danceview
a quarterly review of dance

Reviews

Winter Solstice

by Mary Cargill
copyright © 2001 Mary Cargill
Spring 2001

The New York City Ballet began its Winter season with the usual run of Balanchine’s The Nutcracker, one of the most effective versions around. It does not condescend to its audience by insisting they need something SERIOUS to watch—children truly have fun and the grownups in the audience enjoy watching them. Robert La Fosse, now primarily a character dancer, understood the fine balance between character and caricature, and his Herr Drosselmeier was a model of nuance without scene stealing; he was full of little eccentricities but never truly threatening, so the happy, placid, wonderful feeling in Act 1 was never destroyed. This intelligence and understanding, however, was not shared by the whole cast; the dancer portraying Mother Ginger was especially egregious, camping up the role with appalling bad taste. He went for easy laughs by smelling his armpits, clapping to the rhythm of an imaginary um-pah-pah band, and seemed far more suited to a third rate vaudeville theater than this beautiful Nutcracker. Clearly he had been encouraged to perform like this, a real failure of direction. This odd combination of brilliant performances and artistic lapses continued throughout the season.

Among the lapses, unfortunately, were two of the three new ballets. Peter Martins’ Burleske, to Richard Strauss’ Burleske for Piano and Orchestra, was decorative, with swags, chandeliers, and pretty costumes, but nothing happened, despite the rapid toing and froing of the corps. The two lead couples (Janie Taylor with Peter Boal and Darci Kistler with Jared Angle) seemed essentially blank; they had some fraught but meaning-less encounters and then inexplicably changed partners. The twitchy, over-active partnering (which managed to make even Boal and Taylor look awkward) never developed any real emotion. It seemed complicated only for the sake of being complicated.

Organon, by Eliot Feld, set to organ music by Bach, expensively recreated by an Organ Tone Production System for the organless State Theater, was, despite the hoards of people on the stage (which also had to be built out at great expense), much more simple choreographically. Feld was in his minimal mode, and had the huge black leotard clad corps repeat simple, fairly non-balletic moves at great length. Damian Woetzel, in a gray unitard and socks (in which he seemed to have trouble dancing without slipping), performed in the center of the corps, which was arrayed in a series of bleachers, with a smashed up jungle gym hanging above the stage. Since Woetzel occasionally held out his hands like a cross and since the music was Bach, it must have been about Christ but it was more like a gym class of the damned. Woetzel then, as in Feld’s recent Mending, propelled himself through the jungle gym, shedding his unitard high above the stage and letting it hang there gracelessly, while he performed in his dance belt. (Dance belts have become a costume item in several of Feld’s recent works.)

Then poor Maria Kowroski, manipulated by a choreographically invisible Charles Askegard, did a presumably spiritually significant dance (she wore a white unitard and didn’t smile) with one leg stretched out behind her ear. I expect she was supposed to be an angel of light, but she looked like an overworked contortionist bored out of her mind. This extravagant and expensive work was one of the emptiest and most pretentious dances I have ever seen.

The third premiere, Christopher Wheeldon’s Polyphonia, to various piano pieces by György Ligeti, was much less ambitious; a group of eight dancers in simple dark purple leotards danced a series of vignettes. While the separate dances didn’t really develop into a coherent whole, it generated some interesting and individual performances from its cast. The choreography for the lead couple, Jock Soto and Wendy Whelan, was, for me, the least original; it looked like an imitation of Balanchine’s quirky moves in Episodes, though it certainly suited the dancers’ spiky sincerity. Jennie Somogyi and Edwaard Liang had a more interesting pas de deux, subdued and mysterious. The most unusual section was a solo for Alexandra Ansanelli, in which she seemed to roam around in the dark (the whole ballet is a bit gloomy), reaching for something. As yet, she is not able, for me, completely to create a world beyond her fingertips, but the choreo-graphy was simple, haunting, and seemed to come from within the odd, slightly uncomfortable music.

Wheeldon has a real talent for using the unique talents and personalities of dancers. Last year’s Mercurial Manoeuvres was also danced this season, and Edwaard Liang repeated his role as the soloist. Liang is tall, but very fast, and the choreography exploited this, using his speed, not to look skittery and cute, but to look smooth and elegant. At times he really seemed to float above the stage. The gift of using dancers’ individuality is a rare and valuable talent nowadays.

The most unforgettable performances this season, as is so often the case, came from Kyra Nichols. Despite looking a bit tired in the final moments of the ballet, her elegant, mysterious presence gave so much depth to Scotch Symphony, one of Balanchine’s glosses on the Romantic ballet. The ballet has specific choreographic nods to both La and Les Sylphides, with the Scottish atmosphere and hint of a story, and many of the delicate poses, the mysterious whispers, quote Fokine. Nichols was able to hint at deep emotions and mysterious beings without ever being literal. She has the ability to inhabit a stage, to fill it out, to show hidden meanings in a simple gesture—the delicate but oddly significant pointing gestures of the Sylph seemed to make perfect sense without needing words. She was able to suggest the transformation of the forest creature to earthly being simply by a shift of body weight; one minute she was in the air and then, when she connected with her partner, she became real. Charles Askegard, as her partner, had much of the same ability to create different moods. He captured both the mysterious awe of the man’s (who may as well be called James) first encounter with the Sylph, and his bourgeois satisfaction during the finale.

Nilas Martins, who danced with Margaret Tracey, also understood the nuances of the role—his Danish training makes James second nature. He made it clear that he had a social relationship with the little Scotch girl, that amalgam of Effie and Giselle’s peasant pas de deux, which gave an interesting dimension to his character. Though he is a bit prosaic to be a Romantic hero, he danced well; his beats were especially good. Margaret Tracey was no more, but certainly no less, than a very pretty dancer doing very pretty steps. She captured the Sylph’s lightness but little of her mystery. The moment when she bent over to whisper in James’ ear, which should resonate through Fokine back to all those magical and unearthly creatures of nineteenth century ballet, was just another pretty pose; she might have been telling him they were having potatoes for dinner.

Kyra Nichols and Charles Askegard were equally impressive at the lead couple in Robert Schumann’s Davidsbündlertänze. One of Balanchine’s ballets by, for, and about adults, it explores various aspects of Robert Schumann’s relationship with his wife and his eventual madness, without ever becoming explicit. It is essen-tially a series of pas de deux of rich emotional intensity evoked without any overly dramatic methods. Nichols, with her back to the audience and her arms stretched out in a despairing farewell gesture, aching through her fingertips, was enormously powerful, as was Charles Askegard’s deeply felt, understated portrayal of Schumann.

The other couples danced well, but they didn’t all give the steps the conversational quality that I remem-ber from earlier performances; many were just dancing. This included Maria Kowroski in Farrell’s original role. This dancer, with her long limbs and dark beauty is often cast in the more spiritual parts, but as yet, she does not seem to have the depth needed. Even her Striptease Girl in Slaughter on Tenth Avenue seemed a bit flat. Like a sentimental pop song, the emotions in that ballet are shallow, but they are real. Korowski’s gorgeous legs went shooting up to the stratosphere but they seemed unconnected to her heart.

She seems most effective in roles requiring the daffy elegance of a 1930 screwball comedienne; she is a luscious and very funny Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and this season was one of the funniest Girls in Green in the revival of Robbins’ Dances at a Gathering I have seen. Her self-absorbed flirtatious walk had wonderfully comic timing.

Balanchine’s La Source, to Delibes, also returned this season. It is an odd work; originally a pas de deux, the corps and demi-soloist were added later to give the dancers a breather. It gives the impression of being an excerpt from a full-length ballet, a remnant of a perfect version of Sylvia, perhaps. The music is rich and emotional, and the curtain seems to rise in the middle of the story. Like a scrap of beautiful fabric, the audience can either see the ragged edges or enjoy the patterns remaining. The ballerina role, originally danced by Violette Verdy, requires grace, musicality, and femininity, which is a dictionary definition of Ringer. She and Peter Boal, danced the majority of the performances and they made a noble couple in the opening pas de deux, he gentle and attentive and she dancing for him alone. The later pizzicato solos did not quite match her first solo, but it was an eloquent performance.

Ashley Bouder, a very young corps member, also debuted as the demi-soloist, and as she made her first entrance kicking her heels like one of Diana’s frisky huntresses, the audience seemed to give a collective gasp. I don’t think I have ever seen an unknown dancer generate such electricity in an entrance; this musical, joyful dancer seemed to come out of nowhere. It wasn’t just that she did the steps so perfectly—Aby Stafford, last year’s teen phenom, did the steps equally well. But Bouder gave the dance an intense joy and musicality which seemed to stretch the phrases so that those beautiful shapes could be etched in the audience’s memory.

Jennie Somogyi, recently appointed a principal dancer, was given one performance of La Source in a joint debut with Benjamin Millepied. The tricky partnering did not go perfectly smoothly, and though both danced well, he seems a bit small for her, both temperamentally and physically. Somogyi is a regal and commanding dancer, and doesn’t have all the melting, lyrical quality Ringer gave to the role. Somogyi is a dancer who looks like she was born wearing diamonds, but La Source needs pearls.

She brought her elegance to a performance of Sanguinic in The Four Temperaments, replacing Wendy Whelan. Philip Neal was her partner, and his taller, strong presence complemented her well. The movements were sharp and clear, yet flowing. Whelan also danced Sanguinic, and though she brings a distinctive style and presence to every role, I wish that, before she dances a leotard role, she would close her eyes, click her toe shoes together three times and say, “I am not dancing The Cage”. Albert Evans also repeated his Phlegmatic; he too is an interesting dancer, but his intense classicism doesn’t really seem to fit the loose, lackadaisical mood of the choreography. Melancholic, with its powerful dramatic intensity, is just one role which would seem to suit this very underused dancer.

Balanchine’s Walpurgisnacht Ballet, to Gounod also returned with Wendy Whelan in the title role. It is a delicious trifle, but Whelan couldn’t quite capture the radiant frivolity of the piece. Her decorative little arm movements seemed artificial on top of her whip-like power. It was a bit like eating steak topped with royal icing; both are fine in their place, but don’t go together.

Janie Taylor also repeated her role in Balanchine’s La Valse, in which she made a notable debut two years ago. She danced the role then as a dewy-eyed innocent, almost unconsciously trapped by evil. As effective as this was, her approach has become more subtle and complex. She was no sweet young thing trapped in a world she didn’t understand . This was a true Romantic heroine, in the wild and dangerous meaning of the word. She was desperate for any sensation and she luxuriated in those gloves; she showed an almost a decadent knowledge putting them on. With Sébastien Marcovici as her helpless lover and Robert La Fosse as the suave and vicious Death figure, this was a fine and powerful performance. Among the smaller roles, Pascale van Kipnis’ intensity, as the girl trapped by a similar fate, stood out.

Other memorable performances this season included Miranda Weese and Damian Woetzel as Liberty Bell and El Capitan in Stars and Stripes. Weese gave her performance a classically restrained manner that played down what can be irritatingly coy little bobs and flicks. Her manner may have been elegant but her dancing was vibrant, and she seemed to really enjoy letting herself pull out all the stops. At times, for all her beauty, she can seem somewhat cool in her classical perfection, with the whiff of the classroom in her dancing, but she seemed to relish the chance to relax in the role and danced with warmth, charm, and wit. Woetzel, too, seemed to be having a wonderful time, and El Capitan is perfect for his exuberant and sharp dancing. The men’s campaign, led by Benjamin Millepied, looked like the drill team of the gods.

Among the men in that campaign was the new young Spanish corps dancer, Antonio Carmena. He has a wonderful jump, and real stage presence. Even on the sidelines, he was always absorbed in the dancing, and helped to focus the audience’s attention on whoever was dancing. He seems blessed with Corella’s Syndrome, which is to say an irresistible surge of joy goes through the theater whenever he appears.

Eve Natanya also stood out in her various roles for her grace and elegant bearing. And Rachel Rutherford made a lovely Summer in Jerome Robbins’ The Four Seasons. Her golden classic beauty could not give the role the languid elegance of its traditional dark-haired interpreters. She didn’t bring heat to the part—no one that gorgeous would ever do anything as mundane as sweat. Instead she seemed to be a bit of the sun itself, dazzling Kipling Houston as well as the rest of the audience.

There was a great deal of dazzling going on during the Winter Season, even if, unfortunately, the new ballets seemed to be on the dreary side. The casting had its ups and downs, and at times the Balanchine ballets looked under-rehearsed. (There was a noticeable near collision among the corps during the first performance of Chaconne). Some of the dancers, too, looked as if when having problems with a role they were told to take two videos and dance it in the morning. But by the morning, many of them managed to dance very well indeed.