It’s tough to be the opening act for two intriguing world premieres and Balanchine’s bulletproof Symphony in C. Jerome Robbins’ Opus 19/The Dreamer is not quite up to the task. The Prokofiev score may be an intoxicating ride for the solo violin, but Robbins’ choreography is a much tamer affair.
The ballet’s staying power likely stems from memories of Baryshnikov and McBride in the original cast, however on Oct. 2 at New York City Ballet the eloquent Taylor Stanley and spirited Lauren Lovette owned it. They made the most of a handful of witty interactions, and shot their legs like arrows into a twilight sky while twisting and flopping their torsos. Her jazzy hops on pointe were the bomb. The prancing corps, who were just a distraction in the early movements, wove a beguiling thicket around the Dreamer and his elusive muse in the later movements, sometimes ominous, at other times protective. Solo violinist Arturo Delmoni conjured up the dream/nightmare with ferocity.
Either of the two world premieres – Edwaard Liang’s elegant Lineage or Lauren Lovette’s The Shaded Line – would have made a snappier opener. Both are buttressed by tremendous scores. Composer Oliver Davis’ multi-hued composition, titled ‘Apollo,’ created an alluring backdrop to what Liang, who danced with City Ballet in the 90s, has described as his homage to Balanchine’s Georgian roots. Hints of Eastern European folk dance were indeed visible in footwork and gestures, and were meant to flavor the costumes by Anna Sui – created for the annual gala that pairs choreographers with prominent couturiers. Up close, the costumes may look handsome and rich in detail, but from the house the voluminous and shiny gold skirts obscured much of the women’s movements; the bibbed burgundy tops and burgundy men’s tights looked drab in comparison. The women removed their skirts about a third of the way through, notably for the pas de deux. But that only reinforced a tired trope of modern ballet in which barelegged women are partnered by fully clothed men. (We are long overdue for a new rule in ballet: if the women rip off their skirts, the men must relinquish their trousers. It’s only fair.)
The only metaphor I could come up with to explain the glittering gold skirts was capitalism. As the music grew more bellicose and the women shed their skirts it looked like revolution might be in the offing. The pugnacious Roman Mejia was tasked with several explosive solos, very Russian in nature, that seemed to be a call to arms. This notion was further bolstered by a haunting duet for Maria Kowroski and Tyler Angle in which she seemed to be bidding him a reluctant farewell before his comrades-in-arms turned up. They parted the pair but at the eleventh hour, Angle whisked her into an overhead lift and carried her offstage. (Perhaps he was a conscientious objector.) He did return to deliver a brief bracing solo.
Liang’s imagination crested chiefly in the duets – one witty and acrobatic for Ashley Bouder and Peter Walker, another tender and serene for Sara Mearns and Russell Janzen. Mearns dialed down her usual dramatic intensity for this poetic duet marked by encircling arms and skimming lifts – both score and choreography matched in sweetness without the saccharin that often plagues duets in abstract ballets. This pas de deux was, for me, the highlight of the entire evening.
Liang’s ensemble work tilted heavily to the formulaic but I’d be down to see this piece again, preferably with a costume rethink.
In contrast, Lovette’s choreography in The Shaded Line was most inventive in group settings but sometimes veered toward cliché in the solo work. Composer Tan Dun’s ‘Fire Ritual’ came charging out of the gate with extra complements of Western and Chinese percussion – spurred on by Kurt Nikkanen on solo violin – and didn’t let up. Costumes by Zac Posen made a strong point about the objectification of women: the ensemble men were conventionally clad in princely ballet garb, and both sexes sported the usual sparkly accessories, but the women’s tutus suggested Swan Lake gone wrong: cut out in front and shrunken in the back, they blatantly called attention to groins and derrières.
Costumes and choreography for the four central figures further signposted the struggle for acceptance by those who are othered. Mary Thomas McKinnon’s tutu was long and droopy, while Unity Phelan’s was pinned up in the back all the way to her shoulders. Taylor Stanley was a different kind of prince, with little sylphide-style wings on his back. Protagonist Georgina Pazcoguin would partner all three, defying conventions of ballet partnering. Her only concession to ballet tradition was a pair of pointe shoes, dyed black to match her black trousers, which she removed halfway through to dance barefoot. A buttoned-down shirt and cropped black wig completed her androgynous look.
Was Pazcoguin a stand-in for the choreographer, or an iconoclast taking on the patriarchy? Either way, she had a thrillingly contentious relationship with the ensemble, whose movement qualities changed in response to her feisty, tortured movements. The men at one point snapped to a tightly closed classical fifth position of the feet, their upper bodies melting into elegant but decidedly unclassical shapes. Toward the end, the ensemble arranged themselves in a traditional U-shape around Pazcoguin to strike a series of modernist poses triggered by repeated thunderings of the bass drum.
In one of several witty scenes, Pazcoguin was run over by a posse of swans. Once she struggled to her feet, she bumped into McKinnon, a sort of swan princess, who appeared to be throwing a tantrum. She was accompanied by four cygnets. This riff on the lakeside scene in Swan Lake, in which Prince Siegfried first stumbles across the enchanted swans, was a hoot.
Balanchine’s Symphony in C (Le Palais de Cristal) was a clever programming riposte to the new works, all surface glitter in its visualization of the joyful Bizet score. It dates back to 1947 but doesn’t look a day over 21, and remains a triumph of symmetry, clarity, and aerodynamics. Not even the high-lumen Swarovski crystals on the costumes – which were revamped by Marc Happel in 2012, their twinkling likely visible from outer space – could distract from the pleasure of watching Ashley Bouder luxuriate in her balances on pointe; the remote, divine Sterling Hyltin bend Amar Ramasar to her will; Indiana Woodward and Sebastian Villarini-Velez soar through space; and Brittany Pollack pummel the floor with her pointes and whirl at dizzying speed through the exhilarating fourth movement.
Joseph Gordon partnered Bouder but seemed more concerned with flaunting his pirouettes than attending to her – no matter, for she could have handled the whole darn thing without him. Ramasar held his own admirably, without forgetting that his primary duty was to show up for Hyltin every time she decided she wanted to fly or plunge thrillingly toward the floor. All the men produced suitably springy sissonnes and the entire ensemble sizzled through that thrilling finale in which you keep thinking Bizet is winding down for the night – but then he revs up the orchestra with yet another dose of caffeine.
– Carla Escoda reviewed the Oct. 2, 2019, performance of New York City Ballet in Classic NYCB at Lincoln Center. –
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