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Dvorovenko would be little more than a dancing Guilty Pleasure with a gift for the howlingly inappropriate pas injuste, if it were not for her beautiful and glamorous appearance, formidable technique and showmanship, and, most of all, her indomitable will and almost palpable hunger: for the stage and everything surrounding it; for the spotlight, for the choreography; and for us! Towards the end of a performance of Symphony in C a few years ago (Dvorovenko led the first movement), her husband, Maxim Beloserkosky, spun her through a pirouette, finishing, I think, in an attitude to the front. She struck this pose triumphantly, smiled (or, rather, bared her teeth) at the audience, and then licked her lips. A chill went down my spine and I imagined, for an eerie moment, that she was contemplating what dressing she'd sprinkle over the audience before she devoured us all. It's Dvorovenko's raw power an iron fist in a chain-mail glove which elevates her status to monstre sacrée. You could easily find fault her artistic choices, but in the end it's an exercise as pointless as criticizing the aesthetics of a volcano, tidal wave, earthquake or other act of God. She is what she is, and we're fortunate we can observe her from a safe distance.

The above paean is my roundabout way of saying that while Dvorovenko's unique interpretation of Polyhymnia might've prompted Balanchine to haul her offstage with a hook, at least she was alive, with all the vital, breathing energy her onstage cohorts lacked. I'd had high hopes for Carreño's Apollo. With his magnificent physique, flawless technique and ingratiating charisma, he has the ingredients of a great Apollo. Unfortunately, none of these elements came together in a convincing, or even coherent, portrayal. He executes Balanchine's choreography beautifully, but here's a role where Balanchine's oft-cited and oft-misunderstood dictum to allow the steps to speak for themselves doesn't quite apply. There was little sense of Apollo as a godling gradually discovering his divinity, or of an adolescent entranced with his new feminine playthings. Similarly, Stella Abrera seemed withdrawn and interested in little more than executing her steps as Calliope. When, at the end of her solo, Abrera mimed writing a note and skulked towards Apollo to present it, she went through the motions, but her crouchings and backwards glances over her shoulder were just those, and nothing more. This Calliope showed little trepidation as she approached the young god, or disappointment at his rejection. Usually dancers portraying Calliope tend to be too emotional; here was the converse. As for Julie Kent's Terpsichore, well, as is her wont, she beamed her warm but fixéd smile at Carreño with such beatitude that, were this a ballet about the Annunciation, she'd have been a perfect angel. But for a muse, this kind of happy placidity breeds an air of cozy contentment quite at odds with the profound give and take of Terpsichore's central duet with Apollo, and only adds to the gnawing, unpleasant feeling that Kent is simply asking us to admire her beauty, or, worse, join her in an adoration that's already in progress.

Next on the program came a repeat of Mark Morris' Gong, with the same cast as on opening night. This is a work that grows on me with each viewing. Morris doesn't push the Balinese conceit very far, using a few recognizable poses as thematic material, but otherwise this is a ballet with great structural sophistication hiding beneath its playful, colorful surface. A big ensemble work, Gong is punctuated by two silent duets. If anything, Gillian Murphy and Sasha Radetsky were even more brilliant than on opening night in the first duet, which ends with the choreographic joke of Radetsky hurling himself offstage in a giant leap. Murphy, in a tricky turning combination, looks to do the same, then stops abruptly and walks into the wings. The second duet also had its share of kinetic jokes, with Grant deLong bouncing Xiomara Reyes up and down in an arabesque on pointe, as if her working leg were some sort of fascinating spring. Herman Cornejo's casual, buoyant solo was also a treat.

Last was my first look at ABT's revival of Kurt Jooss' famous antiwar ballet from 1933, The Green Table. Long a staple of the Joffrey Ballet's repertory, back when that admirable company made City Center its home (featuring, for awhile, a brilliant young dancer named Kevin McKenzie). Indeed, the addition of The Green Table to ABT's repertory only underscores the company's fall transformation into a near-clone of the Joffrey, with mixed bills and eclectic works, both old and new. This is, perhaps, not surprising, given that McKenzie is now ABT's artistic director. Although still in the repertory of the Joffrey (now based in Chicago), The Green Table hasn't been seen in New York for years, and I was eagerly looking forward to it. The Joffrey premiered The Green Table in 1967, at the height of the Vietnam War; sadly, it's as pertinent today as then. Steeped in a Social Realist aesthetic, this ballet consists of vignettes of easily recognizable scenes of war, all led by the towering figure of Death, and sandwiched between stylized depictions of teams of bearded, fussy diplomats arguing across the eponymous table, before declaring war with a fusillade of pistol shots. It's hard, and probably unfair, to compare ABT's production with my thirty-year-old memories of the Joffrey, yet for much of this Green Table, I felt something was missing. While the diplomats cavorted and simpered daintily around the table, there was little of the wild force I remember from the Joffrey days. At one point, one diplomat melodramatically raises a finger to the heavens, as if to invoke God's backing for his side of the soon-to-be-lethal dispute. With the Joffrey, this gesture was always grand and dynamic, sometimes drawing chortles from the audience. Here, it's far less emphatic, and so it is with much of this ABT production. I'm happy to see this masterpiece again, I just miss the Joffrey's oomph. Their diplomats flung their arms about with greater drama; their soldier pranced and swung their arms with more abandon; their corpses died more heart-breakingly. Partly, I think, this is because the old Joffrey's varied repertory bred dancers who could manage classicism, but were really at home in character works. They knew how to sell, and ABT's Green Table could use a bit more salesmanship. Speaking of character dance and dancers, the greatest weakness of ABT's Table is in Carlos Lopez' portrayal of The Profiteer. In his bowler hat, white gloves and spats, Lopez is a bit of a dandy among the suffering soldiers and refugees, but without enough sliminess to make you want to hiss when he steals a ring off of a corpse or forces women into a brothel, and cheer at his death. It's hard for Lopez to compete with the exquisite evil of Joffrey's Profiteer, Gary Chryst, the finest character dancer I've ever seen. Even allowing that we can't expect another Chryst, this role is one of the ballet's emotional linchpins, and needs, well, more. Much more.

The other linchpin of The Green Table is the juicy role of Death, created originally by Jooss himself. ABT's Death is David Hallberg, in what might well be the role of his career. Already tall, when wearing Hein Heckroth's vaguely Roman helmet with its black plume, Hallberg appears gargantuan and terrifying, with his black-and-white death's-head makeup, and leather harness suggesting a half-exposed ribcage. It's an amazing transformation for Hallberg, from beautiful and golden to dark and menacing. With masterful use of lighting, Death appears from, and vanishes into, the shadows at just the right time in each vignette to claim a dying victim (soldiers, an old woman, a partisan, a young girl in a brothel and, eventually, everyone). Jooss' Death is all sharp angles and concussions. He strides mechanically, raising his leg high with bent knee, as if his foot's about to crush someone's head, or a town. Sometimes he paces by taking a step and slamming his back foot into his front in a fifth position (in a manner that would give any ballet teacher fits), and in his first solo he rhythmically pounds out the time for Frederick Cohen's two-piano score (which gives the ballet the effect of a newsreel with accompaniment), waving his arms about like a puppeteer pulling threads to bring together everyone who'll die in this war. While Hallberg doesn't quite have the sheer brutal force of the Joffrey's Christian Holder from years ago, Hallberg uses his beautiful line (yes, you do find yourself admiring this Death's skeletal legs) and lyrical qualities to show subtle gradations in his character, as when he almost-gently carries off a dying old woman (Carmen Corella), or, most chillingly, in the brothel scene. Here, Hallberg's Death replaces the soldier with whom an unfortunate young girl (Jennifer Alexander) must dance, and the sheer sudden brutality with which Death hustlers her about the stage is truly terrifying. Hallberg slams himself up against her, face-to-face, invading her space so totally it's almost as if we're witnessing a rape. When Alexander collapses, Hallberg kneels behind her, gently kissing her lips, then slowly sliding this kiss down her body to her stomach, before raising his face to stare directly at the audience at the scene's final blackout. Hallberg plays this moment of lyricism from the hard-edged death beautifully, and hauntingly, leaving us to ponder the ambiguity of this kiss. Was Death paying a lover's farewell to the girl, or, bent over her like a wolf over a carcass, was he feeding on her soul? Either way, it's a creepy moment where you feel Death walking over your own grave, and a triumph of interpretation for Hallberg.