danceview
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Reviews

The Dog That Did Not Bark—
The San Francisco Ballet in New York

by Mary Cargill
copyright © Mary Cargill
Winter 1999

Like Sherlock Holmes' dog that did not bark, the question of the ballet that did not come hovered over the San Francisco Ballet's New York City Center season this fall. That ballet was its well-received revival of Balanchine's majestic Liebeslieder Walzer, which many in New York were aching to see in its original home. But, for whatever reason, Liebeslieder, along with Jerome Robbins' Glass Pieces, were dropped from the program.

Many of the dancers were new to New York, and the opening night gala, with various pas de deux and solos, showed a very strong company with a modest and confident approach. Yuan Yuan Tan as Odile was classically precise and dramatic without being vulgar in the Black Swan pas de deux. Lucia Lacarra, a new young Spanish dancer, danced Odile, and even out of context, brought a fluid poetry to the role. Tina LeBlanc, too, was in her classical element in the Corsaire pas de deux, with her scrupulous and fresh dancing.

Yuri Possokhov was unforgettable in a somewhat trite solo by Van Caniparoli, when he comes in, masked, to a formal Handel overture. The mask then drops and his soul explodes (in movements somewhat reminiscent of the Four Temperament's Melancholic variation) to the famous "Air de Almirena" from Handel's Rinaldo. Then, yes, the mask goes back on and his outward formality returns. But no matter how expected the ending, Possokhov, an extraordinarily vivid performer, made even repeated viewings seem chilling.

The gala opened with the New York premiere of William Forsythe's The Vertiginous Thrill of Exactitude. "Vertiginous," according to my dictionary, means "tending to produce vertigo"; the title is overly cute but reasonably accurate--there was a lot of spinning and the dancing was thrilling. Set to the "Allegro Vivace" of Schubert's Symphony No. 9, this is not the Forsythe New Yorkers have come to expect. It is bright, filled with fast, elegant steps, with quirky, flat tutu-shaped skirts from the three women, made, apparently, out of rubber. The performances were a bit breathless, and some of the women looked like they were racing after the steps (if so, they caught them), but Parrish Maynard, formerly with ABT, was absolutely dashing. But for all its real thrills, it leaves a slight hollow feeling. There are no real relationships established, and gives the audience no grandeur or transcendent joy, but a temporary excitement from watching attractive steps danced well.

This hollow feeling turned up again in Etudes, the only "classical" ballet, apart from the gala excerpts, given, and in fact the Forsythe title could apply to Etudes as well, with its myriad of turns, spins, and fouettés. As an exercise, Etudes can be enjoyable. Tina LeBlanc was particularly effecting in the La Sylphide variation, though her accompanying sylphs tended to hold their arms as if they were candy canes and could shatter at any moment. But exciting as Etudes is, it is still only about technique and not about dancing.

British modern dancer Christopher Bruce's Sargeant Early's Dream is intended, according to the program note, as "a memory piece inspired by the migration of the Irish to America" and is set to recordings of Irish and English folksongs. At its best, as in a solo for Tina LeBlanc as a good-hearted colleen, it was a charming recreation of Irish step dancing. At its most raucous, it had embarrassingly unfunny jokes about drunken Irishmen. It its most inept (most of the time), it simply mimicked the words of the songs, most egregiously to the refrain "Oh, my Geordie will he hanged in a golden chain", where the poor dancer had to take a yellow scarf and strangle herself.

The ballets by the company director, Helgi Tomasson, were by and large pleasant, but not very memorable. There were several pas de deux and solos with on-stage pianos. It is possible, of course, that sated Russian ballet critics rolled their eyes at yet another white act during Swan Lake's premiere, and that some of the wispy, chiffon-inflected ballets will endure; in which case my opinion is irrelevant. But nevertheless, I could not help feeling that I had seen these ballets before. The most effective was Confidencias, a solo for San Francisco's long-time ballerina, Evelyn Cisneros, who, with a flick of her red shawl or a gleam in her eye, could evoke an elegant, mature women reliving happy or tragic memories. It was a performance to treasure.

More substantial Tomasson turned up in Silver Ladders, which, according to the program note has "mystery, urgency, and foreboding", and suggests "that an important ritual is being played out". I was a ballet that looked like it was trying to be Rubies, except that all the dancers woke up in a very bad mood and were dancing as fast as they could to get through it.

The Cage, Jerome Robbins' 1950 Freudian exploration of really scary women and really pathetic men, looked like a masterpiece of composition in the middle of the endless twiddling to music of so many of the other dances. It had a point and made it economically and effectively. Of the two casts, Lucia Lacarra, with her small frame, boneless body, and gorgeous Audrey Hepburn face, was the more insect like. Katita Waldo was the more human, even fighting a bit, Giselle-like, to save her man. Both were very effective.

Fleming Flindt's The Lesson, based on a play by Eugene Ionesco, is more of a mimed play than a ballet, and it, too, used steps economically and effectively. It requires committed and powerful performers, not just agile technicians. My heart will never leap at the thought of seeing a serial murderer in action, but Yuri Possokhov gave a creepy, hypnotic, and completely believable performance of a man fighting a horrible compulsion. The other two cast members, Anita Paciotti as the pianist and Tina LeBlanc as the poor pupil, matched him. Paciotti gave a twisted, menacing presence to the mysterious enabler. Even sitting at the piano, her back riding with tension, she grabbed the audience's attention. LeBlanc, who had to go from dewy innocence to terror, was equally convincing. But the ballet belonged to Possokhov, who has a magnetic and intriguing presence.

Agon was the only really great ballet of the week, and it proved something of a disappointment. It was competently, if sometimes a bit shakily, danced, but it was oversold. The dancers kept trying to be emotional, either over-solemn or over-cute, with little smiles and knowing looks at the audience. The dancers weren't brassy, in fact they were rather endearing in their efforts to entertain their audience. But it was as if they have worked so hard to bring something to second rate choreography they can't relax in a great work.

The pas de deux, however, with Muriel Maffre (I didn't see Lacarra), was outstanding. She was cool, elegant, distant, yet accessible. It was a marked contrast to the rock 'em sock 'em, look at my extensions approach sometimes seen in New York. Maffre does have extraordinary extensions, yet never paused to let the audience gasp at the technique-- she was a constantly unfolding shape, where the movement ended at the tips of her fingers, and then began again. It was a pleasure to see it danced with the upper body as well as the lower, but most of all it was a pleasure to see it danced with such confidence and modesty. There is no need for Maffre to sell anything.

I only hope the San Francisco Ballet will return soon, with a repertoire that will make as much noise at the dancers.