I can't think of any male dancer, including the famous Russian ones, who's danced at as consistently high a level for as long as did Damian Woetzel, who retired from New York City Ballet on June 18. It wasn't just that Woetzel was a supreme virtuoso -- and supreme artist -- but that, blessed with an astonishing natural facility, he made even the most mind-boggling feats seem easy as falling off a log. The only sad thing about Woetzel's career was that he was best known in New York, and never achieved the international superstardom his brilliance deserved.

With his lanky frame, winning smile (when he chose to employ it) and unpretentious air, Woetzel easily filled the shoes of both of City Ballet's great male archetypes, the breezy, happy-go-lucky Jacques d'Amboise and the soulful, intense, gravity-defying Eddie Villella. Technically, there was little Woetzel couldn't, and didn't, do. (I never saw him do a five-forty, that insane trick so beloved of the current generation, but I have no doubts he could.) It was part of Woetzel's charm that he'd often affect an air of blasé boredom while making famously hard roles even harder. For instance, in the notoriously difficult lead of Balanchine's Theme and Variations, I once saw him tweak the famous, brutal double-tour/pirouette combination so that between each of the many tours en l'air, he'd alternate between double and single pirouettes -- a feat of changing tempi and spotting far more difficult than simply repeating double tours/double pirouette throughout. Throughout, he looked as if this feat were no more challenging than taking out the garbage or walking the dog, as if to say "I'm so cool, I can breeze through Theme without breaking a sweat." He was indeed that cool.

In recent years, I recall him embellishing part of his "Ace of Spades" role in Peter Martins' Jeu de Cartes with aerial feats that weren't usually part of the choreography, and which I seem to have seen Corella or Carreño toss off a night or two earlier across the plaza at the Met. Why do it? Because he could. Although Woetzel had as high a leap as any, it's his facility as a turner that will always stay with me. I've never seen such a natural turner -- in the span of time most men would use settling into a tidy fourth to finish a turning combination, Woetzel would pull his arms in and snap out three, four, five more turns, all for the joy of it. If this sometimes meant he'd fall out of the turn at the blinding finish, well, I've never seen a dancer fall out of turns so brilliantly, with a grin, flick of the arms, and a winking plummet to his knee. In a showoff piece like Stars and Stripes, he turned the way other men might flaunt a Harley or Porsche: slipping the clutch and burning rubber. I'll never forget seeing him conclude a solo in, I think, Stars by squeezing out a few extra turns in a typically flashy double-tours/pirouette flourish, landing on his knee, arms spread in a dramatic, final pose, except that he'd overdone the turns, and had finished facing upstage, with his back to the audience. Without hesitation, he rose slightly, pivoted his legs as he half-turned back to the audience, and again slammed down to his knee, all within the space of the measure's final beat, looking for all the world as if he'd meant finish like that. The crowd loved it; I did, too.

Had he let it, Woetzel's casual brilliance and crowd-pleasing antics might've obscured the impeccable discernment with which he presented himself, hitting the right note for every role. As a prince, he bled danseur noble, not only in his dancing, but his presentation. He could take the gamut of danseur mannerisms -- walking with pronounced, toe-first turnout, rising on quarter-toe and swinging an arm forward before allowing the momentum to pull him offstage, gracefully pushing away the invisible cobwebs which obscure his view of the ballerina directly before him -- and exaggerate them far beyond most dancers' comfort level. Woetzel never looked crazy over-the-top like a Ruzimatov, though, but made these movements look right, like supercharged elegance. He could play to the crowd shamelessly, as in his high-flying hornpipe in Union Jack, or the showoff cowboy of Western Symphony's last movement. He could tug at our heartstrings without bathos at the ending of The Steadfast Tin Soldier, with his slow, slow salute to his departed paper ballerina.

I could go on and on listing roles which Woetzel enlivened, like the tux-and-tails matinee idol in Susan Strohman's Double Feature. The ballet was problematic, but Woetzel was the living embodiment of glamor, charisma and sheer, unabashed star power, especially impressive as much of the solo, between tricks, required Woetzel to simply run about the stage, which he did splendidly. Anyway, his farewell let us savor one last time the dancer in boisterous and severe temper.

I've always thought José Manuel Carreño was the finest third sailor I'd ever seen in Jerome Robbins' Fancy Free, but I was wrong. Woetzel's solo is a one-man travelogue to exotic ports of call, all served up with brilliance and good humor. Fancy Free, conducted by Clotilde Otranto, opened the celebration, after a brief film excerpt from 1990 of Jerome Robbins coaching Woetzel in the complicated opening movement of the solo -- clap hands, pivot sideways, bang foot on floor, fling arms up and straighten. Robbins demonstrated with his usual directness and clarity, and Woetzel followed suit; it appears since this coaching session he's had his own way with that particular upflung ending to the phrase, but I'll never tell.

From all hands, this was a heartfelt and rather knowing Fancy Free. Joaquin de Luz was the scrappy first sailor, and Tyler Angle the "innocent" second, with Tiler Peck as the pas de deux girl, and Georgina Pazcoguin as the tough-cookie first. I seem to remember once upon a time that when the three swabbies compete to see who can snap the wrappers of their chewing-gum the farthest, the first sailor would always botch up the snap, both times. My memory might be playing its usual tricks on me, but no matter; here Woetzel won cheers for a sensationally long-distance snap, nodding his head in satisfaction as his fellow sailors mimed their amazement.

In farewell performances, it's hard to separate the dancer from the dance, and this Fancy Free was as much about the easy camaraderie and appreciation for Woetzel from his compatriots as about those three archetypical sailors. There was an extra playfulness from all, and everyone danced to perfection, as if not wanting to dishonor Woetzel with anything less than a stellar performance. I also was taken with how some of the relationships between characters had subtly changed when interpreted by newer dancers. As the girl with the red pocketbook, Georgina Pazcoguin was a bit too emphatic in her mime, from the hopeful over-the-shoulder glances to see if the sailors were really following her to her vehement objections to their attentions. She's got great presence, and can be a great actress, but, as with her unfortunately overdone Anita from West Side Story Suite, she's assumed that if a little acting is good, A LOT OF ACTING IS BETTER! As with the shift key, a bit of judiciousness in Pazcoguin's full-steam-ahead attack would be less tiring for all involved.

As I've seen before, the interplay between Woetzel and Tiler Peck in their mating-ritual/plumage-display pas de deux was intriguing. While the second girl is usually played as a bit more innocent and less experienced than the first, Peck turned the role on its head with just a few, seemingly simple, inflections -- as simple as Homer, perhaps. Peck makes it clear that from her first appearance under the lamppost with her newspaper, she's been on the prowl, and, beneath her sweet exterior, more predator than prey. She's a Bennington grad who spends her days editing copy for a genteel ladies' magazine, and her nights writing poetry and auditioning for Martha Graham. Her hobby is coming to the docks to feed and annoy the animals -- I mean sailors.

Woetzel's sailor clearly fancies himself a ladies' man, and Peck was having none of it. As she danced with Woetzel she repeatedly turned to leave, as if he'd stopped interesting her. He'd entice her to stay, coming up with some new move to keep her attention, which she'd instantly match. When Woetzel first held her in a ballroom stance, she plays along with a submissiveness belied by her bemused stare, which said "I'll play along, but it had better be good," and "Is that all you've got?" Woetzel worked with her to make the duet's progression to wilder and wilder moves, culminating in flipping her upside down and back again, as if he's plucking suave routines from his internal "pick-up-a-girl" handbook. As they walked back to their barstools, each emerged with a grudging respect for each other, like prizefighters who've fought to a draw. There's nothing innocent about how Woetzel reaches his hand towards her derriere, or about the Peck's look which freezes his hand in mid-motion. "How cute. You think you're going to paw my butt? Think again, sailor."

The sailors' solos to impress the girls impressed me, too. De Luz pawed the stage like a bull about to rampage, hurled himself into the infamous double-tour into a split, and cleaned house like a white tornado. He even perfectly nailed the solo's final pose, grinning at the girls while frozen in a high, almost-off-balance pose with one leg high, high, high to his side. Tyler Angle did the second sailor as sweet young thing, swooping about in dreamy turns in arabesque, and showing off his knowledge of the Charleston. A twinkle in his eye and hint of a grin suggested that his naivety was a ruse, a polished schtick meant to lure unsuspecting women. He focussed on both girls at once, it seemed, and even the aww-shucks dreaminess of his final smile, resting his face on his arm as he slid forward, posed flat on the floor, suggested a knowing calculation. Regardless, Angle danced the solo beautifully.

As for Woetzel, it wasn't hard to see his rhumba solo not only as a salute to distant ports of call, but as a reminder of the many journeys to faraway places he's taken us over the decades. The exquisite detail, the happy-go-lucky smile, the tricks and his gentle, eternally amused demeanor were all tinged with nostalgia for the world which was disappearing about him. As Bernstein's score grew in magnitude, so did Woetzel, playing against the orchestra in Robbins' marvelous syncopations. As always, he elicited chuckles at the moment his attention was caught by his own left hand fluttering like a bird's wing in perhaps an overly uninhibited response to the music. For the last time he saw what his hand was up to, then turned to his audience with a grin and a shrug, as if saying "I don't know what that was, but it was fun." Not surprisingly, the sailors' roughhousing took a poignant tone before the end, with Woetzel and the others chasing a very well-rounded Brianna Shepherd. At one of his many bows before the curtain, Woetzel gave Peck little choice but to join him, as he hugged her tightly to his side so that she might share in his adulation.

The program listed Ashley Bouder and Joaquin de Luz as leads in Balanchine's Rubies, so I was a bit surprised when Megan Fairchild and Gonzalo Garcia appeared instead. Had I read the program wrong? Then Bouder and De Luz took the lead couple's next appearance, and I knew the game was afoot. Sure enough, Woetzel appeared for the last movement, accompanied by Yvonne Borree, whom I hadn't seen in Rubies for years, and many happy cheers. For the first couple, I thought, "Ah, look how much more energetic and playful Fairchild is, and comfortable Garcia looks." It was almost cruel to this pair to follow them so closely with Bouder and De Luz. I knew in my head that this second pairing was the stronger, but here the contrast was stark and jolting. In retrospect, Fairchild and Garcia seemed to have practically marked their steps, so thoroughly did Bouder and Garcia eclipse their memory.

The appearance of Borree and Woetzel rendered these comparisons moot; every other principal was onstage only as tribute, and doubtless to spell Woetzel so he'd be ready for the demands of Prodigal, to follow. Here he was all insouciance and throwaway charm, leading the four demi men on their merry aerial pursuit for the last time, finishing with the ballet with that big, uplifting sisonne to a split before plunging to his knee beneath the beneficent gaze of the Teresa Reichlen, this Rubies' one and only big girl. As for Borree, she looked happy to share this final moment with Woetzel, but otherwise a blander shade of pale than Fairchild -- following Bouder is even less welcome than preceding her, it seems. I found myself devoutly wishing that Borree might observe the cheers and outpourings of gratitude greeting Woetzel on this occasion, and perhaps draw the appropriate conclusion.

For the last ballet of his career, it's not surprising that Woetzel chose Prodigal Son. Who wouldn't want to go out as Jesus Christ? There's always been a touch of Christ-like imagery and suffering in Prodigal, but with his lanky, almost emaciated figure (he's skinny, even for a dancer -- where does all that power come from?), droopy loincloth and air of exquisite misery, Woetzel's Prodigal, after he's been beaten and robbed by his servants and the Drinking Companions, could've stepped out of a Dürer print of the Crucifixion, except for Woetzel's far better hair.

Of course, the Prodigal doesn't begin the ballet in such straits, and Woetzel was a marvel of unleashed fury at first, pounding fists against his thighs in frustration with his tightly constrained familial life, and bursting away in the role's signature leaps and corkscrewing pirouettes. Woetzel looked to be having great fun in his last bravura fusillade, with a twinkle or two of his eye that brought to mind his Fancy Free solo. Bless him, he even squeezed a few extra turns out of one pirouette. He teetered a bit out of his last turn, and saved it with a classic Woetzel ad-lib, stepping smartly into a wide-stanced, flat-footed pose, arms at his sides and, breaking a bit with his character, his final "I-meant-to-do-that" grin. I don't think a soul in the theater minded Woetzel's slight liberties; I know I didn't. For when Woetzel leaped over that little fence, struck that "shouting-to-the-heavens" pose and blew himself offstage, it wasn't just the Prodigal running away from home, but Woetzel, the nonpareil virtuoso, taking his leave. There are worse ways to go.

Again, every dancer onstage, from corps veterans Dena Abergel and Pauline Golbin as the Prodigal's sisters, to Sean Suozzi and Adam Hendrickson as his mutinous servant, to Ask la Cour's Father, and the always repugnant drinking companions, seemed intent on making this last dance perfect, and perfectly memorable. Honoring Woetzel the most was Maria Kowroski and her calculating, sensual Siren. Kowroski's had the not inconsiderable privilege of, in a few months, being the last partner of both Nikolaj Hübbe and Damian Woetzel. Again she was the alluring predator, enticing Woetzel by coldly displaying her legs, clasping his hands to her hips when he hesitated, and crooking her front leg around him and slamming him into her chest like a Venus Flytrap snapping shut on its prey.

It was Woetzel's enactment of the Prodigal's humiliation and degradation, his slow, crawling return home which showed us one last time the measure of his artistry. After he's stripped naked except for his trunks, he slowly collapsed to the stage and dragged himself, eventually, to the wings. Reaching for handouts with one hand while hiding his face in shame with another, drinking, supine, from a stream or puddle, collapsing when he returns home at last, all this can become overblown melodrama, but Woetzel managed to be intense and searing, without overpowering his story. For all his bravura, Woetzel could make the simplest gesture speak, and perhaps the secret of his success resided in his gift for doing more with less, or, rather, making less do more. After all, is there really a difference between knowing just the right emphasis with which to reach out a begging hand, and knowing the subtleties involved in turning eight pirouettes where mere mortals might do two or three? Woetzel always cut to the quick and, like a diamond-cutter, he always knew just when and where to apply his force for greatest effect. He did so for the last time at Prodigal's conclusion, slowly clambering on his knees towards his waiting, stony father, before collapsing at his feet. This painful shuffle spoke even more volumes than his earlier bravura, as did his slow climb into La Cour's arms, and his disappearance behind the Father's robes as the curtain fell.

Then it was all over but for the cheering. As flowers flew at him from the wings, Woetzel stood at center stage, as his ballerinas, past and present, presented him with bouquets. Bouder, Wendy Whelan, Borree, Kowroski, Margaret Tracy, Kyra Nichols, and many more I couldn't place, all paid their tributes. I remember years seeing Jenifer Ringer mouth a silent "thank you" to Woetzel after he guided her through her rocky debut in Cortege Hongrois, and here she was thanking him again. It was bittersweet to see Alexandra Ansanelli return to the State Theater stage for only a few moments. In a marvelously appropriate stroke, Christopher Wheeldon crowned Woetzel with a laurel wreath, and Woetzel's former City Ballet colleague, Ethan Steifel, also paid tribute, as did Paloma Herrera and Angel Corella. There were rains of confetti, mountains of flowers, and, after the well-wishers departed, Woetzel's final, solo bow to thundering cheers and applause. Then, alas, he was gone.

Abergel, Angle, De Luz, Fairchild, Garcia, Golbin, Kowroski, La Cour, Pazcoguin, Reichlen, Shepherd, Woetzel

I've never heard of this description of a step - could you please describe?

I'd appreciate it - thanks.

Or imagine someone doing an upside-down soccer kick like Pele made famous, but spinning his legs around like a teetering helicopter.

If you want to see Dennis Matvienko doing a couple of pretty ones, go to YouTube and search for this: 2F3GLw8RlkA.

I used to call these "Gennadys," because ABT's Gennady Saveliev is fond of spicing up his solos with them whenever possible. A year or so ago I ran into a dancer whom I'd see toss off a couple in Diana and Acteon, and I asked him the erudite question, "what do you call that thing where you spin around as you flip upside down?"

The young folk these days are quite taken with it -- it's this millennium's double saute de basque, it seems.

Sounds like another of those steps added to the circus ballet repetoire - to my regret.

It's hard to understand how stuff like this forwards a story or artistry - but then I'm obviously living in a time that has passed me by.

I am regreting a trend in ballet - not in any way denigrating a marvelous dancer.

I wish him well in whatever he determines he wants to do next and I am sure he will be as successful in future endeavors as he has been in the past.

With every good wish - well done!

>The only sad thing about Woetzel's career was that he was best known in New York, and never achieved the international superstardom his brilliance deserved.<

Having had the privilege of seeing him in his last months with the company, I totally agree. I didn't get to see him that much, but even with what I did see, it was clear that he was somebody really special.