Ephemeralist

Baron Samedi. Photo: Ian Douglas

The late Alain Buffard's Baron Samedi, at New York Live Arts, feels like a heightened dramatic event from the outset. In the dark, Hlengiwe Lushaba sings Kurt Weill's "Trouble Man" as the light slowly comes up, revealing Nadia Lauro's breathtaking set—an undulating white square that slopes downward toward the audience. Its six inhabitants, plus two musicians on the side, are illuminated by the ethereal lighting by Yves Godin, riding it like a magic carpet for the work's riveting one hour duration.

Described as a "choreographed opera," it is structured by Weill's songs and text, although dismayingly, the composer is not credited anywhere in the program (his name is in the press release). The members of the cast are all multi-talented dancers, actors, and singers from a number of different nations; their nationalities and backgrounds feed into the plot, which revolves around the title character. This voodoo figure is portrayed commandingly by David Thompson, whose level of command slips from emcee to slave master. There is no dance, per se, but sections of physical theater connected by songs, including "Mack the Knife" and "I'm a Stranger Here Myself." The set makes for the possibility of a "king of the hill" scenario—the upper level the seat of power—and the slope allows the performers to slide toward us like children sledding. This collaborative mashup, in the hands of supremely talented artists, works.

Baron Samedi. Photo: Ian Douglas

On the other end of the dance-theater spectrum, the Limon Company had a run at the Joyce Theater. Sean Curran choreographed a new work, Nocturne for Ancestors, a playful, somewhat confusing pastiche of ethnic styles with commissioned music by Lucia Caruso and Pedro H. da Silva. The costumes, by Amanda Shafran, felt largely Indian, but the shape of some of the womens' resembled dirndls. Movements and gestures quoted Indian dance, but also Irish step and tango. The finale, in which the dancers formed a wheel and broke into small groups and pairs, exuded the joy of a square dance at its most exuberant.

Psalms. Photo: Douglas Cody

Roxane d'Orleans Juste celebrated 30 years with the company with a solo by Dianne McIntyre, She Who Carries the Sky. It's a big occasion celebrated by a dance with a big title, and d'Orleans Juste—a shaman-like figure—made the most of the gesture-laden work, re-tying her scarf in various ways, like wearing various hats, dashing across the stage again and again. Ultimately, this elegy ran far too long on a stuffed program.

Limon's two dances grounded the program, Mazurkas (1958) and the stunning Psalm (1967), with commissioned music by Jon Magnussen, which was remounted in 2002. His choreography remains relevant due in part to its pure, simple expression of the human form—exaltation in an open sternum and up-curved arms, humility in deeply planted pliés and the use of gravity as a powerful force, humanity in plainly held hands with spread fingers. There's a lack of affectation which allows the company's appealing dancers (led by Dante Puleio) to connect with us directly, time and again.

Hummingbird in a Box. Photo: Peter Mueller

Cincinnati Ballet made its Joyce debut this past week, bringing an ambitious slate of three large ensemble works. The big attraction was Hummingbird in a Box, a premiere to seven songs by rock icon Peter Frampton and Gordon Kennedy, choreographed by Adam Hougland. Caprice by Val Caniparoli and Chasing Squirrel by Trey McIntyre followed.

The first few bars of a pop tune can define its character, and this was true for the leadoff song in Hummingbird, "The Promenade's Retreat." During the introductory vamp, the dancers popped onstage one by one to strike a pose on the beat before moving fluidly across the stage; their pacing underscored the catchy rhythm. The acoustic guitar's sound was clean and bright and felt like a tangible presence in the theater. My familiarity with Frampton's music is from his famous Live! album; the Joyce evening's songs rang faint bells, and though they didn't recall the shimmering utopian folksiness of his massive '70s hits, they were catchy and pleasing. The cast wore sharp looking black sequinned bras and tutus; the men, white jeans; the costumes are designed by Diana Adams.

Janessa Touchet in Hummingbird in a Box. Photo: Amy Harris.

The suite held pleasures—the aforementioned crisp sound, the muscular pliancy of the admirable dancers, in particular an explosive Patric Palkens and a very expressive Janessa Touchet. But apart from a romantic duet, some gestural allusions to environmental caution, and some strict rhythmic obedience, the dance didn't seem to relate to the songs. The dance and music ran parallel, as if the dance could be paired with different music. The structure set a pattern among the three dances comprising the evening—the cast is introduced, and each of the subsequent 7-9 songs or movements features a smaller group or soloist until the last section when everyone returns for the finale. And other than Chasing Squirrel, which seemed to have a loose narrative underpinning involving men chasing women (recreationally, or as a business arrangement; could've gone either way), the movement and music were casual partners. Perhaps another viewing might reveal more connections.

It's a pattern that's familiar because it works, providing dynamic shifts within a typically 20-25 minute work, a showcase for the strengths of each individual dancer, and a reason to
use music with the correlative characteristics of range and virtuosity. And often an evening is made up of three such works, modules that have become the norm due to a viewer's attention and duration span, and the realities of putting together a major dance which include rehearsal scheduling and music management. And so it happens that while watching a show such as Cincinnati Ballet's, it breaks down to 20 or so short movements that begin to feel like déja vu.

Caprice featured music by Paganini played live onstage by violinists Haoli Lin and Yabing Tang, who alternated solos. The costumes, by Sandra Woodall, are flattering, elegant dresses and tank tops/pants of pewter, with darker yoke accents. I have to confess that the music was so devilish and the playing so virtuosic that I often found myself watching the violinists rather than the dancers, who were giving it their adrenalized best. They landed in arabesques from cartwheels, held super high extended legs for an extra beat, and when they were still, it was often in a running pose.

Trey McIntyre's suite, Chasing Squirrel (2004), employed an odd recording by Kronos Quartet, Nuevo, a survey of Mexican tunes that at times hewed toward shrill. The gorgeous backdrop, a matrix of flower bouquets, was designed by Woodall, as was the well-worn boudoir wear of the women and the mens' zoot suits, which were either hot pink, or faded rose. The women, their hair teased out, infused their performances with more individual character than the other dances. One wore a gown with a big train, which several men partnered in addition to its wearer. McIntyre makes memorable stage pictures and infuses the dancers with little characteristics, thereby distinguishing his dances.

Andrew Veyette & Sterling Hyltin in Everywhere We Go. Photo: Paul Kolnik

New York City Ballet's recent premiere of Justin Peck's Everywhere We Go is a truly ambitious, symphonic-scale work to a 40-minute, nine-movement score by Sufjan Stevens. It confirms the building suspicion that we have ballet's latest big choreographic talent in our midst, one still in his 20s and a soloist with the company. Don't be surprised if the dancing soon takes a back seat to an onslaught of high-profile commissions.

Peck continues to push himself and the dancers. Stevens' music can be thrillingly ornate, with fluttering flutes and clarion brass and pensive piano; at times, any of these instruments provide the beat. A choreographic tendency is to match some of these breakneck time signatures to the point where the most sure-footed dancers slip just trying to keep up; the trick is to push up to that line without crossing it. Peck very deliberately slows down some passages so they look like slo-mo, a filmic device that works to concentrate our focus, such as when Theresa Reichlen floats slowly amid a whirling crowd before whipping off some fouéttés.

Peck has great skill and an affinity for geometry and patterning. He creates fresh tableaux with the 25 dancers at hand, building structures one body at a time and then diminishing them in reverse. We see circles that blossom like flowers, matrices, wedges, lines, columns, clusters. This tinkertoy tendency is complemented by artist Karl Jensen's riveting backdrop, which at first evokes an Escher image of greys and blacks, and then morphs (kaleidoscope style, only vertically) to reveal negative spaces—bowties, octagons, squares—where light shines through.

Maria Kowroski & Robert Fairchild. Photo: Paul Kolnik

A respect for ballet's fundamentals is felt, but there are small inventions that brand it. Arms held overhead in "fifth position," but with the palms pressed together, arms straight, like a diver; or arms held straight out while spinning, Dervish style. While Sterling Hyltin is lifted, she makes the shape of a ship's prow figurehead, and another time, she is tossed to a mosh pit of men while posing like a reclining flirt.

There are some new partner pairings: the vibrant Tiler Peck with Amar Ramasar (Stevens says he wrote a section with them in mind), Robert Fairchild with Maria Kowroski, both romantics at heart; Andrew Veyette with Hyltin, an ideally proportioned pair. And Teresa Reichlin assumes the cool lone wolf role, dancing solo or with several men or a pair of dancers. Veyette in particular seems to have blossomed in this work; he is among the most athletic of the men, and here bounds and bursts across the stage, unfettered.

Recently retired dancer Janie Taylor designed the smart costumes—white/navy striped tops and white trunks/tights for the women, and color block unitards with a pink stripe for the men. It's great to see a dancer's knowledge of functionality and style put to use, especially in a company that has in recent seasons turned to haute couture designers.

The one drawback was the piece's length. There were also several false endings when the audience thought it was over, only to have another movement begin. On the other hand, the many sections lend themselves to being excerpted.

Do I know you? Photo: Paul Kolnik

While watching Les Bosquets, the prior week's premiere by artist JR (with help from Peter Martins), a mental image recurred—Mr. Monopoly lighting a cigar with a $100 bill. The sheer lunacy of the premise—giving creative rein to a non-choreographer, enlisting more than 40 dancers for the eight-minute work, engaging whatever it took to create the individually unique costumes (by Marc Happel)... like other recent commissions, it feels like a huge amount of resources thrown at essentially a pièce d'occasion, a giant gesture of artistic hubris/audience outreach.

In any case, this artistically dodgy premise seems to have worked in terms of outreach, to an extent. Thanks to publicity about the project, chatter revolved around JR and his dance, even if it was about how he has never choreographed. (JR created the mezzanine floor mural last season, featuring the company lying in artful poses as the audience walked on top of them.) How Martins had to interpret JR's concepts into actual dance steps. About Lil Buck, a non-ballerino. About how the piece was inspired by the 2005 riots in and near Paris.

Lil Buck and Lauren Lovette. Photo: Paul Kolnik

As for the work itself, it is memorable for the impression made by the sheer number of dancers comprising two gangs, basically good vs. bad. Divided by gender, the two sides confront one another and clash, creating a chaotic mass that culminates in a human mound. Admittedly, it's a very strange sensation to see Lil Buck gliding on his sneakered toes, snaking his liquid arms, and angling his legs into diamond shapes, next to Lauren Lovette in a white crinkly (Tyvek?) tutu, moving through classical ballet shapes. It had the effect of reducing Lil Buck's very personal style to an oddity, when he has created a distinct genre of hip-hop. In one scene, the two stand face to face in front of a huge video of their alternating faces. The lighting is so dim that you can't see what they're doing (the above photo appears far lighter than the live performance), but presumably they were just staring at mimed (and smaller, real) cameras.

It's also a surprise that this work was not the performance focus of gala night, because it had the devil-may-care attitude characteristic of such fare (Justin Peck's premiere took that honor). On the one hand, it's not a bad thing that Martins has enough artistic freedom to direct resources to an untested dance collaborator, but on the other hand, it's a lot of resources. But without such experiments, true talents like Peck might not be found.

It's high ballet season at Lincoln Center. Pretty amazing that on any given day, for the last half of May anyway, there might ostensibly be 5000+ people simultaneously watching ballet within a couple of square acres of Manhattan. Crazy, right? Notes on last week, when I saw NYCB's All Balanchine program and ABT's Don Quixote.

ABT's Don Quixote, May 16, Met Opera House

Paloma Herrera. Photo: Gene Schiavone

Bear with me while I descend to clichés: it starred Beauty (Paloma Herrera as Kitri) and the Beast (Ivan Vasiliev as Basilio). Herrera's cool charm and elegant lines nicely balanced his kangaroo-like jumps and leaps. Her center was clearly spot-on that night as she sustained ridiculously long, watch-checking balances. And no one can extend a leg in second and present a perfectly arched foot with such care.

Vasiliev adds scissor splits to jetés, does three revolutions in the air instead of the standard two, holds Herrera overhead on one hand while relevé-ing on one foot... things that have no terms because no one else does them. It's bizarre and sensational, but it pushes male ballet beyond the limit, and that's exciting if not always beautiful. They're an unlikely pairing, but that also makes for an interesting, quirky dynamic.

Veronika Part and James Whiteside danced the second featured parts of street dancer Mercedes and toreador. He is well-suited to this juicy, if brief, morsel of ham, with its taut-bow lines and bang-bang rhythms. She looked happy to be in this midi skirt-swishing role, less stressed out than she can while bearing the full weight of primary leads. Part also danced the Queen of the Dryads, magisterial, Amazonian, and elegant, in full tutu.

NYCB's All Balanchine program, May 13, Koch Theater
The selection of repertory showcased the depth of corps members and soloists.

Lauren Lovette and Anthony Huxley in Raymonda Variations. Photo: Paul Kolnik

Raymonda Variations (1961) featured Lauren Lovette, clean and sparkling, with Anthony Huxley, technically a perfectionist, if slightly bloodless; could benefit from partnering work.

In The Steadfast Tin Soldier (1975), Erica Pereira and Daniel Ulbricht made the most of this mostly syrupy fable saved by a poignant ending. The part of a toy soldier suits Ulbricht—physically superhuman, but whose facial expressions can lack nuance. Good to see Pereira, a victim of the "lost soloist" syndrome.

Le Tombeau de Couperin (1975), a b/w leotard ballet inspired by the intricate interactions of Baroque dance, which could also be read as square or folk dance. Comprising two "quadrilles" of 16 corps members who perform four movements—it feels like work to watch, after a time, and one can only imagine the effort that went into choreographing it—but there's a warmth and graciousness to it that resists the affect of modernism.

Le Tombeau de Couperin. Photo: Paul Kolnik

As I've likely written before, Symphony in C (1947) is the big test of major companies' depth, skill, and musicality, and among my favorite high classical Balanchine works.

1st movement: an injured Andrew Veyette was replaced with Zachary Catazaro to partner Tiler Peck. While Catazaro looks the part of a swain, he needs polishing and partnering rehearsal; all in due time.
2nd movement: The luminous Teresa Reichlin glittered extra brightly with the relatively new crystal-encrusted costumes. Tyler Angle is a consistently brilliant, suave partner, but that seems to mean that he is cast with the taller, often more difficult to handle women, rather than those of a more suitable relative height (as is his similarly-skilled brother, Jared). A pleasant problem, indeed.
3rd: Hey, there's the elusive Gonzalo Garcia!, dancing with corps member Ashly Isaacs, in the danciest section. They treated the lilting rhythms fairly lightly but suited one another well.
4th: This section is really more like half a movement, but it's always a pleasure to see Taylor Stanley's technical confidence and charisma; here he danced with Ashley Laracey, featured more and more often, with reason.

This week brings "Classic Spectacular," a mixed bill at ABT including La Gaieté Parisienne, and Jewels at NYCB.

Hee Seo and Marcelo Gomes in La Gaîté Parisienne.
Photo: Gene Schiavone

ABT's Classic Spectacular program is a palate cleansing bill of two Balanchine hits, plus La Gaîté Parisienne, a big old banana split of a ballet admirable for its insouciant emphasis on style over substance. This 1988 production of the 1938 one-act story ballet, by Leonide Massine to music by Offenbach, is staged by Lorca Massine with assistance from Susan Jones, and most memorable for the lavish costumes by Christian Lacroix. The womens' skirts are marvels of construction, structured to fit snugly at the hips before cascading into conical poofs underlaid by tulle, and in the case of the can can dancers, ruffled pastel underskirts. Details such as appliquéd gloves for the Glove Seller (Hee Seo) offer a visual abundance.

The men fare less well, costume-wise. Under a fuschia jacket, the Baron wears candy-striped tights, giving the apollonian Marcelo Gomes the appearance of abnormally big thighs. Other men wear beige plaid suits or baggy soldiers' uniforms; the Peruvian (Craig Salstein) an embellished, white satin getup, curlicued locks of hair decorating his cheeks.

And what of the dance, you're wondering? Much of the movement is gesture, to define caricature in broad cartoon strokes. The Glove Seller is the mysterious, magnetic woman to whom all the men are drawn, and they tussle for her attention. Of course the Baron prevails, but now without some serious slapstick hilarity from the Peruvian. Salstein was born to play roles such as these, and is great fun to watch, though Misty Copeland as the Flower Girl (in place of Luciana Paris) is somewhat buried under all the frivolity. The can-can dancers have some fun with their kicks and splits, better to show off the ornate costumes.

Eric Tamm and Misty Copeland in Duo Concertant, © The George Balanchine Trust. Photo: Gene Schiavone

Artistic director Kevin McKenzie was wise to balance this puff piece with two of Balanchine's finest, Theme and Variations (1947), and the very different Duo Concertant, part of the 1972 Stravinsky Festival. T&V, a sibling work to the greatSymphony in C, is an homage to imperial Russia. The leads on this night were both a bit of a surprise. Isabella Boylston danced in place of Gillian Murphy, fighting an injury; she was squired by Andrew Veyette, a guest from neighbor New York City Ballet. They complemented one another well physically, and both radiate great energy and charm, as well as being technical whizzes. The opening measures of Tchaikovsky's score are hummably dancy, and the pair exuded élan from the first notes.

Duo is quite familiar to regular NYCB fans, a staple of repertory that is a relatively brief work for duos of dancers and onstage musicians (piano and violin). It showcased Misty Copeland and Eric Tamm. Copeland makes clear shapes with her curvaceous legs, and is capacious and grand in her presentation. Tamm, handsome as a Ken doll, has excellent posture that might be slightly overly proper for this casual interplay of dance and music, but his line is geometric and assured. Interesting that Massine's ballet tells a story, albeit a slight one, while Balanchine's two dances largely formal ballets come across as substantial. Amidst a season of comfortable, sometimes threadbare ballet war horses, these repertory programs are welcome changes of pace.

Abi Stafford and Jared Angle. Photo: Paul Kolnik

The official story about the inspiration for Jewels (1967) is that Balanchine visited Van Cleef and Arpels, saw the pseudonymous rocks (emeralds, rubies, diamonds), and started creating. (He apparently eschewed pearls and sapphires.) The glittering costumes, by Karinska, and somewhat cheesy sets by Peter Harvey, support the basic concept without hinting at any narrative. It is mostly about individual ballerinas, and a certain pro forma, female/male romanticism in the genre, and group patterning.

Despite the assertive title, it's this very plotlessness that lends itself to perpetual guessing games about the true symbolism of Jewels. Here are a few theories.

Nationalities. "Emeralds'" music is by Fauré, ergo, France; "Rubies" is by Stravinsky, with whom Balanchine had one of mankind's most fruitful relationships in New York, so, America; and "Diamonds" is by Tchaikovsky = Russia.

Sara Mearns and Ask La Cour. Photo: Paul Kolnik

Soups. Spring greens, borscht, vichysoisse.

Seasons. Spring, summer, winter.

Ages of humankind. Youth, middle age, old age.

Musical and artistic styles. Impressionism, modernism, romanticism.

May 24th's New York City Ballet matinee yielded some suitably glittering performances. It has become such a reliable joy to watch Sara Mearns dance, here with Ask La Cour in "Diamonds," in what is a golden era for the company's women. Her amplitude, emotional generosity, technical ability, pliancy, projection, and conviction all elevate her above your typical excellent NYCB performance. At the close of the pair's big duet segment, she stopped, front and center before the final pose, her mouth forming a small "O" as if surprised or delighted. It was an unexpected detail, the kind which only burnishes Mearns' reputation as a ballerina for the ages.

Ashley Bouder led "Rubies" with Gonzalo Garcia and Savannah Lowery. It was a revelation to see Bouder in the role. There is no arguing that her technique and speed are unparalleled within the company's women, but often when I watch her, her hyper precision and the way she's nearly ahead of the beat can come off as jittery hubris. Her expression can also read as too eager to please, the A student who knows all the answers. In "Rubies," she seemed to have cast aside the self-consciousness and coyness to sink deeply into the playful movement at hand. She also exuded an aura more diva-like than the charm school ingenue. Garcia, whose subtle charisma can fade in the big Koch theater, here invested his performance with more energy and focus than usual. Of course, the attack-filled role helped with that. Lowery is a natural for the Amazon role, her curvy legs always an intriguing picture, her grand jetes monumental, her Broadway ambitions percolating beneath the surface.

It was the last time I would see the Stafford siblings dance in proximity—Jonathan is retiring as of Sunday. Abi performed "Emeralds" with an old world elegance I hadn't seen from her, but again, it's a less common kind of role for her; she often dances soubrette parts. It also helped that Jared Angle partnered her; he always carries himself with nobility and dedication. The cool, mysterious Rebecca Krohn danced with Jonathan Stafford, a reliable squire, who will continue to teach and coach for the company.

Caspar David Friedrich, Landscape on Rügen with Shepherds and Flocks, 1809/10.Pen and black ink, brown wash, graphite,
and opaque white watercolor.The Morgan Library & Museum; Thaw Collection

A Dialogue with Nature: Romantic Landscapes from Britain and Germany, at the Morgan Library through Sept 7, is a long title for a compact, stunning show of works on paper from the pinnacle of this somewhat forsaken genre. It feels as though landscape art has been stowed up in the attic for awhile, perhaps because its prevalence in the 18th through early 20th centuries exhausted its exploration. And this grouping of works, chosen from the collections of the Morgan and London's Courtauld Gallery and curated by Matthew Hargraves and Rachel Sloan, shows the sublime, daunting heights achieved. What peaks were left to conquer, in a way?

Joseph Mallord William Turner, Mont Blanc, from Above Courmayeur, ca. 1810. Watercolor and graphite, some drawing into the wet paint with a sharp point and extensive scraping out. The Courtauld Gallery, Samuel Courtauld Trust: Gift in memory of Sir Stephen Courtauld, 1974

Not only do representative works in the show display unsurpassed technique in accurately rendering elements of nature, their color, composition, and additional details reflect the visionary imaginations of this select group of artists. Many of the German artists, in the tradition of Dürer, wield a fine, descriptive line. Caspar David Friedrich exemplifies the romantic German perspective in Landscape on Rügen with Shepherds and Rocks (1809/10). The fauna—sheep, shepherd—are subsumed into the vales, and the edifice absorbed by the stand of trees. It is a peaceful, bucolic view of nature and man co-existing.

The British artists seemed to have a way with the vagaries of moody weather and natural phenomena. Constable apparently recorded weather conditions and noted cloud formations. Some of the show's works were done in the British Isles, but Turner, for one, travelled to Switzerland to create some of the sublime pieces at the Morgan—Mont Blanc, from Above Courmayeur (1810), Pass at St. Gothard, Near Faido (1843), and On Lake Lucerne, Looking Towards Fluelen (1841?), which borders on abstraction, it is so consumed by the interweaving of light, fog, and sea that looms ahead. These pieces presage the advent of impressionism and expressionism, and provide a firm link with high romanticism. They also depict a wary relationship with nature, warning of its power and ferocity.

Joseph Mallord William Turner, Lucerne from the Lake, 1845.Watercolor, over graphite, with opaque watercolor, and scratching out

The Morgan Library & Museum; Thaw Collection

Another Turner, Lucerne from the Lake, 1845, very nearly shades into kitsch, with buildings reflected on the glassy surface, colorful boaters aforeground, mountains fading into the distant haze—again, a compatible view of nature and man. His technique is so facile, it's almost a distraction. And the label reveals how complex a process Turner actually followed: "Watercolor and graphite, some drawing into the wet paint with a sharp point and extensive scraping out." These are works on paper, don't forget. Who knows how much work went into his paintings.

In any case, the Morgan show is well worth visiting, a refreshing whirlwind tour of exotic landscapes in one gallery. Also on view: Miracles in Miniature: The Art of the Master of Claude de France, examples of the great French illuminator whose tiny paintings are sublime gems of mastery and meaning (through September 14). If you're not in New York, the Morgan has online archives of the Prayer Book, and many other fascinating online collections—true treasure troves.

Photo: Gene Schiavone

Eight years ago, I saw Julie Kent and Marcelo Gomes in the ABT premiere of James Kudelka's Cinderella from 2004. Last Tuesday, I saw Kent and Gomes reprise the roles of Cinderella and the Prince, only in Frederick Ashton's ballet from 1948, using Sergei Prokofiev's score, that originated at London's Royal Ballet and was given its ABT premiere last Monday. (Remarkably, Kent also danced the lead role in Ben Stevenson's version in 1996.)

This version, while not modern, fits ABT's strengths better than the Kudelka, which contains some memorable stage pictures and dynamics—the Prince's urgent dash around the planet—but falls flat in comparison. Kudelka's is like a cartoon tree—a puffy circle atop a cylinder—versus a lushly-leaved, knarled-trunk, detailed etching by Dürer. Wendy Ellis Somes and Malin Thoors directed this production.

There is a tendency in contemporary ballet to push extremes—extend a leg past vertically, push an arabesque into a split, break a sculptured, curved line with a flexed extremity. Ashton (1904—88) often did the opposite. He dimished the exhibitionist tendency, lowering an attitude to an elegant height, holding the foot in coupé derrière, or arranging the arms in crisp Vs held high or low. That's not to say that he pared the choreography to simple forms. As the variations by the four fairies demonstrate, he created knotty phrases that challenge even the most skilled practitioners, in this case Stella Abrera, Sarah Lane, Misty Copeland, Isabella Boylston, and April Giangeruso. In some instances, he detached the music's support of the movement; the two cross paths and sometimes interweave, rather than swimming parallel.

The ballet's most memorable waltz section begs for swooping, dipping actions that emphasize gravity. But Ashton gave the corps' women slashing arms and crisply hit spots, an advancing army that marked the transition from reality to fantasy. Craig Salstein, as the Jester, seemed slightly overwound, pushing beyond the 110% he usually gives. His expressive face was painted clown white, which may have led him to try to use his body more. Nonetheless, he is reliably one of the most enthusiastic and entertaining performers in the company.

The hysterics of the stepsisters (Kenneth Easter and Thomas Forster, in drag) offset the generally tasteful atmosphere set by Cinderella's passages. The tradition of men playing the sisters may be coveted in Britain, but it has less appeal to me. And yet, if women were given the slapstick pranks of this duo, it would surely count as misogynistic. Does it still? Hmm.

The set, by David Walker (who also designed the costumes), while column-and-candles classical in concept, recalls in practice the Japanese sliding screen form of theater, dogougaeshi. As each fairy makes an entrance accompanied by a pair of children, the portal in which she stands is revealed by a raised scrim. It shows off the great depth of the Met's stage. In Act 3, the ballroom appears to recede deeply, pushing us to focus on the couple, as if at the center of a Fabergé egg. In the final scene, a shower of glittering confetti sparkles hopefully around the couple, already on the neighboring hill.

Kent, after so many Cinderellas, exudes the essential purity and inner glow to be able to transform from peasant to princess. She enters the ballroom by walking on point, in her borrowed tutu and a sail-sized chiffon train held aloft by footmen, mincing ever so slowly down the steps. (I admit to worrying about the potential consequences of those steps, both here and when Gomes pressed her overhead and descended the staircase. He was fine, of course.) Gomes, clad in all white throughout, black hair gathered in a neat ponytail, is the consummate prince, drawing the eye even while darting through the crowd. He so fully inhabits his roles that even the sometimes awkward mechanics of partnering seem natural. His ability to exude both bravura and naturalness are remarkable, a testament to both physical training and artistry.

The Pleasure of the Lesson. Photo: Paul Kolnik

At this point, the Ailey company has more active repertory not by Alvin Ailey than by the company's founder. It has become one of the world's larger commissioners and remounters of contemporary dance, by default. One of the season's premieres, The Pleasure of the Lesson, is by Bay Area-based Robert Moses, who also created the score with David Worm. It was performed in the company's Koch Theater spring season.

Moses knows how to craft handsome stage compositions. The dancers arrange themselves in columns, ovals, and lines both parallel and at 90º angles. A woman, lying on a raft of men, rolls atop them and is subsumed by bodies on occasion. In a repeating series of funky lifts, the women sail upward with limbs askew. There's a lot of new stuff to look at, plastically speaking.

The five female/male couples, clad in Jon Taylor's hot- or flesh-colored pieces—panel skirts, short for the women, long for the men; shoulder shrugs, halter tops—were bathed in similarly warm-hued lighting (by Al Crawford). The score varies between sounds, rhythms, and spoken text, most of it unintelligible, and therefore transformed into frustrating background texture. If its meaning underpinned the movement, it was lost in space.

Jacqueline Green in The Pleasure of the Lesson. Photo: Paul Kolnik

Midway through the dance, when the group coheres and does a kind of ritualistic stamping and heel-rocking phrase, I realized that until then, the movement was a series of stop/start poses and sculptures. It was less fluid dance than snapshots—gifs—linked together. This thought was only reinforced while watching Ailey's unavoidable, yet continuously rewarding Revelations—specifically, "Sinner Man," which is the finest section of this condensed anthology of the choreographer's work. Sure, it's one bravura move after another—leaps (Sean Aaron Carmon, sleek as a dart), multiple spins (boy, can Kanji Segawa spin), layouts—but they surehandedly flow across the stage as cursive from a pen. It's simple to take for granted this masterwork from its ubiquity, but it continues to mete out profound, and yes—pleasurable—lessons about the craft.

Rounding out the bill was Wayne McGregor's Chroma, in its second season with Ailey. It worked better at City Center where the shadow box set fit more tightly within the proscenium, and where the audience sits closer to the stage so the dancers are more visible and accessible in this somewhat remote, often dimly-lit piece (that is, when it's not lit bright white). The mostly berry-hued spaghetti strap camisoles are still problematic, at least for the men, and their thigh-joint length chops the dancers' lines in half. McGregor's style might be suited better to ballet-dedicated bodies, as it felt lacking in crispness, if imbued with power. But it remains an interesting curatorial choice. And a note on Jacqueline Green, who performed in all three dances, and who is fast becoming one of the most thrilling dancers in this top-level troupe.

One confession no doubt common to many New Yorkers: I always have between one and seven issues of The New Yorker sitting bedside, waiting patiently for me to find the time to read through them. I never regret doing so, but depending on the height of the stack, they do at times take on the affect of an impatient teacher checking her watch for my tardy arrival.

So it was with trepidation that I took up reading The 40s, a newly published, nearly 700-page anthology of pieces from The New Yorker from that decade. Like the magazine, it's a mix of journalism, profile, criticism, poetry, fiction. The 1940s hold great fascination for me, post-war, pre-modern, a time of great transition in the world, and in New York, and this book delves into the historical global context of that pivotal decade.

The volume contains gem after gem, leading with a section on the war, which sets the table for the remainder of the book. Some favorite pieces: John Hersey on Lieutenant John F. Kennedy and Hiroshima, Janet Flanner on the Monuments Men, Niccolò Tucci on a visit with Albert Einstein, the poem "Barroom Matins" by Louis Macneice, and stories by EB White, Carson McCullers, and VS Pritchett, among many others.

I do wish it contained a sampling of cartoons from that era, assuming they were included back then. I also would have liked to see some stand-alone dance criticism (also providing it was featured at the time), although it does refer to Agnes De Mille's Rodeo in Robert A. Simons' review of Copland and Shostakovich. There is also a hefty sampling of writings on "Feminine Fashions" by Lois Long, which are sprightly reading, but it's an overly generous dedication of space relative to the other cultural genres.

Those quibbles aside, it's a fascinating overview of a pivotal time. I consumed the book while its younger, slimmer brethren sat watching, waiting for their turn to be read and perhaps graduate to an anthology of this decade in years to come.

Gillian Murphy & David Hallberg in Cinderella.
Photo: Gene Schiavone

It's been a year since we've seen principal dancer David Hallberg perform with ABT, as he began dancing with the Bolshoi and splits his time between Moscow and New York. I guess we should feel lucky that he keeps one elegant foot here, even if it means a reduced spring ABT season workload and no fall/winter New York dates. It would be unthinkable to lose him completely.

In any case, it's wonderful to see him again in well-suited leads in Cinderella and Giselle. He is a natural-born prince (despite—because of?—his South Dakota provenance), with his statuesque height, noble profile, blond locks, and his innate hauteur. In his months with the Bolshoi, he has added welcome upper body strength to make overhead ballerina presses look easy, particularly with the sparrow-sized Alina Cojocaru in last Saturday evening's Giselle (he stepped in for an ailing Herman Cornejo), but also in the case of the substantially taller Polina Semionova earlier in the week.

In Cinderella, he confidently lifted Gillian Murphy above his head and gracefully descended a set of stairs. He has burnished other elements of his partnering studies—the feather-soft placing of the ballerina back on point, firmly gripping her waist as she tilts downward in arabesque, arranging his gaze to complement hers. It's somewhat ironic that the better partner a man is, the more he disappears, but in a good way.

Hallberg in Giselle. Photo: Gene Schiavone

Hallberg's demeanor is less that of an innocent youth now, and grounded with more maturity and intent. When he ponders his fate, it reads as concerned instead of unclear. And his technique remains paradigmatic, amplified through an emphasis of certain details. A leg held at 90º for an added second or two projects into infinity through his gloriously pointed, high-arched foot. As he circles in the forest, a small scissor step has become far wider and bolder, expressing ecstasy but also ferocity. (Has he learned to outwardly savor those moments when he approaches the sublime, as his fellow dancers often do?) And as always, he floats in perfect split grand jetés, defying gravity. One drawback is that he is so long-legged that the Met stage seems too small for him in these leaps.

I would not have predicted that Semionova would be such a profoundly moving Giselle; her rather tall height doesn't lend itself to the girlishness that in part makes the character's illness and death so terribly sad. But she moves with such tenderness and delicacy that she appeared to be moving through water at times. Hallberg is the right height for her, and together they were heartachingly gorgeous. He is tall for Cojocaru, with whom he danced on Saturday, but she gives a powerful portrayal of the broken ingenue. (Plus, how can one quibble with him as a substitute, despite missing Cornejo's only Giselle?) She is a natural fit for the role, seamlessly transitioning from a demure coquette to a tragic spirit. Again, it is a lovely gift that Cojocaru, one of the luminaries of the current generation, guests with ABT.

Alina Cojocaru as Giselle. Photo: Gene Schiavone

David Hallberg will perform in Swan Lake and The Dream in the final weeks of ABT's season at the Met, and in July, with the Bolshoi during the Lincoln Center Festival. When it rains it pours, but don't hesitate to seize the moment as he is a singular talent in a generation of fine dancers.

Bartolo Colon: powered by the core.

Just as I'd resigned myself to watching the Mets vie for last place in the NL East for the rest of the season, and excoriated myself for caring, they started scoring. And winning. Not writing any encomiums about playoffs or division champs just yet, but c'mon... any flicker of hope is light, eh?

This recent wave of hope began with jovian pitcher Bartolo Colon's double during the Cardinals game last Wednesday. Though I didn't see the play as it happened, descriptions included details about how his belly bounced as he ran the bases [note: I'm watching the Tuesday night game against the Oakland As, and because he singled, they replayed the double—I wouldn't call it "bouncing," exactly], and he could hardly catch his breath as Eric Young, behind him, hit another double to score him. More running for Colon.

Colon was one of the big ticket acquisitions for the Mets between seasons, and his arrival was met with a mixed reception. He is 40, 5'11", 285 lbs, or somesuch. But he also had a great record last year with the A's, and most importantly, he carries himself with a mix of determination and humor. If he weren't so good at hitting the strike zone, he'd be on the list to replace Mr. Met on rest days.

Another emerging secret to the Mets' recent success seems to be, and I'll admit I'm somewhat ashamed—the rally towel. Yes, the prosaic, cookie cutter, default waving of the towel. It emerged in the wake of the Colon Double, and is now ubiquitous and all-purpose. With any man on base, be it hit or walk, the towel twirl is done in the dugout. When a guy homers (like Travis d'Arnaud tonight against the As, freshly returned from a 16-day relegation to AAA), his teammates hold their towels like a matador teasing a bull. When, say David Wright doubles, in the absence of an actual towel, he twirled his fist above his head while standing at second. It has become "a Thing" in just a few days, whether cause or bellwether!

I'll end this as the Mets lead the As 8-1 in the 6th inning. I will not take it as an omen that the feed from SNY just cut out completely, just an opportunity to eat dinner while the Mets feast. (PS—the feed has resumed. I mean the SNY feed. Bon appetit.)(Toro towel update, post Chris Young's 2nd homer tonight—they hold their towels and he, like bull, runs through them.) Good night!

Hoovers galore!

The Whitney Museum's show, Jeff Koons: A Retrospective, (Friday through Oct 19) fills the one truly glaring blank in the artist's lengthy CV. Until now, he has never been featured in a major New York museum exhibition, though he has been ubiquitous in group and gallery shows since the '80s. Not only does the Whitney show, organized by Scott Rothkopf, capture this wily artist's body of work at a peak in his career, it is the final Whitney exhibition at the Madison Avenue building. (That said, it's not for a lack of opportunity—in 1996 he was scheduled for one at the Guggenheim, but he was unable to complete the work in time.) Those are some meaningful firsts and lasts.

Balloon Dog (Yellow), 1994—2000

Despite all that cold-shouldering by the curators, Koons' oeuvre has emerged among the most famous and high-priced in recent years. And why not? Shiny objects appeal to humans as much as they do to magpies, who collect little glittering baubles for their nests. So it is with rich collectors and their nests, particularly the clientele of Gagosian Gallery, which shows Koons (in addition to Sonnabend Gallery) and is the lead sponsor for the Whitney show and of a companion installation of a giant, floralSplit-Rocker at Rockefeller Center. And Koons' sculptures really do shine and glitter; many even make convenient mirrors if you need one in a pinch. But he also knows that simple objects from childhood can be like visual baby blankies or junk food—comforting, reminiscent of innocent times and carefree days before adulthood and its dreary responsibilities set in. Thus, inflatable things—mylar bunnies, flowers, pool toys, balloon animals; plastic stuff, cheery tchotchkes—are the bulk of the subject matter in this multi-floor show. And they make you smile.

Gorilla, 2006—11.
I am 8' tall and granite!

Lines can be drawn connecting Koons to Duchamp and his readymades, and Warhol and his Brillo boxes, pop art staples, and the Factory. But Koons has taken the techno-industrial supersizing of his subjects to Frankensteinian lengths. What appears to be an inflatable lobster pool toy is actually painted aluminum. (By god, it's all one can do not to squeeze it for proof. Perhaps that's why a guard stood not a foot away.) An 8' tall gorilla that looks like a giant version of a little plastic figurine is made of highly polished granite. The recent Celebration series of colored, mirror-surfaced works familiar to many of us—including a balloon dog, a heart with a bow, a dome—are made of polished steel with transparent color coatings. It's mind-boggling to think of the number of steps involved in creating these scale-ups and highly seductive surfaces. These technical feats alone are worth a tip of the hat, even if the subjects are trite.

One Ball Total Equilibrium Tank (Spalding Dr. J 241
Series), 1985. Nearly nothin' but window.

One of the most visually powerful, yet understated, galleries is a temple for his vacuum pieces from the early '80s. (An early iteration appeared in the window of The New Museum on Broadway back in the day.) The room comprises single and multiple arrangements of various models encased in plexi boxes and is lit almost solely with fluorescent tubes, lending the space a tongue-in-cheek gravity and solemnity. And the basketball equilibirum sculptures look downright like old masters by now.

In between these robust periods, however, we cannot avoid the early '90s Made in Heaven series (when he married Cicciolina, a porn star/politician, and decided to explicitly immortalize their love on photographic canvases and in life-sized 3D). This was when he alienated pretty much everyone (though I have to hand it to Sonnabend Gallery, which stuck by him even through this), and critics found the perfect ammunition to justify dismissing his work as glib and egomaniacal. Before that came the Banality series of tchotchkes in polychromed porcelain—Michael Jackson and Bubbles, Woman in Tub, String of Puppies, and prior to that, the semi-serious statuary collection of pewter-toned replicas of bar paraphernalia, renaissance sculptures, and kitsch. While the show features sculpture, a number of 2D works are on view, including a series based on the power of advertising, and the Easyfun-Ethereal series of funny paintings such as Sandwiches, in which the pseudonymous lunch items are affixed with googly olive-and-pickle eyes and moustaches.

Sandwiches, 2000

In a sense, the slickness and dumb appeal of Koons' technically challenging sculptures are as deceptive as his current popularity, which has taken his entire career to reach. (You can bet many people will see this show seeking not just floating basketballs, but also Schadenfreude.) And the man himself looks the same as he did decades ago, more like the investment banker he once was, and nowhere near his 59 years. Then again, he himself has been a consistent subject of his own work. One more example of the exterior appearing to be one thing, and the interior quite another. Taking the analogy a step further, despite their fragile appearance, you cannot pop his inflatables—they will endure, just as the artist has despite critical drubbings and symbolic exile.

A note on Gagosian's sponsorship: on the one hand, it would seem scandalous that Koons' dealer is underwriting these high-profile exhibitions, but on the other, the clarity is rather refreshing, as opposed to banks and real estate developers trying to bleach their spotty reputations in philanthropy.

The Whitney moves to MePa, or should I say HiLi, after this, with exhibitions planned for next spring in its new 60,000 square foot digs with a river view. The Met will take over the Breuer building on Madison, with its well-proportioned rooms, stone and wood floors, and embroiled history with Landmarks.

Photos by Susan Yung, except Balloon Dog (Yellow), 1994–2000, © Jeff Koons, courtesy the Whitney Museum.

Boston Ballet is performing at the Koch Theater this week, the company's welcome return to New York after a very long time. The program on Thursday included The Second Detail by William Forsythe, Resonance by José Martinez, and Cacti by Alexander Ekman.

The Second Detail. Photo: Gene Schiavone

The recent news that William Forsythe will leave his company to teach in California and perhaps pay more attention to his classical repertory in various companies shadowed my viewing of The Second Detail (1991). The operative word here is not "the," as spelled out in a downstage sign, but "cool"—as in Forsythe's lighting design of white fluorescent light, iceberg-hued leotards designed by Yumiko Takeshima and Issey Miyake, and the dancers' louche attitude between razor-sharp ballet phrases, as if they were in rehearsal. It's a rhythm of taut and relaxed that lends pace and respiration. The traditional structure of ballet is shaken up, but a profound affection for the vocabulary still resonates—posés with hyperextended ribcages, the encouragement of showy multiple pirouettes, leg extensions and leaps pushed to extremes. An upstage line of minimal stools grounds the stage (also designed by Forsythe) and serves as seating for performers, who rest, and at times gesture.

The women get the meaty sections, spinning like dervishes on pointe. I watched Misa Kuranaga perform two revolutions, looked away; and when I looked back a moment later, she was still finishing what must have been six revolutions. She has the right approach to Forsythe's style—without affectation, which can happen with certain dancers; fluid, technically astonishing (a leg afloat to the side, serene and unwavering). Thom Willems' score—electronic keyboard evoking a pipe organ—provided little structure, yet some of the dancers' moves seemed to align precisely with specific notes. A woman in a dress of white sheaves signalled the finale's onset; the work ended when a man kicked over "The." End!

Ji Young Chae and Patrick Yocum in Resonance.
Photo: Rosalie O'Connor

Forsythe has influenced an entire generation of choreographers, including, apparently, José Martinez, who choreographed Resonance. This ambitious work, in shades of pewter and blue, features a set of rolling grey panels that reworked the stage space every few minutes. Two pianists play Liszt (one at first hides behind a panel), an odd and at times awkward musical choice that can be melodramatic and rhythmically unsupportive. One group of women, led by Lia Cirio, wears flared navy sundresses; the other (by Dusty Button), camisole leotards.

John Cuff's pale, silvery moonlighting frequently features dancers' silhouettes framed on the panels. The ever-shifting set creates a feeling of unease and provides visual variety, but proved distracting at times. Martinez's movement abides by a similar muscularity and an extreme rendition of ballet as Forsythe's. It includes difficult phrases of pirouettes that change direction and foot positions, particularly in a polished performance by Alejandro Virelles. The work ended as it began, with a solitary woman walking backwards.

I must confess that Alexander Ekman's Cacti left me with mixed feelings. He pokes fun at dramaturgical pretense and dance criticism, and those who practice one or both and have thin skin might understand. With that in mind, here are some notes:

Cacti. Photo: Rosalie O'Connor

Wow, that is an impressive sight... 16 dancers who all look the same, like they're not wearing tops but they actually are wearing flesh-toned leotards (is that a woman? not sure) with funny short black pants, each on a little platform... scary light grids falling askance from the fly... a few musicians standing around playing... the dancers are pounding their platforms and bodies, making rhythms, alternating and in unison, like football players doing the Polynesian haka pre-game... even slapping their heads, covered with chalk dust… poof… some mock critic's thoughts are read aloud… it sounds pompous and lugubrious… wait, I take that back, those words are pompous and lugubrious. sorry.

Hey! there are the cacti, obviously cheap and light plastic versions, seemingly red herrings, but I'm not supposed to get into any meaning here… those side light grids actually spell out "cacti," flashing like traffic alerts... platforms are dragged and arranged in a little fort… a couple performs a scene while their dreary thoughts and shorthand for moves are spoken aloud… it's supposed to be funny… and it's really just annoying… everyone comes back onstage, without their black pants, and they pose like some expensive Vanity Fair portrait… and the dumb voice comes back on asking if this is the end, like, eight times, and we're all praying it's the end... and it actually does end one second before I actually scream "It better be the end!"

That said, several viewers guffawed at every silly visual joke and satirical sentence. And the stagecraft—set arrangement, lighting (both by Tom Visser), tasteful music played live (Haydn, Beethoven, etc.), and the synchrony and execution of the company, were top-notch. Ekman had hit his target, but it clearly wasn't (or was?) me.

The Boston Ballet is performing at Lincoln Center's Koch Theater, through June 29. Principal Misa Kuranaga, phenomenal in William Forsythe's The Second Detail, answered a few questions for Ephemeralist.

Ephemeralist: What does it mean to you that the company is making its debut at Lincoln Center, and in particular on the Koch Theater stage?

Misa Kuranaga: This means a lot to me and the entire Boston Ballet organization. We are such a versatile dance company at the height of our skills and it will be a joy to share this with the dance scene of New York City.

E: Of the repertory to be performed in New York, what do you most eagerly anticipate performing, and why?

MK: I love The Second Detail and I'm the most excited to perform this ballet. It is such a thrilling piece... you can give it all you have and explore your art form in the midst of a performance. It is a piece that is constantly growing and changing.

Working with Mr. Forsythe was such an amazing experience for me. He inspired me by sharing his life experiences. I hope I can share all of the things he taught me on stage with the audience in NY.

E: You guested with New York City Ballet in Serenade. What memories do you have from that performance?

MK: I remember when I first got the news of receiving the opportunity to perform at the Koch Theater with New York City Ballet. I was just so excited! I was given the chance to dance the Russian girl in Serenade and Heather Watts and Margaret Tracy helped me prepare for the show. I had a great time dancing on stage with friends I had not seen in years and they were all very supportive. It was a special moment for alums of School of American Ballet. I'm not always happy with my shows but this one I was very happy with, and it is one of the best shows I can remember. Because of such support from everyone, I was able to dance comfortably and perform my best at the time.

It was definitely one if the most memorable performances of my career.

E: What are you looking forward to doing during your free time in the city?

MK: I'm in every show so I'm not expecting to have a lot of free time, but meeting some friends I haven't seen in a while for dinner will be something I'm looking forward to.

Herman Cornejo in The Dream. Photo: Gene Schiavone

Ballet and baseball seasons coincide, and deep into both seasons, key players are suffering wear and tear, and that has a ripple effect on their colleagues and fans.

Namely, the Davids have been waylaid—Hallberg (ABT, foot) and Wright (Mets, shoulder). I got a hefty, overdue dose of Hallberg in recent weeks, seeing him in Cinderella and then twice in Giselle, the second time when he substituted for an ill Herman Cornejo. Then Hallberg succumbed to an injury last Saturday—perhaps from overwork?—and Cory Stearns stepped in for a performance of Swan Lake. Stearns again replaced Hallberg last night in Frederick Ashton's The Dream (1964) in a double bill of Shakespeare. It was a good opportunity to see him dance, and one I wouldn't have had otherwise.

The best news of last night, however, was that Cornejo had recuperated and danced Puck in The Dream, among his finest roles, and one which he originated with ABT in this production in 2002. It fully displays all of his strengths—his utter naturalness (complemented by his woodland creature costume) in a highly unnatural art form, suspended leaps, a lovely musicality both precise and organic, and dashing wit. And while he is among the most romantic and sensitive of dancers, and is now in the regular rotation in white-tights roles, he remains legend in such spritely characters.

Sarah Lane and Joseph Gorak in The Tempest. Photo: Marty Sohl

His compact body type is of course not a first in ballet's principal ranks, though it is still the exception. It serves as a fine example for newly-appointed soloist Joseph Gorak, who on this program reprised the romantic duet with Sarah Lane in The Tempest, by Alexei Ratmansky, to music by Sibelius. Marcelo Gomes and Daniil Simkin portrayed Prospero and Ariel, and James Whiteside the beast Caliban (with a fright wig and patchy fur); Cornejo debuted that role last year, although I can't say it entirely rewards such accomplished dancers. Gorak has also been cropping up with regularity in lead roles including in Ashton's Cinderella and Ratmansky's Nutcracker. As previously noted, he recalls Hallberg in his innate nobility and épaulement, elegant line, superbly arched feet, flexibility, and composure. And since there are several gifted smaller women in ABT, he should be busy.

Gillian Murphy in The Dream. Photo: Gene Schiavone

Seeing The Tempest in its sophomore season and transferred to the Met from the Koch, it still reads as overly prop-heavy, which forces the staging into a flat, narrow horizontal area, and it is visually over-busy. Gomes is given solid geometric movements to underscore Prospero's gravity. Ariel is an ideal role for Simkin, freeing him to flit and spin, and fly in one of his signature moves, a low arabesque sauté in which the torso is kept perpendicular. (He is another principal who distinguishes himself best in solo character roles.) As Prospero's daughter, Lane is convincingly girlish and devoted. The corps comprises the ocean, most effective when spilling downstage in a crashing wave, although Santo Loquasto's overly embellished costumes distract.

(In addition to Gorak, other ABT promotions are the buoyant and pristine Isabella Boylston to principal, and new soloists are Christine Shevchenko, who acquitted herself so well in Ratmansky's Shostakovich Trilogy, Devon Teuscher, and ABT's resident actor par excellence, Roman Zhurbin—all deserved and made from within the ranks.)

Back to The Dream, which is such a prime casting vehicle. Gillian Murphy danced Titania with a proper mix of fortitude and flourish, and her auburn ringlets somehow reinforce the fairy tale setting. Stearns seemed more at ease as Oberon than ever, again, finding the right balance of petulant and regal, and properly savoring the moments of technical braggadocio. Blaine Hoven was Bottom, and while he needs to hone his pointe shoe work, he captured the charm and innocence of his furry, long-eared avatar. The star-struck lovers were Adrienne Schulte, so comically expressive; the plastic-faced Grant De Long, Stella Abrera, convincingly puzzled at being spurned, and Jared Matthews, who once more showed his acting chops, which we will miss as he departs to Houston Ballet with Yuriko Kajiya.

Heal, shoulder of David Wright.

And as for the other David, over at the Mets (and not the Met)... fortunately, it's just a bruised rotator cuff on his non-throwing left shoulder. He should be back in the line-up this weekend, which is fortunate, as the Mets need him, his bat, his shoulder, and his rally towel. • Frank Cashen, Mets GM during the team's late 1980's golden era, passed away recently. He put together the 1986 world championship team which, in retrospect, was miraculous. Mex, the Kid, Doc, Nails, Strawbs, Mookie, Backman, Knight, Darling... while their fates have mixed to say the least, at least we have the privilege of hearing commentary by Keith and Ronnie, even as they twist in the wind as they cover the lackluster current team.

Mikhail Lobukhin as Spartacus. Photo: Elena Fetisova, Bolshoi Ballet

The Bolshoi Ballet was in town recently as part of the Lincoln Center Festival, in the wake of the scandalous acid-throwing incident suffered by artistic director Sergei Filin, who watched from the audience and is looking in better condition than I had feared from all the news reports. It was a relief to see the drama move onstage.

Spartacus, a historical ballet choreographed by Yuri Grigorovich to swashbuckling filmic music by Aram Khachaturyan, is a genre that is rarely produced in New York, with reason—there's a fine line between a historical costume dance and spoof. In the first scene's demonstrations of Roman military might, I had to stifle the giggles and adjust my mindset. Athletic bombast became the norm throughout the three-hour ballet, as the large cast's many men stomped and punched their expressions of prowess while carrying shields and swords, and wearing armor including shinguards and helmets. Many of the women, on the other hand, wore hand scarf-sized stylized togas with pointe shoes. Well, why not?

Mikhail Lobukhin chomped heartily into the title role, flexing his tanned muscles and flinging his lank hair in rhythm. He literally flew across the stage in jetés and even a rivoltade (a fancy, floor-stabbing tour jeté), flinging his arms wide and thrusting his chest out in extreme confidence. Simon Virsaladze's costumes for the principals, despite their mixed messages on veracity and a tendency to over-weaponize, were flattering, including Spartacus' red, one-shouldered obi/loin cloth over grey tights.

Svetlana Zakharova as Aegina in Spartacus. Photo: Stephanie Berger

Svetlana Zakharova, glamorous and conspiratorial, gobbled even more scenery as the courtesan Aegina. Dripping with rhinestones to complement her mini toga, she used her fabulous forced arches as lethal weapons, repeatedly brandishing them at anyone nearby. You could practically hear her purring as she minxed her way through the ballet, slicing the poor air with her ferocious developpés, upturned palms, and in one scene, a floral staff. In the less gratifying "good" roles, Alexander Volchkov as Crassus, leader of the Roman Army, and Anna Nikulina, as Phrygia, Spartacus' gal pal, fared as well as could be expected.

While Spartacus reads as kitsch much of the time, it has entertaining pre-battle pep rally scenes and bacchanales, although a little goes a long way, and many of Grigorovich's choreographic inventions—duly repeated, again and again—are artless and bone-jarring. Virsaladze's expressionistic scenery—columned stone temples—is modernized by an evocative, hammocked scrim raised up and down to conceal and reveal stage elements. This ballet may not be one that you'd want to catch repeatedly, but as a staple of the Bolshoi's repertory, it was a fascinating glimpse into the Russian cultural canon.

Alexander Petukhov (Sancho Panza in Don Quixote) in flight. Photo: Stephanie Berger

Last week, I saw the company perform Don Quixote. There are few surprises since it's comparable to the ballet that ABT just performed earlier this summer. The Bolshoi's production, by Alexei Fadeyechev after Petipa and Gorsky, goes for busily milling crowd scenes, Cubistic painted flats by Sergei Barkhin, and a sultry Flamenco number, although in this scene both the pace and the leg-hiding floor-length dresses drag.

Kristina Kretova, a leading soloist (the rank below principal) danced Kitri, flashing huge smiles and fanning her ruffled skirt with fervor. Lobukhin was her Basilio; despite its broad comic strokes, the role requires far more restraint than Spartacus, not to mention more clothing (the black tights tend to make Lobukhin's legs look skinnier than they are). But the bold, joyful attitude of Don Quixote is well-matched to the Bolshoi's nature.

Random notes:
The orchestra sounded bright and lustrous; Pavel Klinichev conducted.
The Koch Theater is perhaps slightly small for these productions, but the closer proximity than the Met (where ABT performs its spring season) makes it easier to read.
Some of the technique looked slightly ragged, especially in Don Quixote.

Douglas Williams (Polyphemus) with Spencer Ramirez, Lauren Grant, and Noah Vinson. Photo: Richard Termine

Mark Morris is among the few modern choreographers at this moment who can put together—direct and choreograph—a dance-driven, full-length opera. His new production of Handel's Acis and Galatea was performed as part of Lincoln Center's Mostly Mozart Festival at the Koch Theater last week. It is telling, and fitting, that Morris is as at home in this music festival as anywhere else. The music which provides the structure, however, is at times fallible. The opera itself is largely light, bubbly, sometimes silly, with jaunty rhythms and repeating lyrics, and a trenchant, somber aria by Galatea, mourning Acis, prior to a festive finale. It's also sometimes irritating, like a pop music station where you hear a clunker every now and then. It might explain why it's not as commonly performed as other Handel compositions.

The pre-dance overture however, with a toe-tapping tempo, is an immediate reminder of the joys of hearing well-played music, live. Nicholas McGegan conducts the Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra and Chorale with finesse and verve. (It is clear that the orchestra takes things seriously from the program's list of instruments and their provenances; some date back to the 17th century.) The 18 dancers sweep on and off in arcs, ebbing and flowing, spelling out some of the shapes that accumulate to create a selected syntax specific to this work, as Morris does with each dance he creates. Draped tree branch hands, or arms straight, palms spread, as a dancer rushes upstage. A woman is lifted and wafted back to earth, one arm held higher than the other. A couple echoes one another's side leg lifts, with the man peeling backward. The endless repetition of musical phrases means a mirroring of the companion dance phrases, providing ample views and reviews.

The singers, pure and agile in voice, were integrated into the movement, sometimes more successfully than others. Soprano Yulia Van Doren (Galatea) moved more naturally than her paramour, Acis (tenor Thomas Cooley), who might have benefitted from more movement training, particularly in simply running across the stage. Tenor Isaiah Bell (Damon) sang with ringing clarity and youthful brio. But it was Douglas Williams who grabbed the spotlight as bad-boy Polyphemus, rejected by Acis. In a snarling solo, he groped each dancer as they passed by him with increasing reluctance, as if on a conveyor belt. This from a choreographer who once famously yelled "No more rape!" at a performance of Twyla Tharp's Nine Sinatra Songs. But a cluster of dancers forms a chair for Polyphemus, who is in turn groped by them—turnabout is fair play. In the end, he throws a boulder (appropriately, the rock-solid Maile Okamura, held aloft by two men) to strike dead Acis, whom Galatea resurrects as a flowing, life-giving stream.

A joyous finale. Photo: Richard Termine

Adrienne Lobel created vivid, expressionistic painted drops; one psych evokes a mountainous grove, another more rigid geometric forms, and a mid-stage drop features cut-out portals. When they are all lowered in place, the effect is visual cacophony. The stage is covered with a garish green marley—more tennis court than grass—whose effect was heightened by Michael Chybowski's lighting. Isaac Mizrahi designed wonderful floor-length chiffon, floral camo print dresses for the women and skirts for the men; the singers wore individual designs in varying plant hues.

Morris is masterful at creating lilting, organic movement phrases that present a bright, philanthropic view of love and life. His dancers glow and gaze with affection at one another, and at the singers. There are also humorous sardonic scenes, such as when some of the women gang up with Galatea and pummel Polyphemus. Rita Donahue leads a memorable scene comprising a rapid series of strident gestures—hands stab the air, arms flail as if rowing followed by a violent stomp, a phrase which elicited giggles time and again. In another section, to a militaristic march, Laurel Lynch, carriage upright, sweeps her bent leg in an arc and straightens her limbs rigidly. In a visual non sequitur, Polyphemus lies on the ground and circles his ankles like a dancer warming up. The movements can get literal—to the phrase "ample strides," several dancers lift and vault another who plants her flexed feet defiantly. For a playful choreographer such as Morris, even if the results can be somewhat obvious, such visual pictures are priceless gifts in an oeuvre filled with days worth of non-narrative choreography.

Integrating opera singers and dancers onstage is, of course, nothing new. (Once in a blue moon, someone like Simon Keenlyside, who is an impressively fleet physical presence, comes along to shift the paradigm.) It's one way Morris has approached opera—he also worked this way with the Met's Orfeo and Eurydice a few years ago. He has also placed singers in the pit and given the lead roles to dancers, as with his well-loved Dido and Aeneas. As long as Morris continues to have opportunities to do one, the other, or yet something else, productions of even less sturdy scores are welcome.

It's pretty quiet in the dance world now, so thought I'd share some notes on books of interest that I've read recently.

In the historical novel vein, I was quietly won over by Michel Déon's The Foundling Boy, originally published in 1975 in French, but recently translated into English by Julian Evans. It follows twists and turns in the life of Jean, a foundling, in France during WWI. Despite some gender chauvinism, which winds through the narrative, Déon paints an absorbing portrait of Provence, Paris, London, broaches the topic of nature vs. nurture, and brings to life some all-too human characters. This fall, the translated second volume in the Foundling series is being published; I look forward to it with relish.

California, by Edan Lepucki, made headlines as the first of Hachette's titles to be touted by Stephen Colbert after Amazon began its campaign to punish the mega-publisher. This post-near-apocalyptic story focusing on a couple surviving in what they thought was solitude resonated with me far more than I expected. Some plot changes were at times predictable, at other times shocking, and some settings fantastical to the point of disbelief. Lepucki treats the lasting significance of institutions on impressionable youth, the enduring bonds and resentments of family, and the terrifying mindset of survivors.

Haruki Marukami's Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage, currently being über marketed, is strange, as the author's settings and conceits can be. The book itself is highly designed, from its Mondrianesque hard cover cloaked by a perforated surcover, to the graphic treatment of its page numbers, to the precious size and look of the volume. It reflects in part Marukami's smooth, almost glib language to describe complicated emotional states. The novel follows the title character in the aftermath of being banished from a clique of five friends, and his efforts to come to terms with it. Marukami makes even the most difficult of topics emerge in casually forced pitter patter. There's a supernatural streak that runs through his novels—less so in this than his epic previous work, 1Q84—that makes you wonder if the events in dreams can possibly be real. At times it can feel lightweight, but his writing style is distinctive. Still, all the hype feels misplaced.

Sonia Rodriguez (Alice) and Cheshire. Photo: Bruce Zinger

Is it possible nowadays to make an entertaining ballet combining technology with a classic of literature? Christopher Wheeldon's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, danced the National Ballet of Canada and presented by the Joyce Theater at the Koch, offers a resounding yes. (It originally premiered at the UK's Royal Ballet in 2011, and with CNB that year as well). It falls closer to Broadway-destined spectacles by Matthew Bourne than traditional ballets—not a bad thing. Most enduring popular classical ballets are based on romances either tragic or hard-won, in part to justify the big pas de deux, the beating heart of the genre. Alice has a somewhat stitched-together storyline which fails to tug on the heartstrings like chestnuts such as Giselle or Swan Lake. Here, it's all about the adventure, as the title says, and a thrilling ride it is.

Photo: Bruce Zinger

The most prominent and surprising elements of the ballet are the sets and costumes by Bob Crowley. It feels as if he pulled every last proverbial rabbit out of his hat, where they've been multiplying for generations. Some effects are plain old stagecraft—puppetry (an enchanting Cheshire Cat, in large and extra-large), admirably built set elements (the Queen's rolling heart-shaped carapace), clever applications of playing card graphics (spade-shaped tutus). Video elements (projection design by Jon Driscoll and Gemma Carrington) are used cleverly, taking us through convincingly dizzying plunges through the rabbit hole, or causing a wall of doors to vibrate hallucinogenically. As in the book, one drawback to talking caterpillars and floating cats is that our protagonist is reduced to a wistful cipher, fading from prominence even as she hardly, heroically even, leaves the stage over the course of roughly two hours (excluding two intermissions). She is called upon, not surprisingly, to react to the various crazy events into which she is coaxed or thrust.

Elena Lobsanova and Xiao Nan Yu. Photo: Bruce Zinger

Sonia Rodriguez danced the lead role on Wednesday, with Naoya Ebe as her suitor, Jack/Knave. The flamboyant role of Mother/Queen went to Svetlana Lunkina, who landed at the NBC after departing the Bolshoi last year—threatened in the wake of artistic director Sergei Filin being attacked with acid. This real-life drama would be hard to match, but the Queen's eye-popping costume and favorite gesture (slashed throat) did just that. Lunkina switched from preening to bloodthirsty in a split second. Juicy signature phrases went to the Rabbit/Lewis Carroll (Robert Stephen) wearing Lennonesque round pink specs and twitching neurotically when not leaping about, the Fish and Frog Footmen (Dylan Tedaldi and Francesco Gabriele Frola) slithering and waddling with charm, and Raja/Caterpillar (James Harrison), slinking on his stomach, which he also comically rubs in circles. Alice and Jack are given relatively brief duos, in which little chemistry is produced, but Ebe displayed his elegant lines and expressive back, and Rodriguez her solid arabesque when she isn't wriggling through a tiny door or acting shocked, surprised, or delighted.

Jody Talbot wrote the pleasing music, often filmic in feel, and recalling Prokofiev and Danny Elfman at moments. It moves the action along pleasantly; perhaps further listenings will let it imprint on the brain. New York City Ballet's orchestra manned the pit, led by David Briskin, music director of the National Ballet of Canada.

One niggling criticism about Crowley's costumes, which are on the whole brilliant and witty, is the clashing hues of Alice's lavender frock and Jack's red and white outfits (he is on the lam from Team Queen, whose color is red). Even when their lines are in harmony, they are visually off key. But what lingers in the mind's eye should be the abattoir complete with slaughtered pigs, giant teapots, flowers dancing down the aisles under a flurry of confetti, a massive neon labyrinth, and multiple houses of cards. Catch it if you can.

Buffard and Limon—Disparate Points on the Spectrum

Cincinnati Ballet does Frampton (Not) Live!

Premieres at New York City Ballet—JP & JR

Beauty, Beast, and Balanchine

Slapstick and Absorbing Formalism at ABT

What's the Inspiration for Jewels?

Morgan Library—Romantic Landscapes and Other Treasures

Cinderella, Take 3

Ailey—Pleasures and Lessons

Book Rec: The 40s—Anthology of a Turbulent Decade

David Hallberg, Home Again

Things are Looking up for the Mets—Towels, Toros, and BarTolos

Koons—First and Last Laughs at the Whitney

Boston Ballet's Return to Gotham

Q&A with Boston Ballet's Misa Kuranaga

Mortal Davids

Bolshoi Ballet—the drama moves onstage

Mark Morris' Acis and Galatea

Recent Novels of Note

Alice's Adventures—A Dizzying Delight