Remember Where the Boys Are -Connie
Francis chasing guys in Fort Lauderdale? Today, all the boys are at American
Ballet Theater, and they’re of such high caliber that the company can afford to
dole them out sparingly, as if they were guest artists dropping by instead of
regulars on daily call. In fact, these past two weeks it’s been the second tier
of men-the soloists rather than the principals-who’ve been carrying the
repertory.
It makes sense: Spring is when A.B.T. drags out its full-length
classics and faux- classics at the Met, and the big male guns are needed as
Albrechts and Siegfrieds and Onegins. But the annual two-week season at the
City Center, with its hectic mishmash of revivals and standards and novelties,
needs hungry younger artists ready to leap in once or twice a night. I saw the
impressive Marcelo Gomes close to 10 times during the six performances I
attended, whereas the starry Vladimir Malakhov and Angel Corella were gone
after the first week (and not very visible during it). José Manuel Carreño,
stalwart as always, performed only in those classical pas de deux that were
sprinkled through the programs for a change of pace and a glimpse of tutu, and
once in the second movement of Balanchine’s Symphony
in C , opposite Nina Ananiashvili. (She must realize how wonderfully he sets
her off: She appeared without him exactly once all season.)
Of the boy wonders, only Ethan Stiefel danced a full repertory.
He was on hand for the welcome revival of Antony Tudor’s Dim Lustre ; for the less welcome Clear , a new piece by the omnipresent Australian Stanton Welch; for
Mark Morris’ Gong , which made a
strong impression this second time around; and for both the first and third
movements of Symphony in C . He was at
his best in the latter; his concentrated, explosive energy is the stuff of
Balanchine (well, he’s an escapee from City Ballet). In contrast, his cocky
American insouciance doesn’t really look at home in Tudor’s psyche-ridden
ballroom; it’s more appropriate to Clear -all
those jagged lunges and galvanic turns. He’s more athletic in the role than Mr.
Corella, whose bravura style is less aggressive but more emotionally
compelling.
Clear is peculiarly put
together-how many works can you think of that feature seven men and a girl?
There’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs ,
of course, but Snow White is central to that work. In this one, the girl (Julie
Kent or Gillian Murphy) comes and goes, comes and goes, but the boys are so
busy churning away, rolling on the ground, slapping their stomachs and showing
off their technique that although they toss her around a little, she hardly
impinges on their self-absorption. At the very end, she and the lead guy meet
in a moony encounter that pretends to be about something ineffable-but what?
And why all the agonized posturing and the hands over the eyes in pain? We’ll
never know.
If Clear is about
anything, it’s about its men-Maxim Belotserkovsky (the Russian pinup with the
endless legs); Mr. Gomes; the superb little dynamo Joaquin De Luz (he whirled
and twirled his way though the season); the other superb little dynamo, Herman
Cornejo; the elegant Sean Stewart; and others. On the principle that if you’ve
got it, flaunt it, Mr. Welch led from the company’s (male) strength. So did
Kirk Peterson in his high-energy, low-content Amazed in Burning Dreams , to the music (or whatever it is) of
Philip Glass. There were girls in it, but it’s a man’s world; when the women
finally were given their moments alone on stage, it seemed almost
revolutionary. What with all the thrashing male torsos and assertive bare
chests, ballets like these don’t have much room for ballerinas. Throw in the
male-dominated Jabula , held over from
last year, and the company’s women have the basis of a class-action suit.
The best, and least heralded, of the new works was Robert Hill’s Marimba (two years ago, his Baroque Game was also the best of a
mixed batch of novelties). The stage is dark, mostly lit by crossbeams from the
wings. The percussion music is intense and exciting. The dancers are almost
anonymous, although the inescapable Mr. Gomes and Mr. Cornejo can be made out
in the gloom. There’s a natural flow of energy as the nine performers come
forward, explode into motion and recede; the dance invention springs honestly
from the music and is never narcissistic or portentous. The relief!
Back in the repertory was that old standby Rodeo , the Agnes de Mille 1942 crowd-pleaser that won her the job
of choreographing Oklahoma! It
doesn’t change, except to grow more dated. Presumably Clark Tippet’s Bruch Violin Concerto No. 1 was exhumed
because of its ballerina roles and pretty costumes, but greater ballerinas than
Paloma Herrera and Susan Jaffe couldn’t have disguised its utter aridity.
Like Antony Tudor’s more famous (and more accomplished) Lilac Garden , Dim Lustre -also from the early 40’s-is a Proustian, Freudian drama
of loss, memory, disappointment and hope. A central couple dances among five
other couples at a ball. Tiny events trigger memories of past loves-in each
case, the “memory” passages are framed by blackouts (a device that grows more
irritating as it grows more predictable).This well-made piece achieves its
effect through its perfect-pitch response to the romantic turbulence of its
music, Richard Strauss’ Burlesque in D
for Piano and Orchestra . Julie Kent, opposite Mr. Stiefel, looked lovely
(she would have looked lovelier if she had ripped off the puffy white ruffs at
her shoulders), but she’s not exactly a turbulent performer. Susan Jaffe was at
her best in this role-it suits her dramatic intensity and doesn’t make
unrealistic demands on her technique. But she too would have been better off
without those ruffs, and without the thick diamond choker at her throat. And
everyone would have been better off without the claustrophobic set; its tilting
Art Nouveau lampposts and off-kilter backdrop made the City Center stage even
more restricted than it already is. Dim
Lustre deserves better than to be cramped this way.
And then there was Symphony
in C , that glorious outpouring of dance which Balanchine set to an early
and almost unknown work by Bizet. Those of us who witnessed the early
development of City Ballet saw it dozens of times on this stage, overflowing
into the shallow wings when its eight principals, 16 demi-soloists and 28 corps
members rush on for one of the most exalted finales in all of ballet. Back at
the City Center for the first time in decades, and new to A.B.T., it presents a
daunting challenge. Along with Mr. Stiefel, only Gillian Murphy (trained by the
Balanchine ballerina Melissa Hayden) completely commands the style. But we
already know that from her triumphs in Balanchine’s Theme and Variations -so why grant her only one performance of the
difficult First Movement? And why then switch her to Third Movement, for which
she’s clearly the wrong type? Perversely, we had two First Movements from
Paloma Herrera-cautious, rigid, her tension manifesting itself in facial
mannerisms-and two from Irina Dvorovenko, who, if she’s going to dance
Balanchine, would do well to focus more on her phrasing and less on her
relentless smile and adorable darting glances.
The sublime Second Movement, the territory of Balanchine’s
greatest dancers, was entrusted first to Ms. Jaffe, who was constricted and
dull in the adagio and could barely handle the allegro demands of the finale,
and then to Ms. Kent, who has the beautiful line the soaring lifts demand, but
whose essentially bland approach bleaches the poetry from the dance. To
compensate, she wears a look of solemn spirituality-how Balanchine would have
hated that! Nina Ananiashvili, who took over on closing night, is a thoroughly
capable ballerina, but she lacks the expansiveness, the profound musicality,
needed here. Various whiz-bang kids made something of the scintillating Third
Movement, and the imposing Michele Wiles calmly assumed responsibility for the
final movement.
For A.B.T. to cut its teeth on this demanding work was an act of
courage, and it paid off by anchoring and invigorating the season. But with
under-casting like this in crucial roles, there’s a long way to go before the
ballet that everyone in the business calls “Bizet” starts to look like itself.
