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Chief distinguishing feature of this recitation was acknowledgment of Helgi Tomasson’s twentieth anniversary as San Francisco Ballet’s artistic director, in the list of ballets he has created or adapted and by the Ballet Association’s Chair, James H. Herbert. In addition to announcing a $35 million capitol campaign for the company’s endowment with $25 million already subscribed, Herbert announced a million dollar fund, named in Helgi’s honor, was designated for his use in further his vision of the company. In between Herbert’s initial appearance was a video brimming with accolades to Tomasson, drawing from San Francisco Ballet’s artistic personnel, board members and several major critics, including Jenny Gilbert; Anna Kisselgoff and Clement Crisp, whose intonations elicited chuckles. Former San Francisco dancers Christopher Stowell and Mikko Nissenen as well as Violette Verdy, Kay Mazzo, Christopher Wheeldon and Mark Morris were featured, in addition to Brigette LeFevre of the Paris Opera. San Francisco’s representatives were super-imposed on glimpses of soloists, ensembles, and productions mounted during Tomasson’s tenure. Ashley Wheater, Anita Paciotti, Glenn McCoy for the company and Gloria Govrin and Jocelyn Vollmar for the school. Tomasson, visibly moved, was almost at a loss for words.

Added to this galaxy Ashton, Balanchine, Forsythe, Kudelka, Lubovitch, Petipa were choreographically represented, witness that a Tomasson Gala is a wonderful study in energy ebbs and flows, a programmatic rubato rarely ceasing to satisfy. The curtains opened to probably the entire roster of students from San Francisco Ballet’s School, treating the audience to an approximation of the Grand Defile at the Paris Opera initiated in 1926 by Leo Staats(1877-1952) during one of his periods as ballet master. From beginners to advanced, the sheer number was impressive, though one might wish American students looked a trifle more exhilarated dancing this wonderful eastern European folk form elevated to grand social and ballet settings. Excited, yes they were.

From there it was pell-mell into the Balanchine-Gottschalk Tarantella, its lively tempo matched by Zahorian’s spinning top accuracy and Blanc’s insouciance, doubtless polished by Tomasson’s approval: an excellent partnership. Blanc’s capacity to whip from an attitude en avant turn into passe while continuing to spin was breathtaking.

The Thais reverie was well served by Katita Waldo, her dramatic projection finding the correct niche between reverie and Ashton’s subtle kitsch, abetted by Solomakha’s expert partnering. The piece, a sub-rosa technical killer, in this partnership achieved the best balance I’ve seen of the work in this past year of American tribute’s to Ashton’s lyric genius.

Having missed her casting in The Nutcracker, The Blue Bird pas de deux provided a glimpse of Miner’s classical capacities beyond the stellar impression in last season’s Sylvia. Nedviguine was obviously on his native heath, evoking Enrico Cecchetti, Vaslav Nijinsky, Brian Shaw with his own extraordinarily well-placed style. Miner was on the beat, clear, correct; one hopes the arms gain more fluidity and the attack slightly more edge.

It was a debut for Kristin Long and Damian Smith in Kudelka’s Purple, a study in torso weight shifts, side thrusts and occasional circling, very kinesthetically oriented, memorably rendered by Anthony Randazzo and Joanna Berman at the 1995 Prague World Stars Gala. The Long-Smith reading was amply competent if cooler. A friend pointed out Long’s hand mannerisms, thumb and forefinger, need addressing.

The Tomasson masculine quintet, Concerto Grosso, was once more justly an audience favorite, Molat’s textured jumps spaced, phrased and executed with relish. Castilla’s appearance was notable for an almost other worldly correctness.

Just before intermission Muriel Maffre and Pierre-Francois Vilanoba tested each others’ timing and syncopated keenness in Forsythe’s In The Middle Somewhat Elevated. An amazing partnership, one could almost hear them tossing rhyme-scheme or nonsense phrases between the nine-plus minute bleeps, clangs, blurps and grunts.

As the first half of the program possessed dances advancing from eight to nine minutes, the second half moved from nine to ten.

Lar Lubovitch’s pas de deux is an extended study of a woman with quavers and a very understanding man allowing her space to match her mind to gut level impulses. She wants it, but she’s seen too many relationships go from ecstatic sweetness to rotted grapefruit, whether her own or others. At the hands of LeBlanc and Legate the decision process, lifts, turns, hesitations. is given a full, mature exposition. Legate is surprising in his strength and versatility and LeBlanc, of course, matches him with warmth.

For his new piece d’occasion, Tomasson featured a first expansive solo for Moises Martin, introducing Pipit-Suksun in an abstraction, rounded out by Sarah Van Patten whose height and contours are a blonde equal with Pipit-Suksun. The women executed expansive extensions and body coils when partnered by Martin, who reflected a textured, emotional correctness. Pipit-Suksun danced with a small smile of pleasure advancing and retreating, her eyes acknowledging those sharing the stage.

Sin Regreso, Gonazalo Garcia’s ten-minute marathon, commenced with a shaft of light behind him and the sound of trains, swelling into musical sonorities before retreating back to the light. It seemed obvious the first third reflected man constricted, right angles, protective gestures, darting thrusts, legs compressed, arms frequently contracted at the sides of the torso. Glass’ repetitions reflected movements of a lost Eden, rounded, arched stretches, returning to the shaft of light and the constriction as an unanswered question. Stripped to the waist in black trousers, Garcia with his phenomenal concentration, the angle of his hands and elegantly muscled torso, burned an image, appropriate to the historic days sixty years ago.

Tomasson’s Romeo and Juliet balcony pas de deux enjoyed its grace from Possokhov and Tan’s lyric line. A lengthy Juliet bourree sequence seemed earthbound, hampering the ecstatic musical message. One never doubted ardency in Possokhov’s Romeo. I did not believe Tan’s Juliet; still the assured ballerina, certain of her technique, she was not a teen-ager overwhelmed, discovering love for a young man.

Moving on to consummation, we were treated to the stellar Fehoo-Boada bravura Don Quixote, complete with toreador stance and spit curl at the forehead, a head on, full-fledged daring romp.

After Balanchine at almost his most razzmatzz, the soloists received their bouquets, Andrew Mogrelia and Helgi Tomasson were brought on stage and thoughtful souls provided champagne to the dancers to help them salute their director.