© Rosalie O'Connor ABT 'Kaleidoscope' reviews ABT 'Les Sylphides' reviews ABT 'Paquita' reviews ABT 'Afternoon of a Faun' reviews Murphy in reviews Stiefel in reviews recent ABT reviews more Eric Taub reviews Discuss this review (Open for at least 6 months)

And speaking of Hynes, while her costumes for the men (light, color-tinged tights and shirts, with blue vests) were pleasant and unremarkable, her Russian-style, flat, thin tutus for the women were placed high on the hip, almost to the waist, giving the audience in the orchestra frequent opportunities to observe the tutu's nicely-finished bottoms, as well as those of the dancers wearing them. Although leotards and tights are far more revealing than this, one of the purposes of a flat tutu is to maintain the illusion that the dancer wearing one isn't wearing almost nothing: to allow us to see her legs in all their glory while maintaining some degree of modesty, however ceremonial. Hynes' high-riding tutus don't allow for even this token modesty; from where I was sitting the effect was most-often unfortunate. Tutus shouldn't give one quite so many opportunities to admire their wearers' derrières, no matter how lovely.
 

'Kaleidoscope' is roughly divided into three sections. First, Gillian Murphy and Ethan Stiefel lead the ever-active ensemble through a vivacious welcome. Next, in slower movements, an exquisite Veronika Part rules with the aid of her sometimes-cavalier, Maxim Beloserkovsky. Then, there's the happy finale where both lead couples are brought back for the applause-machine leading to the curtain. After I overcame my initial shock at the many 'Jewels' references, I found much to admire in Quanz' work, not the least being his chutzpah, a quality dear to New Yorkers, in taking upon himself the task of creating a neoclassical ballet in the Balanchinean manner (a target at which many have aimed, but few, if any have hit). And, I must admit that it's a rare delight these days to attend the premiere of tutus'n'tiaras ballet that's neither apologetic of that fact, or poking arch fun at the entire genre. Quanz uses his large corps intelligently, interacting with the leads as an equal, sometimes augmenting, sometimes in counterpoint, and, occasionally creating living corridors for them, or walls between them (as in, say, the Vision scene, or Balanchine's grand adagio from 'Ballet Imperial,' which Quanz references more than once). Yes, an active, lively corps is good. As was Balanchine's wont, Quanz recognizes and highlights his leads personalities, although you don't have to be gifted with deep insight to recognize that Murphy's a fearless turner and Stiefel a demon jumper, or that Part has a line, even in simple deep lunge, to stop men's hearts, or that Beloserkovsky is rather good at subsuming himself into a powerful woman's elegant accessory.

Alas, that I don't actually like 'Kaliedoscope' nearly as well as I admired it. Despite Quanz' undoubted fluency, 'Kaleidoscope' shows, as have many similar efforts in the past, that while Balanchine could seemingly dash off neoclassical gems in his sleep, others who've attempted to emulate him by following a formula have usually come up short. Quanz has interesting ideas, and often realizes them well. His long adagio for Part and Beloserkovsky, which ends in a bit of an inversion of the ending of the adagio from 'Ballet Imperial,' as Beloserkovsky leaves Part at the end, is often lovely. Yet Balanchine didn't use ballet just to create assemblages of steps and shapes (although at this he had no peers). He also created places: we all know the jagged and dangerous worlds of 'Agon' and 'Episodes,' say, and each of his 'Jewels' ballets is a world in miniature: the watery grotto of 'Emeralds;' 'Rubies'' Jazz-age, Mondrianish world of wild excess; and 'Diamonds'' glittering, almost-perfect Imperial palace. Compared with these, the world of 'Kaleidoscope' is, well, I'm not sure what. Part of the problem is Quanz' use of the Saint-Saëns. It's a bright, pretty, bubbly score, but clings to a bland, happy middle way, avoiding any hints of melancholy or mystery, or lyrical grandeur. I don't think Balanchine ever used Saint-Saëns, and for good reason. So in the end, 'Kaleidoscope' is a nice try; I'm hoping it will grow on me with subsequent viewings, but I'm not betting on it.
 

Elsewhere on the program was this season's first look at the recently revived 'Les Sylphides.' It is perhaps unfair to ABT that I saw this close on the heels of a viewing of Dayna Goldfine's and Dan Geller's wonderful documentary on the various post-Diaghilev Ballets Russes, with some achingly beautiful footage of the late Nathalie Krassovska in 'Sylphides.' Suddenly ABT's staging seemed dry and lifeless, and not helped by an indifferent group of leads. While David Hallberg was the soul of poetry, especially with his long-limbed and soaring leaps, of the women only Erica Cornejo, in the first waltz, had any fire. Maria Riccetto and Stella Abrera (in the soaring mazurka, and the duet with Hallberg) both were careful, self-contained, and, in Abrerra's case, self-absorbed. Never once did I imagine these women to be supernatural, except for one brief moment, where Abrara delivered a crowd-pleasing series of backwards-hopping releves in arabesque across the foot of the stage. No, it wasn't Abrera's somewhat overwrought virtuosity that made this moment, but the quiet attention Hallberg, standing far upstage, gave her: following her progress with an outstretched arm, staring in rapt amazement. For an instant, Hallberg let me see Abrera as Michel Fokine meant her to be seen, as an amazing, magical creature.

In a reprise of their opening-night effort in Jerome Robbins' 'Afternoon of a Faun,' Julie Kent and Ethan Stiefel were more relaxed and polished, but no less emotionally flat than they'd been the night before. Kent does a great job conveying the blank, affectless gaze of a self-absorbed mirror-gazer, but seems content to remain blank throughout. The challenge of 'Faun' is to appear so inwardly focussed while offering hints of adolescent emotional and sexual chaos lurking beneath the surface, and here, again, Kent, and to a lesser degree, Stiefel, were wanting. There were no such disappointments when Paloma Herrera and José Manuel Carreño danced the 'Paquita' pas de deux. Herrera danced a different solo from the one Dvorovenko the night before; Herrera did the slow one with the langorous diagonal, doing slow-motion chassés on pointe while proving that she can indeed have exquisite arms when she's paying attention; in the coda she again proved herself mistress of double fouettés, while Carreño played to the crowd with his slow pirroutes finishing in a tight fifth releve, and booming barrel turns. The image I'll take with me from their performance was the artistry with which he partnered Herrera. Twice, he held her in a lift and slowly lowered her to an arabesque on pointe, putting her down on her pointed foot with just enough reverence to focus our eyes there, as if to say, "Look, are these not the most beautiful legs in all ballet?" And Herrera's smile said, "You'd better believe it, buster!" And I do.