Thursday night, Peter Martins' Swan Lake brought to mind watery fowls, although not always swans. Instead, I found myself ruminating on Elizabeth Bishop's sandpiper, always running, running, running, "in a state of controlled panic." I don't know why the powers that be at City Ballet like to have Swan Lake conducted so briskly that the whole purpose of the exercise seems to be to get us out of the theater as quickly as possible. It's like being sent through a museum on a conveyer belt, or listening to a recital of Shakespeare from which all punctuation's been removed. Even in the white acts, there's no time for moments of repose and reflection. The White Swan pas de deux, or what's left after Balanchine and Martins have had their way with it, marches on with a cold efficiency. I've almost wept to see Wendy Whelan in this production. One of the great lyrical dancers of her generation, for years she's been the living embodiment of Balanchine's masterpiece adagios. She should be one of our great Odettes, and in both of her performances earlier in this run, she offered tantalizing glimpses of what she might have been, yet no sooner had she struck one pose in the White Swan then she had to move on to the next. No luxuriant penchés or heart-stopping fondues here; time, tide and Andrea Quinn wait for no man, woman or swan. It's not just the dancers, but the choreography itself that suffocates.

It doesn't help that this Swan Lake is a confused reworking, obscured by Per Peter Kirkeby's gloomy, minimalist sets and costumes. (It took me years to realize that the green and brown scribblings on the first-act backdrops aren't mildew in a drafty castle, but foliage. It's set outdoors! Who knew?) Here, Siegfried is still tricked into swearing his love for Odile, yet somehow in the fourth act he convinces an understandably withdrawn Odette that he didn't really mean it, which doesn't exactly break the spell, but somehow manages to kill Von Rotbart (who dies leaving his jaunty orange cape as an obstacle for the swan-maidens). At the ballet's end, Siegfried is left alone, as Odette escapes his grasp and returns to her crypt the lake. I say if Peter Martins really wanted to do Giselle, he should've done Giselle. But nobody asks me.

Last night was the second performance by Jenifer Ringer and Sebastien Marcovici. A glamorous and charming ballerina, Ringer tends to improve in a role with each performance, so I was content to miss her debut with Marcovici last Saturday. The first act is the weakest part of the production, with its scribbled backdrops and cheap-looking costumes, bland ensembles for Siegfried's friends offset by the antics of his Jester, a reworked pas de trois, and the shameless inclusion of a score or so children from the School of American Ballet. I nevertheless liked the easy interplay between Marcovici and his Benno, Andrew Veyette, and Jester, Adam Hendrickson. A rather heavy-set dancer with brooding eyes like a young Brando, Marcovici was alternately merry and taciturn, despite Hendrickson's flashiest capers and tricks (which the audience adored). As it progressed, the pas de trois suffered from Quinn's ever-increasing tempi. While the lanky, cautious Megan LeCrone, pert Kristin Sloan and athletic but somewhat tight Andrew Veyette managed their introduction and solos well enough, it was in the ever-quickening coda that I wondered if Quinn were actually trying to kill them, as she charged along happily oblivious to increasing strain of the dancers trying to match her tempi while keeping their discomfiture hidden from the audience at large.

I hate to complain so about the soon-to-be-departing Quinn. Under her baton, the orchestra has sounded fantastic -- as an orchestra. Last night the Tchaikovsky was a delight to hear: deep, rich and spirited. Recorded, it would've made a great CD, and Quinn herself conducted with a joyous brio. Back in the day, George Balanchine was fond of saying that if you didn't like what you saw onstage, you could always close your eyes and enjoy the music. Observing the havoc Quinn's happy obliviousness was wreaking upon the dancers and choreography, I remembered Balanchine's famous quip, and wondered if he could've imagined that one day the orchestra itself, rather than the choreography, might be the instrument for making one wish to follow his suggestion.

Returning to the dancing, I'd hoped for a bit more from Jenifer Ringer. She's a smart dancer, and is constantly working on improving her roles, adding detail and nuance with each repetition. Unfortunately, with her movie-star looks and unabashed sweetness, she's neither a tragedienne or a temptress, which meant she had her work cut out for her dancing Odette/Odile. At first, she fluttered away from Marcovici with a convincing fearful flightiness, but as the act progressed, she seemed more and more the happy, sweet swan-next-door. Although the brooding Marcovici eyed her with yearning adoration, Ringer, for her part, while clearly trying to look sad and love-lorn, most often achieved a kind of bemused, passive prettiness. When Marcovici finally swore his love for her, her joyful response spoke less of Odette's joy at her release from her enchanted bondage, and more glee at finally getting a date with that hunky prince (for just a moment, did her tutu become a poodle skirt?). Similarly, while as Odile she ran her fingertips up one of her milky-white arms as if to show her delight in her own sensuality, for the most part she seemed to be very nice for a seductress, as if she could win Siegfried over with her smiling eyes. It was only after Marcovici had succumbed to her charms that she displayed a darker side, taunting him with the celebrated "come here, no, go away" pose stretched out on the floor. Nonetheless, it was hard to overcome the idea that this was a good girl playing at being naughty, though, which was probably not the effect she'd intended.

Strong and solid, Ringer danced with her familiar rounded phrasing and generous musicality, at least when Quinn allowed. There were times when a more aggressive attack might've been welcome, particularly in her Black Swan solos. In Martins' fourth-act reconciliation duet for Odette and Siegfried, Ringer did hit a not of resigned despair that perfectly suited the moment. Marcovici acted with conviction and passion. In the second act, he searched for Odette among her swan-maidens with such a hungry yearning he brought to mind Wile E. Coyote among a flock of Roadrunners. Although in recent memory the often-injured Marcovici hasn't distinguished himself as a classicist, here he impersonated one elegantly, shrugging off the occasional pirouette or saute de basque that threatened to go awry.

Martins biggest choreographic treat in this Swan Lake is the third act Pas de Quatre he created. Bringing to mind Martins' Bournonville heritage in ethos, if not style, this is a collection of combinations of almost sadistic difficulty, with few moments for the dancers to rest except when they're offstage. After all, why do glissade-jeté when you can do ballonné-ballonné-jeté instead? Martins is fond of brilliant allegro dancers, and here four of his best -- Megan Fairchild, Ana Sophia Scheller, Tyler Peck and Joaquin de Luz performed brilliantly. I wish they'd do this as an excerpt occasionally -- it's that good. As Von Rotbart, Henry Seth handled his enormous cape with aplomb, and seemed quite pleased with his evil elegance. It's an odd quirk of this production that Von Rotbart often receives boos at his curtain calls, much as one might boo the villain in an old-fashioned melodrama. I hope Seth didn't take it to heart; in this case, bad really is good.

I'll close with a word for City Ballet's hard-working corps. They charged through Martins and Balanchine's ornate formations with verve and energy that would've done a racehorse proud, or Bishop's peripatetic sandpiper. It's a commonplace to observe that City Ballet's corps isn't a homogenous and organic entity like, say, the Kirov's, yet, even though these girls' arms might not all find the same curve at the same moment, they do all share an explosive energy and love of speed which, decades later, is still part of Balanchine's legacy. Although clearly challenged by the brisk pace Quinn set, again and again the corps pulled order out of chaos, coalescing like shards of a kaleidoscope. Sometimes panic, if indeed well controlled, can be exhilarating.

De Luz, Fairchild, LeCrone, Marcovici, Peck, Ringer, Scheller, Seth, Sloan, Veyette