 10 or 20 years ago. Except it would be too depressing.