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San Francisco Ballet
at City Centerby Mary Cargill
The San Francisco Ballet returned to New York after a three-year absence with many new dancers, and many new dances. The dancers were very good, the dances, on the whole, were not. (Nowadays, separating the dancer from the dance has become not only possible, but necessary.) With the cancellation of the rvival of the monumental Liebeslieder Walzer (even more regrettable after seeing how adult so many of the company's dancers are), the emphasis was on the ballets of artistic director Helgi Tomasson. They are by and large pleasant, but not very memorable. It is posible that jaded Russian ballet critics rolled their eyes at yet another white act during Swan Lake's premiere and went home thinking "Been there, done that", and that some of the many wispy, chiffon-inflected, piano ballets will endure; in which case, my opinion is irrelevant. But nevertheless, I could not help feeling like I had seen all of these piano ballets before, no matter how well performed they were.
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." It suggested to me a ballet that was trying to be Rubies, except that the dancers were in a very bad mood.
Overall, the emphasis this trip was very much on steps. The Forsyte ballet, with its overly-cute title The Vertiginous Thrill of Exactitude, was the best of the step ballets, with some intriging combinations of shapes, danced very well indeed by both casts, but at heart it really had nothing to say except "Watch the dancers do difficult things". As in so many recent ballets, the choreographer seems to confuse plotless with pointless.
Two dramatic ballets were given. The Cage, Robbins' 1951 Freudian exploration of really scary women, looked like a masterpiece of composition. In the middle of the endless twiddling to music of so many of the other ballets, it had a point and made it economically and effectively. The new Spainish-trained dancer Lucia Lacarra, with her small frame, boneless body, and gorgeous, Audrey Hepburn-like face, was the most insect-like. Katita Waldo was more human, fighting a bit to save the man. Both were very effective.
Flemming Flindt's The Lesson, based on a play by Eugene Ionesco, is more of a mimed scene than a ballet, and requires committeed 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 and hypnotic performance, without ever descending to camp. Watching him take off his vest was one of the most frightening things I have seen on stage.
Agon was the only really great ballet of the week, and it proved something of a disappointment. It was competently 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. 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, was on another level. She was cool, elegant, distant, yet accessible. She has extraordinary extension, 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 legs, 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.