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I trust NDT will forgive me, but combined formalism and exposed emotion, once noted in American modern dance, seems to have moved lock, stock and barrel to European theaters, with Netherlands as a key member of the short list of well-subsidized repositories of angst. Whereas American dance pioneers flourished in small spaces by sheer projection and belief, companies like NDT have virtually anything needed to fulfill their vision of shadows, pitfalls and interior qualms.

Fellow critics seem to know who was who amongst the dancers, doubtless due to having seen NDT's performances more frequently than I. It is an ensemble with a finished dance technique, amazingly refined, with a strength in the dancers' projection I found utterly winning, and it totally wedded to the choreographic purpose of Jiri Kylian, with the exception of Paul Lightfoot's contribution in program B. Ballet in soft shoes, bare feet, terre a terre, the silhouettes of the women reminded me of dancers' pictures in the de Basil company. Maturity in the female and men is still in style somewhere, even when the rib cage and the spinal column outline was evident near the neck.

Program A, February 21

The works by Jiri Kylian stretched from 1981 to 1997: Forgotten Land (81); Wings of Wax (97); Sarabande (90) and Falling Angels (89).

Forgotten Land using Benjamin Britten's music, Sinfonia da requiem, Op.20, has been mounted on San Francisco Ballet and, earlier, on the Joffrey Ballet. I can remember Joffrey's pleasure when he was able to complete the negotiations to present the work. This work, so similar in feeling to Anthony Tudor's Dark Elegies, came alive for me with NDT I as it had not before. When the curtain rose on the dancers, back to the audience, arms outstretched, the imagery of sea gulls over water suddenly crystallized, to be intensified with the forward and backward movement of the dancers, echoing the shifting of flock's flight formation. Even the subsequent pairing of the dancers, expressing some form of frustration or anguish, carried as much of seaside birds as it did of humanity. There was a reverence in this element of the impersonal, sheer creaturehood, the tide-like ebb and flow of sea, sand, bird, human, weather Kylian evoked which I had not before experienced. As the curtain fell on the three women, turning center stage, heads circling towards one direction then reversing to the other, the sense of the webbed feet and arch of gulls' breasts on sand made me feel I was witness to a theatrical transformation.

If The Forgotten Land commenced it, Wings of Wax confirmed the depth and singularity of Kylian's vision.

Critical descriptions of Wings of Wax, taken loosely from the Greek legend of Icarus, usually mention the upside down tree, the slowly revolving spotlight circling visibly in center stage, and the exposed side lighting. The legend symbolizes youthful naive inflation, spirit mindlessly defying limits just as Daedalus, his father, is the ultimate contract inventor.

It is surprising virtually all the criticisms I read failed to identify the tree as the symbol of the Kaballah, the medieval Jewish mystical doctrine which proposes one must bring the spirit down to earth, against Greek legend which propounds the peril of soaring beyond gravity. It seemed Kylian, using four diverse composers, conveys the complex balance of the diverse Western tradition in his exposition. The check, counter-check, the impulse, the daring leap of women into men's arms to be supported parallel, convey human urges exercised oblivious of overarching principles or underlying truths propounded by Western philosophers. Given the Netherlands' history as a crossroads for tolerance and the role of the Jewish ghetto in Prague, Kylian has created an extraordinary homage to the underlying and pervasive tradition which has shaped his amazing translations to mesmerizing movement.

Sarabande and Falling Angels followed seamlessly one after the other, the first for the men and Angels for the women.

Kylian turned trickster with Sarabande, for the stage is peopled by men who emerge from murkily lit baroque women's garments, stiff corsets, panniers et al. With J.S. Bach's name on the program my naive expectation was, "How marvelous Kylian is going to give the nod to the historical origins of the classical vocabulary." Ha! Ha-ha-ha!! While the sublime strains of the Leipzig organist do get heard, it was not before the audience listened to a series of shrieks, shouts, grunts, watching "in your face" highly physical male rebellion against the restrictive cultural norms which shaped European culture and theatrical conventions. One woman critic labeled it "assaultive." Expecting Francoise Rosay in Carnival en Flandres and instead getting a sarcastic gay male striptease, is an apt analogy. On reflection, one remembers Kylian is from Czechoslovakia where Prague is a paragon of baroque and home to Franz Kafka.

Falling Angels placed short-skirted women in endless demi-point maneuvers. Unfortunately, Kylian's work for women is less compelling except where women and men are jointly involved. Nonetheless, one can understand why he received a special citation in Monaco last December. The man is clearly a choreographic master.