danceview
a quarterly review of dance

Reviews

NEW CHESTNUTS AND PIRATE SHIPS

by Mary Cargill
Spring 1998

American Ballet Theatre's Spring Season at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York (May 11-July 5) stressed, as has been the custom recently, full-length ballets. As has also been the custom, casting was democratic; many principals got a chance at each role, which meant that it was impossible to see every cast. With the caliber of ABT's dancing nowadays, though, most casts were well worth seeing. Unfortunately, the ballets themselves weren't always up to the dancers, and at times going to ABT was like looking at some gorgeous jewels set in paste.

There was nothing paste about the production of Sir Frederick Ashton's Les Patineurs. ABT opted for the original charming Victorian skating rink scenery of William Chappell, which to my mind suits the deceptively simple charm of the beautifully constructed ballet better than the Cecil Beaton designs. Set to selections from Meyerbeer, there is not a dull moment in it, the corps (demonstrating the charm of demi-point) alternating with the soloists in a seamless flow of impeccable musicality. It feels like Ashton came up with the steps and then sat down with his friend Giacomo to work out the music. Gillian Murphy as one of the girls in blue was magnificent in her turns, and Ethan Stiefel was haunting, as well as technically glorious, as the solitary Boy in Blue. It is not just his spins the audience should remember, but the fact that he is spinning alone. Les Patineurs was only performed three times but reportedly will return to City Center in the Fall, where the sets, designed for a more intimate stage, should look even better.

Balanchine's Symphonie Concertante, a refined classical excursion to Mozart, also received a few performances. The cast I saw-Julie Kent, Ashley Tuttle, and Vladimir Malakhov-danced with a classical purity which suited this slightly austere but truly beautiful ballet. Malakhov, especially, with his exotic air, seemed inhumanly beautiful.

The oddest appearance on a triple bill was the second act of La Sylphide; Bournonville's morality tale did not show up well stripped of its story, and many in the audience seemed confused as to who the old barefoot lady was and why she seemed so agitated.

The newest attempt at a full-length ballet, Ben Stevenson's The Snow Maiden, coproduced with the Houston Ballet, has echoes of La Sylphide. It is based on a Russian fairy tale about the daughter of a winter god who falls in love with a mortal, Misgir (engaged to Coupava), and who melts away from the heat of spring and love. Like the best fairy tales, it is more than a charming story. The power of winter throughout Russia, the impossibility of people from different worlds to mix, and the tragic consequences of seeking the unattainable all underlie this story. Set to a score arranged by John Lanchberry to pieces of Tchaikovsky, Houston and ABT evidently hoped that Tchaikovsky plus a fairy tale would equal a success like Swan Lake. But there is one item missing in this equation, and that, of course, is Petipa. The curtain rises on a beautiful, frosty set (designed by Desmond Heeley), the Snow Maiden makes a magical entrance from an ice-encrusted tree, and nothing else of any real interest happens thereafter.

The Snow Maiden's father, called Father Frost, presumably a powerful winter deity, is played like Frosty the Snowman, whose main occupation seems to be falling out of a sleigh. The traditional vision scene, used so poetically by Petipa and Ivanov to show multiple reflections of the heroine as the hero is searching for her, is placed in the opening scene before the hero arrives, and is just a white, underchoreographed piece of fluff. But it passed some time, so necessary in a three-act ballet. As did the raucous, cumbersome drunken dance for the villagers and some energetic buffoons (how my heart sank when I first saw those wine bottles) and the monotonous faux-folk dancing.

The symbolism inherent in the Snow Maiden are never worked out. Obviously as someone made of ice, she should be too cold to touch, but as soon as she and Misgir meet, they have a hot and heavy pas de deux. He then seems perfectly content to go back to his fiancée and dance what appears to be the same pas de deux with her. When the Snow Maiden first appears in the village, the local yokels try to grab her, and do recoil and shiver, but this is played for easy laughs, and she is soon dancing away with no partnering problems. None of the subtle implications of two incompatible worlds are even hinted at.

Nor is Misgir's character ever expanded. He should, of course, be one of those nineteenth-century loners, yearning after an impossible vision, but he seems perfectly satisfied with Coupava until she flounces out for no particular reason when the Snow Maiden appears at the wedding. The Snow Maiden has already turned up in the second act, dancing away with Misgir, but since that didn't bother Coupava enough to cancel the wedding, her pique in the third act seems inexplicable. The Snow Maiden then melts away in the beautifully lit sets, Misgir is left holding a dress, and then, presumably as a message from above, snow falls on him. He seems overjoyed, so apparently the poor man is going to spend the rest of his life in his own private snow storm.

The production is gorgeous, with iridescent icy towers, and the dancing too, was as good as dancing can be with little choreography and no coherent story. Angel Corella was a bit lightweight for the supposed tragic figure of a man who loses everything, but jumped high, which was really all the ballet asked of him. Kathleen Moore as Coupava was finally given a classical role, and wrung all the warmth she could out of the aimless posturing. Nina Ananiashvili was fragile and capricious as the poor Snow Maiden, and, if she wasn't given the role of a lifetime, at least she got the costume of her career.

Some genuine Petipa (plus a lot of other choreographers) turned up in the other novelty of the season, Le Corsaire, obtained from the Bolshoi via the Boston Ballet. This is essentially the same production I reviewed last year. Le Corsaire does not have the grandeur of The Sleeping Beauty, the tragedy of Swan Lake, or the wit and underlying moral seriousness of the Bournonville ballets, but I don't think I have ever had as much pure fun during a performance. Rather like Il Trovatore, it has a preposterous story, which can only be put over by spectacular performers. It is a jumble of piracy, theft, slave owning, religious mockery, abuse of hospitality, and murder-and that is just the hero. It also includes treachery, lust, and a shipwreck, interrupted by some beautiful classical dancing. Unfortunately, this production, reportedly to save time, leaves out the charming little character dance the heroine Medora does in the pirate's lair. But there is time enough for a Sovietique pas de deux, with a great deal of nuzzling and swooning, during which Conrad lifts Medora into an incredibly uncomfortable position, holds her there until the audience starts to applaud, and then drops her to see how close he can come to smashing her head into the ground. A long way from Petipa.

One of the reasons ABT wanted Le Corsaire, according to artistic director Kevin McKenzie, was the number of important roles it has, and ABT cast it luxuriously. Nina Ananiashvili was the opening night Medora. She imported her own costumes, which since Medora makes her entrance wearing a tutu with large pink polka dots, was perfectly understandable. (In fact Ananiashvili's costume choices have generally been improvements. Too bad she couldn't do something about the hideous pink and yellow numbers in the last act.) Medora is not a complex role in the tradition of the great Petipa ballets-there is no coherent character to develop, just isolated patches of glorious classical dancing. The two I saw, Ananiashvili and Susan Jaffe, danced very well and seem to enjoy the full-blooded melodrama. I understand that Julie Kent, whom I did not see, was a particularly sweet-natured Medora.

The other female lead, Gulnare (Medora's friend and fellow slave), danced the Pas d'Esclave and a solo in the divertissement in the last act, the famous Jardin Animé, as well as participating in much of the general hubbub. The Pas d'Esclave is a traditional classical pas de deux, but, as with so many of Petipa's seemingly abstract numbers, has a subtle emotional underpinning. The poor girl is being auctioned off, after all. The three Medoras I saw, Ashley Tuttle, Yan Chen, and especially Amanda McKerrow with her large expressive eyes turned the dance into a sorrowful little lament to lost freedom without ever overstepping the classical boundaries.

Gulnare's partner in the Pas d'Esclave is the slave dealer Lankendem, danced on the opening night by Malakhov. With a scruffy beard and a gold earring, he gave a witty and even subtle performance of a money-grubbing, cowardly merchant. His dancing was spectacular, as was his acting; he jumped into a deep plié and then effortlessly leapt up again, while, with the tilt of his head and twist of his shoulders, keeping the wheedling, greasy character alive. None of the other Lankendems, though they got through the steps with at least some of Malakhov's flair, were able to combine dancing and acting to such a remarkable extent.

There are many opportunities in Le Corsaire to show off ABT's strong male dancing, and by the end of the evening, one has seen every possible combination of turns, spins, and jumps. Conrad, who has vestiges of the static, noble porteur of traditional ballet, has had his role padded to the hilt, and he breaks into a melange of turns at every opportunity, whether appropriate or not. The opening night Conrad, the soloist Giuseppe Picone, has a noble line and very good control. But the role came to life with the swashbuckling Ethan Stiefel, sporting an Errol Flynn beard. He soared through the role, relishing the flamboyance, but not exaggerating the absurdities.

Errol Flynn always had a Basil Rathbone to play against, but the traitor Birbanto has also been turned into a virtuoso role. Evil, as the theatrical geniuses of the nineteenth century knew, should be set apart; attempts to modernize Carabosse, for instance, by putting her on pointe, have always failed. But in this mimophobic age, the audience has to rely on the program to see that Birbanto is stirring up mutiny; all they see on stage is a man in black with a scowl on his face doing calisthenics. Angel Corella tried his best, and certainly danced well, but Parrish Maynard, with his craggy face and gloomy presence, was the most effective of the Birbantos I saw.

The high point of the male dancing came in the famous Corsaire pas de deux, so long associated with Fonteyn and Nureyev, which is really a pas de trois for the noble but static (I don't lift) Conrad, his faithful slave Ali, and Medora. Each time I saw it, the pas de deux was deservedly cheered. José Manuel Carreño was the opening night Ali, with powerful, elegant jumps and stylish landings. Corella, the other Ali I saw, is a much lighter dancer, but was just as elegant. His series of impossibly fast turns a la seconde, where he bent and straightened his supporting leg while keeping to the music, was one of the most amazing purely physical feats I have ever seen, while his openhearted joy kept his dancing from being merely mechanical.

In addition to the bravura male dancing Petipa lovers could get their fill of female variations, with the Odalisques, moved to the first act as part of the slave market. These three prime Petipa variations were danced beautifully by everyone I saw, though Gillian Murphy was especially memorable, effortlessly pulling off a set of quadruple pirouettes. With care, ABT should have a genuine triumph for years to come. Le Corsaire is not a subtle ballet, but it is not a joke, and even by the end of the run, some of the characters, especially Seyd, the lecherous Pasha, were becoming a bid broad and coarse.

Last year's entries in the full-length ballet campaign, The Merry Widow and Othello, were repeated this season. The Merry Widow was choreographed in 1975 by Ronald Hynd for the Australian Ballet as a vehicle for Margot Fonteyn. It has survived new casts well, and is a serviceable, if not totally sparkling, translation of the operetta to the ballet stage. The complicated financial arrangements and the relations of Hanna Glawari and Count Danilo to the survival of the Pontevedrians are somewhat sketchily presented by having several men pretend to jingle money-I have no idea what someone unfamiliar with the story would make of the opening scene. Set in pre-World War I Never-Never Land, where drunks are funny, old men with young wives are meant to be cuckolded, and aristocrats with no money invariably head off to Maxim's where sympathetic waiters treat them to champagne, this Merry Widow needs performances with a light touch and a sophisticated air to bring it off. Slapstick and exaggeration can destroy the gleam of this made-up world.

The choreography does not totally capture the shimmer. There is too much drunken staggering in the first act, but the scene when Danilo reminisces about the young Hanna has some charming theatrical touches; danced to the familiar "Vilna," though, it does not really capture all the lilt of the song. The second act is primarily character dancing with a Turkish tinge. Historically, this makes perfect sense, because the Balkans were under Turkish rule for so long, and the dances, the beautiful costumes, and the enthusiastic corps led by the sprightly Joaquin de Luz, make a lively contrast to the classical dancing. The last act, set in Maxim's, is the weakest: almost all padding of the prancing waiters and flouncing can-can girls variety. And I don't think that Valencienne, as the wife of a Baron and Ambassadress to France, would really hike up her skirts, do the splits, and cavort on the floor like some Macmillan harlot.

Susan Jaffe and José Manuel Carreño were the opening night cast. Jaffe was fun-loving but sophisticated, and Carreño was an attentive and generous partner. His dancing, especially in the second act, spinning around in his huge Turkish pants, was notable for its vigor and perfect placement. The gentle ending, when Hanna and Danilo waltz softly into eternity, was lovely, as Carreño and Jaffe managed to suggest they were dancing only for each other.

Nina Ananiashvili and the elegant Guillaume Graffin also danced Hanna and Danilo. Ananiashvili was more cunning than Jaffee, enjoying Danilo's humiliation. Graffin does not have Carreño's outstanding technique, but he is a mature and attentive partner. They did not have quite the rapport that Jaffe and Carreño had, but then few partners do. I also saw Alessandra Ferri in her debut, with her frequent partner, Julio Bocca. The role of Danilo, with its false mustache and oversized costumes, does not really suit Bocca's small frame. Possibly to compensate, his dancing looked a bit strained. Ferri was more verismo than Vienna, which does not suit the ballet.

In the difficult role of Valencienne, the pretty wife of the old Baron who loves a younger and more energetic Frenchman, I saw Ashley Tuttle, Martha Butler, and Paloma Herrera. Tuttle was the most aristocratic, and Butler was the warmest. They both did all they could not to turn her into a greedy little flirt. Herrera does not as yet have the mature elegance to carry it off; she was much more the süsse Mädel than the Gnädige Frau.

If The Merry Widow aims at operetta, Othello by the modern dance choreographer Lar Lubovitch, the other new-last-year offering, is trying to be an opera. It has many of the characteristics of The Snow Maiden: a stunning and imaginative set, wonderful performances, and a flawed dramatic structure. The ballet opens with Othello writhing on the floor, rending his garments, and summoning the major characters from behind a screen. They enter frozen and stylized, as if this is going to be a flashback. However, since Othello is dead at the end of the evening, they cannot be a memory, and in fact the opening turns into Othello and Desdemona's wedding. Why Othello is so agonized long before Iago gets hold of him and why the sweet-natured Desdemona would love, much less marry, someone so obviously unhinged is never addressed. True tragedy comes from fallen grandeur, but we see little potential in this Othello. He is never (except for one brief pose at the prow of a ship) the grand conqueror, the savior of Venice, so there is no sense of loss at his fate. It may be sad that such an unhappy, jealous, miserable person murdered his wife and killed himself, but there is no sense of greatness undone.

I saw Desmond Richardson, who created the role at ABT, and a guest, Yuri Possokhov, who first dance the role in the San Francisco Ballet's production. Richardson is a towering, strong dancer, without a real ballet polish, which suited the modern dance choreography very well. His slight awkwardness set him apart from the courtiers and from the smooth, wily Iago of Parrish Maynard. Possokhov is an extremely elegant dancer, with a powerful presence. Bolshoi trained, he seems as though he was born to dance Spartacus, and he brought the Russian commitment to naturalistic acting. His eyes were able to haunt even the huge Metropolitan auditorium. Sandra Brown, with Richardson, was a loving and gentle Desdemona, and Yan Chen, with Possokhov, was especially vulnerable. Lubovitch seemed to tailor Iago's choreography to Parish Maynard's remarkable skills, exploiting his remarkable extensions to turn Iago into a fluid black spider. But I doubt that this ballet will be able to overcome its dramatic inconsistencies and dreary patches to become one of the full-length staples ABT is seeking. The best full-length ballets still come from the nineteenth- century stalwarts, and this season ABT performed Coppèlia, Giselle, and The Sleeping Beauty.

Coppèlia was reworked last year by Frederic Franklin, who reinstated the mime from the old Ballet Russe version. It is a gentle production of what is really a ballet about two fairly unpleasant teenagers; Swanhilda is a bossy, destructive little miss, and as for Franz-flirting and mugging old men seem to be his only occupations. In this rendition, Swanhilda has humbly to ask Dr. Coppèlius for forgiveness, and he gets to watch the final act, instead of just being paid and sent on his way.

The dances he watches include lots of pink tutued children in the Dance of the Hours, which, to my mind, could have been supplemented with some adults, followed by the Dawn and Prayer solos. Ashley Tuttle was the quite starry casting in Prayer and her serene and beautifully phrased version was one of the highlights of this ABT season. Swanhilda and Franz then get a final pas de deux, which I do not feel comes near the beauty or poetry of Balanchine's version, and the numerous fouetées (I suppose there were the obligatory thirty-two but I didn't count) seem flashy and vulgar for a little village girl.

I saw two casts, Paloma Herrera with Angel Corella, and Yan Chen with Parrish Maynard, in what was his farewell performance before joining the San Francisco Ballet. Herrera was a charming and spunky Swanhilda. The elaborate mime made her use her upper body and face to convey feelings, and she seemed to enjoy the challenge. She certainly seemed to enjoy the fouetées, which were no challenge at all. Yan Chen was also a delightful and musical Swanhilda. Franz does not really have a lot to do (after all, this role was designed as a way for French audiences to see a woman in tights), but Corella and Maynard seemed to be having a good time. Their audiences certainly were.

Giselle is at the other end of the emotional scale. ABT has a traditional, generally well thought-out production. The only glaringly false note is the peasant pas de deux. It was originally stuck in to give a favorite dancer a technical role, so modern audiences can hardly complain if it makes no dramatic sense. But, in a ballet as coherent as Giselle, it should make stylistic sense, and the traditional choreography, when danced by two of the villagers, has a sweet romantic charm. The version inserted by Baryshnikov is much harder, and looks it, full of ungainly, unmusical jumps and lifts. It is danced by a couple who appear to be students at the local ballet academy, perhaps on their way to a really bad version of Swan Lake.

I also missed the brief, sadly ironic moment between Bathilde and Giselle when they both joyfully admit they are engaged. And Bathilde should not be played like a Joan Crawford character, ready to shriek with annoyance when Giselle bumps into her, and stalking out in a pique, apparently to look for another man. It is much more moving to have her, too, affected by Albrecht's betrayal; eligible men of her stature were not too common, and Albrecht should be worth loving, both by her and Giselle.

The character of Albrecht allows for more latitude in interpretation than any classical role I can think of. Even Giselle, though certainly a challenge dramatically, can only be a poor village girl who loves too much. In our cynical age, Albrecht as jaded philanderer is probably the most common approach, but Albrecht can also be a naive youth who is truly in love. ABT showed many casts, and of the ones I saw, Angel Corella with Ashley Tuttle, in their New York debuts, was the youngest and the most naive.

This was the first full-length classical lead I had seen Corella dance, and he is clearly developing into far more than the happy human gyroscope of previous years. With his hair combed back, his face had a hint of maturity and nobility to go with his usual eagerness. He was the most genuinely happy Albrecht I have seen, soaring joyfully through the first act. He kept his eyes glued to Giselle, enjoying every second of their time together, and with the arrogance of youth, shutting out Wilfred's warning. It seemed so sad that such innocent, though self-deceptive, happiness could not last. Tuttle is not blessed with a naturally expressive, romantic face, and so had to rely on her dancing to convey Giselle's emotions. And what dancing it was, gentle and flowing and effortless. She even seemed to regret telling Hilarion she wasn't in love with him.

Ethan Stiefel also made his New York debut, with Susan Jaffe. She, too, is not one of nature's Giselles, and is more suited to the grander classical roles. But she danced with intelligence and feeling. No one who saw her Fall River Legend last year would be surprised at her intense and dramatic mad scene. Stiefel's Albrecht was well danced, of course, and his final moments alone on the stage were truly affecting, but as yet the interesting nuances of the first act Albrecht seem to be just sketched in.

I also saw Carreño in his New York debut, with Julie Kent's familiar ethereal Giselle. As yet, he has not defined his interpretation. He seemed passionately in love with Giselle, but then kissed Bathilde's hand just as passionately, shrugging off his predicament, and then in another turn about, threw himself melodramatically at the corpse of Giselle. There was no consistency, and so no real character developed. The second act was well danced, but directed more towards the audience than towards Giselle. At the end of his solo, to acknowledge the rapturous applause, he struggled up to his elbows, gestured at the audience, and fell back swooning. It was an indigestible slice of overcooked old ham, and particularly disappointing to see from the usually tasteful, dignified, and elegant Carreño.

Malakhov, with Amanda McKerrow, did not disappoint, and their performance will rank as one of the most moving Giselles I have seen. Whether by chance or design, their interpretations worked together perfectly. McKerrow played Giselle like a Trollope heroine, shy, innocent, but with a surprising inner strength. In the first act she was all heart--even though my view was partially blocked I could tell by her face the instant Albrecht reappeared on the stage. Her simplicity, honesty, and directness were the qualities that would attract the sweet-natured but impetuous Albrecht of Malakhov. In love from the very beginning, he was trapped by his emotions. He could not even bring himself to kiss Bathilde's hand, dropping it with an agonized, pleading look at Giselle. His second act was a long desperate cry from a man who wanted one last chance to see a dead loved one. McKerrow matched his emotion without ever letting the audience forget that she was only a ghost. Rather than emphasizing the droopy, hyper-Romantic approach that can make Giselle seem like an audition for a role in an Edward Gorey cartoon, she stressed Giselle's strength, dancing and fighting for Albrecht. If in the first act McKerrow was all heart, in the second she was all soul, but she was a soul of steel.

The Sleeping Beauty, unfortunately, is not in nearly as good shape as Giselle. This production, supervised by the late Sir Kenneth Macmillan, was first presented in 1988. Designed by Nicholas Georgiadis, it is monochromatic, heavy, and unmagical. This season the dancing did much to counteract the production, but no one was able to wring any poetry out of Macmillan's musically inept and dank, rope-infested Vision Scene. Nina Ananiashvili imported her own costumes, with the flying saucer skirts favored by the Russians, but with proper sleeves for the first act. She imported much of the Russian choreography too, which is much less flashy than the traditional Western version, with less prolonged balances in the Rose Adagio and only one fish dive in the final pas de deux. She danced it beautifully, using her expressive face to mirror the music, but to me she seems a bit studied. I was always aware that I was watching extraordinary dancing, not that I was watching a character develop.

Paloma Herrera also danced Aurora. Her constricted and somewhat gawky upper body has reduced her effectiveness in purely classical roles, though this aspect of her dancing seems to be improving. Her Rose Adagio was much more effective than it has been previously. She did not overhold the balances, paid proper and demure attention to her parents and her suitors, and the slight awkwardness of her arms gave her a sort of youthful charm. She can not as yet capture the classical grandeur of the third act, so I missed the well-rounded portrait of womanhood that Tchaikovsky gives us in his music, but it was a very promising performance, not just a set of technical exercises.

In many ways, Ashley Tuttle's Aurora was the mirror image of Herrera's. She has a restraint that kept the first act from true spontaneity, but her air of dancing privately, off in a higher atmosphere made the final pas de deux breathtakingly beautiful, as if the audience were being given a glimpse of an exalted being.

The poor Prince barely gets a look in until the final pas de deux, with the exception of the now traditional droopy and awkward solo in the second act. The lack of atmosphere and mystery on stage makes it fade out of sight, but all the princes did their best to pull some sort of romance from the dreary landscape. The most effective prince was Carreño, who danced, not coincidentally, with the most effective Aurora, Susan Jaffe. This was a beautifully shaped performance, with a freshness that remained perfectly classical. Carreño is one of the few dancers who can dance his solo and give the impression that he is still thinking about Aurora. Their final pas de deux was truly a partnership; watching it was almost like eaves- dropping on a private conversation.

Julie Kent was the opening night Aurora. The strapless, tight costume accentuated her rather bony upper body, but she danced gracefully, with an understated strength. She was more effective, I think, as a glorious Lilac Fairy (fortunately ABT has realized that some ballets need more than one ballerina), which suits her aristocratic bearing and sweet nature. Though even she cannot dignify the "Oh yeah," "Sez you," "Your mother wears army boots," routine that Macmillan devised for the Lilac Fairy and Carabosse during the awakening scene. Poor Aurora gets shoved off into a corner for what should be the moral triumph of the ballet; even in The Sleeping Beauty, Macmillan manages to abuse the ballerina. T

he role of Carabosse, too, has deteriorated. Instead of blowing on stage like a breath of foul air, this version has him preen like a third-rate Bette Davis-as-Queen-Elizabeth-Ist impersonator and court boos and hisses like a villain in a melodrama. Victor Barbee is particularly egregious, playing this epitome of destruction and evil with his tongue firmly in his cheek and almost ruining the symbolic power of this most serious of ballets.

Other supporting roles were much better. The various fairies and jewels by and large, were very well, and in some cases extraordinarily well, danced. Corps dancers who stood out were Gillian Murphy for her elegance, Ekaterina Shelkanova for her gracious carriage and polish, and Oksana Konobyeva for her sparkle. I also particularly enjoyed Martha Butler's performance as the fifth fairy. Instead of the rock 'em, sock 'em approach usually seen, her fingers began pointing from the curve of her wrist, giving the solo an unusual softness and grace. Unfortunately she was injured late in the season, and was not able to dance her scheduled Swanhilda. This would have been a farewell performance, since she was leaving the company. I will miss her gentle charm and scrupulous dancing.

The queen of the fairy variations is Yan Chen, whose song bird fairy (here called the Fairy of Happiness) had the beauty and grace Petipa must have had in mind. Instead of jerking her body and fluttering her hands wildly, as dancers usually do in this variation, her upper body stayed still, her arms rippled gently but quickly, and her feet seemed to skim the floor. She also did the third variation, traditionally Breadcrumb, which she danced with an elegant and serene purity. Despite her physical limitations--a small, somewhat inexpressive face, a long body, and shortish arms and legs, Chen is a remarkable dancer who has a unique musicality and a delicate precision.

But the highlight of the many well-danced roles in The Sleeping Beauty was Ethan Stiefel's Blue Birds. He avoided the wild flutterings and overdone eye makeup of many Blue Birds, relying on his powerful upper body and quick feet to create a genuinely exotic and magical creature. I will consider myself lucky indeed if I ever again see a dancer and a role so indelibly matched as is Ethan Stiefel with the Blue Bird.

Watching ABT dance with such confidence and joy this season made it hard to realize that only a few years ago it was on the verge of disappearing. It is a very strong company now, and if there are not the legendary superstars of the past, it is a more unified whole. For once, I really looked forward to all the girl friends' dances, which are usually just space to let the ballerina catch her breath. There are clearly dancers worth watching there. Besides the ones already mentioned, I particularly enjoyed Anna Liceica's sad-eyed Moyna, who obviously had a story of her own, Clinton Luckett's noble and sympathetic Wilfred, and Eilzabeth Ferrell's stylish character dancing as the pirate chieftainness in Le Corsaire. Now if only ABT could find a twentieth-century Petipa who understands the difference between architecture and padding.