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With a program designed to show off the gems of ABT's roster and repertory, this Spring Gala had some spotty moments, but when it succeeded it was pleasant enough, if not quite of the caliber of ABT's legendary galas of the late Seventies and early Eighties. First up was ABT's corps in their slow, dreamlike entrance down that ramp for the "Kingdom of the Shades" scene from La Bayadere. Moving at a particularly languid pace demanded by David LaMarche's glacial tempi, the corps managed tolerably well, although their magic was occasionally marred by a few slight cases of the wobbles. ABT's corps is capable of much better, and I expect to see it as the season progresses. Nevertheless, it was a happy and familiar curtain raiser, as "Shades" has been a proud possession of ABT's since it was first staged for them by Natalia Makarova in 1970. (Favorite ballet trivia question: In the very first performance of ABT's "Shades," who was the first girl down the ramp? A: Nanette Glushak.)
 

After Shades, ABT's artistic director Kevin McKenzie gave the obligatory pep-talk before the curtain (including the annual introduction of Caroline Kennedy). Since one highlight of this spring season at the Met will be the premiere of a new production of The Sleeping Beauty, McKenzie made a point of thanking the donor who personally chipped in a million dollars (about a third of the the total cost). Immediately after came a sort of tag-team presentation of some of the company's stars in excerpts from the ballet, which was our first look at Willa Kim's costumes. Given the appalling state of both their design and execution, the aforementioned donor might well have wondered if it were too late to apply for a refund.

A veteran of decades of work for ballet, opera and Broadway, Kim has made garish, overwrought designs better suited for a road show of Aurora on Ice. With their overly saturated pastels and endless flowery garlands, all set off by the generous application of Christmas-tree tinsel, the costumes looked both ruinously expensive and depressingly cheap. Worse, some weren't even properly finished. Although I'm not an expert in costume construction, I do know that it takes but an instant to tack down a tutu's top plate, yet both Michele Wiles and Irina Dvorovenko had to contend with the topmost fabric of their tutus flipping and folding in unseemly independence from their lower layers. So the one place where Kim's tutus should've been tacky was the only place they weren't.

It's good to see Michele Wiles looking ebullient in the Lilac Fairy's first-act solo. I suppose if I could flawlessly deliver Lilac's three double pirouettes to a tendu in plie, with not even the slightest fudging or adustment, I'd be pretty bubbly, too. At each perfect finish, Wiles' often fixèd smile grew brighter and more genuine. The triple with which she finished off the enchainment had the celebratory air of a popping champagne cork. I couldn't for the life of me puzzle out why Kim festooned this costume so many peacock feathers, or why they looked more like the staring eyes of a malevolent purple potato.
 

Before television, we immortalized our great catastrophes in song, so that memories of the wreck of Old 97, the Baltimore fire or the Galveston flood inspire us with stories of courage and cowardice in the face of overwhelming disaster. Had I a better pen, I'd add Veronika Part's Rose Adagio to that exalted number, so generations of would-be ballerinas and their partners might shiver in fear at the terrible consequences of an fickle balance on even the most beautiful of ballerinas, or vow to emulate ABT's brave princes who, with no thought of their own safety, rescued Part from certain disaster.

Even in Kim's contagiously pink tutu laced with eruptions of petite roses, Part looked every inch a princess and the very personification of Spring, as she graciously acknowledged her princely suitors, Grant DeLong, Alexander Hammoudi, Vitaly Krauchenka and Cory Stearns. It required more graciousness than I possessed to contemplate how Kim dressed these princes, without resorting to mental wisecrackery.

With his acres of yellow and orange spandex and matching robes, pointy hat curly-toed slippers and beard, the Russian Prince was a Prince Flaming in serious need of the Fire-extinguisher-bird. I am afraid (no, really, I am) that I'll never forget the sight of Bonnie Prince Charlie, in his plaids of chartreuse and forest green trimmed with fuschia fur. How sad that there be only four princes, as Kim was just a motorcycle cop shy of the Olde Village People. Perhaps, not finding enough tragedies in the audience, it was the Fashion Gods who smote Veronika down for Kim's sins.

Or perhaps I'm the guilty party, for observing with admiration how much better the hard-working Part has become, the weight she's lost and strength she's gained. "I was so wrong," I told myself. "I never imagined Part would be a very strong dancer, and here she is doing a fantastic Aurora." At that instant she started the first of the Adagio's two long, scary balances, and promptly fell back onto her heel with such force that she had to sink into a big demi-plie before springing back to pointe. For the rest of that balance, she wisely refrained from attempting any hands-free bravura but regarded the audience with a cast-iron smile as she quickly and safely transferred her grip from prince to prince. Part had some lovely moments later in the adagio, showing her long, unforced extensions and the grandeur of her Russian-trained arms, but soon it was time for the balance with promenades in attitude and it was clear from her first pose that Part simply could not get on top of her leg, delivering the Most Busted Rose Adagio I'd ever seen, and I've seen plenty.

Abandoning even the pretense of balancing on her own, Part's hand went from prince to prince so quickly she had the desperate look of a drowning woman grasping at straws. The absolute low point came at the handoff between Princes Number Two and Three. Prince Number Two finished promenading the wobbly Part, and stood before her as Part clutched his hand in a grip of steel. Sensing Part's distress, Prince Number Three marched up behind Prince Number Two and at a slight angle, so he could reach around the outside of Prince Number Two's extended arm, and offer Part his own hand right next to Prince Number Two's, so Part could transfer her grip to Three the instant she released Two.

Unfortunately, Part grabbed at Prince Number Three's hand with such force that he couldn't get in proper position; he couldn't, as Prince Number Two was still between him and Part. The effect of her desperate lunge was that she actually pulled herself off her own leg, towards the Princely Traffic Jam of Princes Two and Three, and for a horrifying instant of frozen time it looked like poor Prince Number Two would find himself the filling of a heretofore unimaginable Royal Sandwich. Making the only sensible decision, Prince Number Two vacated the premises in a dignified skedaddle, and Prince Number Three alertly pushed Part back to the more-or-less vertical, averting the imminent disaster.

Her last promenade being considerably less dramatic than its predecessors, Part sketched a quick arabesque received some polite sympathy applause, and the ordeal was over. I couldn't say who was more relieved: Part, her Princes, or the audience which could do nothing more than watch in horror. Just as dancers often perform their best after a fall, Part could well be perfect and rock-solid at her Aurora debut next Friday. Although it's usually Prince Desire who rescues Aurora, here it was her four quickly forgotten suitors. I'd like to think that Part treated Mssrs. DeLong, Hammoudi, Krauchenka and Stearns to vodka shots afterwards; they certainly deserved it.

After this high drama, Diana Vishneva's rendition of Aurora's Vision Scene solo was a bit of an anticlimax. I didn't recognize most of the variation as it didn't have the big battements into raccourcis I'm more familiar with. It's hard to sell the Vision solo without the Vision Scene around it, and perhaps this dramatic discomfiture led to Vishneva's well-remarked decision to skip the curtain calls at the end of the excerpts.

Finally, Irina Dvorovenko and Maxim Beloserkovsky came out for the adagio of the Act III grand pas de deux. Kim's tutu for Dvorovenko, with its airbrushed aqua highlights, acres of rainbow-faceted sequins and shiny gold tinsel starbursts, looked like it had been constructed from a recycled 1950s Christmas tree. Dvorovenko herself, resplendent in Kim's tutu, a very gold tiara and enough gold glitter in her hair to cause a run on the world's currency markets, looked like she'd just flown down from the tree's crown.
 

As I watched Dvorovenko, I was struck, as always, by her strength, authority and aplomb. With her every javelin glance at Beloserkovsky, teeth-baring smile and micrometer-precise moue, Dvorovenko assembled a contrivance of charm as if she were marshaling all the resources of the latest five-year plan, an iron fist within a chain-mail glove. Glowing with authority and triumph, as if she'd personally devoured Carabosse and then gone out for ribs, Dvorovenko's joy in her kingdom's reawakening was that of a child who's just unwrapped a particularly elaborate toy. In the series of supported pirouettes where Aurora concludes each by slowly raising her arms upward from her sides, Dvorovenko hardly seemed to be luxuriating in joyful anticipation of married bliss or invoking her kingdom's regained fecundity. Rather, it was a gesture of command, as if by sheer force of will she could draw us out of our seats with her fingertips. And then it hit me. Just as Aurora's wedding celebrates her new life and her kingdom's, so too were we seeing a new Dvorovenko. Gone were the invisible spit-curls and fan which had informed so much of her dancing for the past decade. Kitri no more, she's found a grander, a stronger spirit to channel. I shivered just a bit, as behind Tchaikovsky's pretty, happy frills I heard, ever so faintly, "Eveeee-ta, Eveeee-ta." Get on your knees now, it'll save time later.

After the bows sans Visneva came the gala's piece d'occasion, Brian Reeder's Lady's Choice. The lady in question is Stella Abrera, and her choice, it seems, is between her husband, Sascha Radetsky, and the celebrated pianist Lang Lang, who, behind a massive grand piano set front and downstage center, played Chopin's Waltz No. 3 in A Minor. Both men were quite resplendent in white tie and tails (Lang Lang has taken to sporting a wild Mad Professor mop), and Abrera long and luscious in a purple gown. Reeder devised some clever variations on standard Romantic Ballroom fare for Abrera and Radetsky, but while Abrera's attentions wafted gently between the two men, neither the unwontedly stolid Radetsky or the somewhat preoccupied Lang Lang seemed terribly interested in Abrera, who eventually let herself be whisked into the wings by Radetsky, but not without a yearning glance back at Lang Lang. Perhaps it would've taken the gifts of a Tudor to flesh out this little sketch, but as a trifle, it was a pleasant excuse for learning that the pyrotechnical Lang Lang indeed understands piano as well as forte. After Lady's Choice, he treated the audience to some improvisations on Brahms' Hugarian themes. Had I ever wondered about the sound of a sewing machine on crack, I should wonder no more.

After the intermission, Xiomara Reyes and Herman Cornejo danced the balcony pas de deux from MacMillan's Romeo and Juliet, which seemed quite the masterpiece after Peter Martins' recent sad effort. Reyes practically flew down those treacherous stairs into Cornejo's arms. Reyes' portrayal was high on bubbly, girlish enthusiasm, as is her wont, but never quite crossed over into the maudlin, as is sometimes her weakness. Cornejo was magnificent technically, and had an ardor which complemented Reyes.' It's a shame that Cornejo won't actually get to dance Romeo this season; like most short but brilliant dancers at ABT, he faces a lifetime of Golden Idols and Peasant Pas (but not, thank God, Jesters). It's no wonder Joaquin de Luz jumped ship for City Ballet!
 

Then came the precious and soon-to-be retired Alessandra Ferri with Marcelo Gomes in the last scene from Lar Lubovitch's Othello. Ferri looks ever more ethereal and waif-like with each passing year. Here, as Gomes did all but twirled a non-existant mustache, Ferri seemed already to be on a heavenly plane. Indeed, those amazing legs and hyper-arched feet are one of the dance world's true miracles. Ferri made Lubovitch's pedestrian modern choreography seem a work of genius, as she grew more and more radiant in love the closer she came to the moment of her death, much as her dancing seems more sublime as she approaches her retirement, which is now only a month away, as is Kyra Nichols,' and what a sad weekend that will be!

Speaking of senior ballerinas, the great Nina Ananiashvili returned to ABT in the Black Swan pas de deux with Angel Corella. Not only was she back, but in fine form, and delivering to the previous three Russian ballerinas what I've come to call an Nina-spanking. Over the past few years I've come to appreciate how much she enjoys being up last, so to speak. I recall more than one occasion where on a Friday night Irina Dvorovenko would turn in a really fine Raymonda or Kitri, to enjoy it for only a day until Saturday night, when Anansiasvili would deliver a drop-dead performance for the ages which suddenly made the previous evening seem pedestrian and forgettable. In other words, a spanking. For this gala, she was entirely in command of every weapon in her artistic and technical arsenal, as well as the glamor which marks a real ballerina. I imagined her whispering into the wings, "Let me show you how it's done, girls."

Partnered by Angel Corella, Ananiashvili was in complete command of the adagio, and brought together its technical and dramatic narratives into a tale of a Black Widow toying with her prey which might've been frightening if not for the wit which animated her every gesture. She'd rather die onstage, it seems, than mis-time the dramatic moment early in the adagio when she practically nails her chest against Corella's in that signature, swept-wing attitude coming like a thunderclap after a flurry of supported pirouettes. Not only did she nail such big moments, she also created one out of almost whole cloth, turning the part where, in the full ballet, Odile mimics Odette's swanniness to distract the hapless Siegfried from the vision of Odette at the palace window. With her winged arms and bourreeing legs rippling like water, and her ever-so-Russian eyebrows knitted in imitation of Odette's soulful grief, Ananiashvili practically commanded the house to cheer, and, obedient to this visiting deity, it loudly complied. I've never seen that moment in a Black Swan garner such, indeed any, applause, which may have been Ananiashvili's point, that she can garner cheers whenever she wants. Corella, for his part, played the love-struck and credulous Seigfreid as a perfect doomed puppy, flashing his kilowatt smile with joy at her slightest attention, and sulking almost inconsolably when she'd pretend to ignore him. Both of their solos, and the coda, were brilliant. (Ananiashvili prefers hard-pounding single fouettes to flashy multiples, and that's just fine with me.) It's that marvelous interplay between the pair in the adagio that'll stick with me, not the least the "Stop! Now, come!" bit where, in a lunge on the floor, she gestures at Corella to stop, and favors him with a sulky, controlling pout, then beamed with pleasure as she let him resume his pursuit.

Then, of course, came the obligatory moment in every ballet gala when the curtain rose on that bed, and that writing desk, and, yes, that duet, from that ballet. Julie Kent, pristinely perfect as ever, was an oddly coquettish coccotte, given that this is, after all, a bedroom and we know just what this pair have been, and will be, up to. Nonetheless, Kent must've dialed down her cuteness, as did José Manuel Carreño his macho, and there were (it kills me to say it) moments of affecting tenderness, if not exactly stage-burning passion, between the two.

The program ended, as it began, with La Bayadere, this time excerpts from the first act. In the first-scene duet outside the temple, Paloma Herrera gave a far greater sense of being actually present in the moment than is often her wont, perhaps drawn out of her somnambulant shell by the grand occasion, or perhaps by the very immediate and tall presence of David Hallberg's Solor. While this was just a short duet, the chemistry between these possessors of two of the ballet world's most beautiful pairs of legs proved undeniable.
 

Gillian Murphy leaped through Gamzatti's circus-pony solo from the betrothal scene, backed by the scene's backdrop and armies of fan-weilding corps girls. Her technical command was brilliant as ever, but its effect was sometimes marred by Murphy's tight upper body. After last year, I'd thought that injuries would confine Ethan Stiefel mostly to character roles, yet here he was soaring through Solor's own Act I solo with lightness and fire to suggest he'd never been out a day in his life. Then Murphy was back for her flashy coda, with its big Italian fouettes.

Then, it was all over except for the curtain calls, where each ballerina who'd had time to change showed off evening gowns without even a hint of tragedy. The patrons headed towards the waiting reception and dinner (did I mention this was a six-thirty curtain?), and I drifted home, happy that this was the summertime and there were still rays of light out.