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'Apollo', from 1928, famously uses an extended and distorted classical vocabulary to show the young god Apollo playing with the Muses Terpsichore, Calliope and Polyhymnia, before being summoned to join the other gods on Olympus. With each viewing, I'm struck by Balanchine's imagery, which is classically austere and formal, powerfully evocative, although seldom literal. 'Apollo's' cascade of inventions mark it as a work of youth; the young Balanchine exploring his own tremendous gifts as much as the young god's. There's much to observe and ponder in 'Apollo'. In the beginning, the troika of Muses lead Apollo around the stage; by the end, he's leading them. When Apollo hears, in Stravinsky's score, the call from Olympus, the Muses sink lower and lower on each stroke of the music, yet, of course, Balanchine does this to tell us that Apollo's growing. Tonight's Apollo was Nikolaj Hübbe. His Apollo is a particularly boyish one, taking a grinning delight, in his first solo, at discovering the workings of his own body, even to the flicking open and shut of his hands. Later, he practically hurls the Muses to and fro with the enthusiasm of a boy unwrapping a train set he's discovered under the Christmas tree. Although Hübbe, a handsome blond Dane who's long been one of the company's finest dancers, has always had a winning charm and enthusiasm, tonight his ebullience seemed a bit overdone in places, as if, perhaps, he were compensating for his lessening technique, or distracting us from it.

In a rare appearance, Hübbe's Terpsichore was Wendy Whelan. Although her solo in the competition among the Muse's for Apollo's favor was unfortunately weak, her adagio with Hübbe was exquisite. When Hübbe slowly flipped her through an upside down split, Whelan seemed to luxuriate in each slow increment of her rotation, her legs reaching towards infinity. Miranda Weese's Calliope and Sofiane Sylve's Polyhymnia seemed to spur each other on; their pairing after the duet for Apollo and Terpsichore was wonderfully spirited and competitive.

The 1948 'Orpheus' also tells a story, but here, the dance is almost subservient to Isamu Noguchi's spare and visionary designs. The shimmering white silk curtain which drops precipitously during Orpheus' journeys to and from the underworld, the tongues of bone and fire which frame the underworld, the dark-blue teardrop which falls from the ceiling the instant Orpheus takes the hand of Eurydice which Hades proffers, these are the sorts of effects which, in 'Orpheus', take the place of the danced imagery in 'Apollo'. (It's unfortunate that the costumes became brighter and lost much of their nuance when they were remade recently.) Here, Balanchine's choreography is not so much refined and classical as emotionally expressive - from a half-century's remove it looks not at all unrelated to the seminal modern dance of the era.

Nilas Martins seems to have become the company's leading, and only, Orpheus. While not at all incapable, and never less than scrupulously respectful of the choreography, Martins is eluded by the role's emotional narrative. His Orpheus shows little longing, wonder, joy or despair. As his Eurydice, Darci Kistler looked both stronger and more grounded than I've seen her in quite some time, convincingly showing us Eurydice's longing for both an emotional and erotic connection with Orpheus, before her desperate and fatal grab for his blindfold. (I also found myself wondering how, if he's blindfolded, Orpheus can anticipate and ward off so many of Eurydice's advances on that blindfold, but I suppose that's poetic, or choreographic, license. Also, as always in watching Martins and Kistler in this duet, I had to shush the evil voice in the back of my head shouting, "But, she's his stepmother!") In other roles, Charles Askegard was perhaps a bit too mannered as the Dark Angel who leads Orpheus to the underworld (it's hard for me to shake the memory of Francisco Moncion, who dance like a still, dark pool into which Orpheus might lose himself). As the leader of the Bacchantes, in Noguchi's fright wig from hell, Ellen Bar started out her assault on Martins with commendable ferocity which, unfortunately, she couldn't sustain. In the short but moving epilogue after Orpheus' death, Jonathan Stafford was an elegant and poetic Apollo, strumming the lips of Noguchi's mask of Orpheus' face before sending it into the heavens.

For 'Agon', in 1957, Balanchine took an entirely different tack away from 'Apollo' than he did with 'Orpheus'. Although, as with 'Apollo', striking imagery abounds, the neo-Classical vocabulary here has become more jagged and angular, yet also more pristine, as it's entirely divorced from 'Apollo's' suggestions, however refracted, of story-telling or real-world situations. (And, famously, from costume: Balanchine made a virtue of necessity, as there was simply no money available then for anything more than the severe black leotards and tights.) 'Agon' is Greek for contest, and, while there's only one section (the bransle simple for two men) which hints of a competition, a healthy athleticism pervades the ballet. This performance saw debuts in the first trio: Edwaard Liang, Ellen Bar and Rebecca Krohn. Tall and slender, with a soaring leap and beautiful line, Liang looked uncomfortable and stiff in some of the more contorted parts of his solo, particularly the signature jumps downstage with a high, forward leg-kick and accompanying backbend, where Liang's inflexibility muddied what should have been an explosive kinetic moment. The veteran corps dancer Bar and relative newcomer Krohn made promising debuts in the hand-clapping duet. The second trio - Sofiane Sylve, Stephen Hanna and Jason Fowler - were more experienced with 'Agon', and polished. Equal in height, the two tall men breezed through the intricate syncopations of their duet, and partnered the regal Sylve with ease. As is her wont, Sylve astonished with strength and virtuosity, leaping across the stage as quickly and high as the men, and remaining perfectly balanced in attitude then going into a penchée briefly unsupported, in her dance with the men in the moments between the times each was holding one of her hands. The statuesque and amazingly hyperextended Maria Kowroski and Albert Evans performed admirably in the quirky pas de deux. That Kowroski's stronger than in recent years was apparent in the perfect verticality of her six-o'clock penchées, where she once might've lost a bit of control over her upper leg. She was particularly breathtaking in holding such a deep penchée on pointe bending down to hold the hand of Evans, who was lying supine beneath her. Though stronger, she's as astonishingly flexible as ever. In one of the moments where Evans must hold her in an attitude while pulling her back foot up towards her head, her foot actually went a good six inches past her head; truly amazing. Despite this pair's prowess, it's going to be hard to watch this duet for a long, long time without longing for Whelan and Jock Soto.

I'd like to put in a good word for the often-maligned Andrea Quinn, who conducted all three pieces, keeping true to the score without rushing. Had Quinn always conducted so, I might be more concerned by the news, reported in The New York Times, that she'll be leaving City Ballet at the end of her contract in 2006.