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I'm of the school of thought that Serenade should never go out of City Ballet's repertory. It's a historically seminal ballet in the development of Balanchine's artistry and American dance. (Erick Hawkins once told me in a long-ago interview he was in Serenade's original cast, and then reminisced about the time Giselle Caccialanza broke his nose in a later performance as he was supporting her in a pirouette.) More than this, it's a glimpse into not only Balanchine's heart and soul (night after night, Balanchine would put the important bits of his psyche before the world), but also collective heart and soul of City Ballet, as much as it can be said to have one. Even more than most of Balanchine's ballets, Serenade is a stream-of-consciousness phantasmagoria, with image after vivid image, among the best-known and most affecting in ballet. There's the second man's slow progress towards the supine Waltz Girl in the last movement, both blinded and led by the Dark Angel draped over his back, for example, or the famous opening image of the seventeen women in blue and their slow port de bras, or the fabulous diagonal from which dancer after dancer peels off into the wings like an attacking squadron of fighter planes. To make these images really live a dancer must have an appreciation in her bones not just of who she is, but who she might become before Balanchine's worshipful eye. Perhaps this is why ballet companies which work wonders with other Balanchine ballets can come to grief with Serenade, as one of the greatest disappointments in my balletgoing career was seeing the Kirov totally misunderstand Serenade. It's not at all about pretty women in beautiful blue dresses, or rather, it is, but it's also about much, much more.

I am probably preaching to the choir here, but when I read of ballet being dismissed as sexist, demeaning to women, promoting discriminatory stereotypes (you all know the drill), I think of Serenade's cohort of strong, vibrant women and its "story" of tragedy, perseverance and rebirth, and marvel that anyone could not see the adoration in Balanchine's portrayal of these mystical, near-angelic beings. Coming out against the dreadful over-valuation of "ideas" in some choreography, I once wrote, only half in jest, that Balanchine had only two ideas, and did pretty well with them: "Isn't this music great," and "women are divine creatures." You can see both of these ideas working full blast in Serenade, served up with a healthy dose of Balanchine's overt sentimentality. One of the great gifts that Balanchine gave to me, among many, was the understanding that it's OK to wear one's heart on one's sleeve, that it's OK not only to like Tchaikovsky (whom many self-proclaimed aficionados of "serious" music find laughably sentimental), but to be proud of it. Yes, thanks to Balanchie I came out of that musical closet, and I'm sure I'm not the only one.

One could argue, in counterpoint, that a pedestal is just a gilded cage, and that stereotypes, even apparently worshipful ones, are nonetheless demeaning and that it's disturbingly, repressively patriarchal to force grown women to enact a man's psychosexual visions, poetic or not. Oh, and toeshoes are just another form of men forcing women to mutilate themselves to live up to some unnatural standard of "beauty." One could make those arguments, but I certainly won't. I think you'd be very hard-pressed to find any woman who danced or dances in Serenade who considers it anything other than a joy and a privilege.

So in many ways Serenade is the beating heart of City Ballet, or at least of the part of it which still values all things Balanchine, and as such should never be absent, and should begin the first program of every season. I felt particularly strongly about this after the last time Serenade returned to the repertory after a few years' absence, back in 2003 or 2004, when its first return performance was dreadful: flat, lifeless, devoid of air and meaning. It was another instance of how City Ballet often uses the first performance of a Balanchine work as a dress rehearsal. It didn't take long for the dancers' memories to come to life, and, just as real performances follow rehearsals, Serenade was soon looking its old, beautiful self.

Given the sad Agons I've recently railed against, I was looking forward to Serenade's return both eagerly and anxiously. I was happily surprised to see a beautiful performance of the ballet. I swooned as the curtain rose on that famous bow-tie formation of motionless women in blue, and for most of the ballet I was just smiling at the sheer joy of it all. From beginning to end, this was a happy, almost hallucinogenic, rush.

It didn't hurt that Kyra Nichols danced the Waltz Girl. (A long though unofficial tradition has developed of referring to the three leads in Serenade by some of their most notable dancing moments, so we have the Waltz Girl, the Russian Girl, and the Dark Angel.) Nichols danced with all the superlative qualities I've praised to the heavens this season musicality, clarity, focus and also brought to her role the quality of a waking dream, as from her first entrance with big jetés into arabesques between living aisles of corps women, then skipping offstage with sauté arabesques, all the while seeming to look within herself. This was a performance of beautiful introspection, as if she were trying to rediscover a faded memory of heartbreak. Her waltz with Philip Neal was a study in bittersweet, and the ballet's final moments, where she's hoisted aloft on her way to death or rebirth, seemed a small affirmation of the strength one can gain from accepting pain and loss, indeed, its necessity for growth (the Waltz Girl has her share of Learning Experiences, that's for sure).

Making her debut (at least, her New York City debut) as the Russian Girl was the indefatigable Ashley Bouder. It's not hard to see why Bouder was cast, as the Russian Girl has a lot of sprightly allegro choreography, especially to the energetic Russian Theme, and Bouder made short work of those difficulties, bounding and floating like eiderdown in a spring breeze. In many ways, though, Bouder's onstage persona goes against the role's, and while she was often almost as ethereally remote as in her excellent Vision Scene, there were times when her instincts for showmanship broke through, to unfortunate effect. In the first movement, there's a place where the Russian Girl flies out of the winds, does a half-circle around a formation of corps girls, then flies back into the same wing, all with a flying step-jeté, step-jeté combination. Bouder flew ferociously, but at her last leap before the wings turned and smiled at the audience, which would've been fine had she been dancing Dew Drop, or perhaps some emotional remnants of the sensational Liberty Belle she'd dance the previous night still lingered in her subconscious.

Similarly, holding the occasional balance for a few extra milliseconds, or weightlessly hanging in midair while leaping might be perfect for Balanchine's more spirited roles, they only work in Serenade, in which flow is everything, if a dancer can pull them off without tugging backwards at what should be a seamless, dreamlike progression. Come to think of it, even Nichols, that mistress of rubato, stayed away from such musical fun and games. There's another point where the Russian Girl circles the stage with big jetés landing in a beautiful arabesque with her back to the audience; it's utterly beautiful if she can hold that arabeque for just long enough to limn it as a distinct position, but Bouder was landing from such big jumps that she pretty much had to blow through the pose to the next big jeté. As the ballet progressed, Bouder became less overt with her bravura, and at the beginning of the Russian Theme, where she joins four corps girls in sinking to the floor in a slow-motion split, she was positively regal in her reserve, which she held to for the rest of the ballet, except for one moment where she flashed a big "hi neighbor!" smile to (I think) Kowroski near the ballet's end. Bouder's always a presence onstage, and she's always interesting. I'd happily watch her tie her shoelaces, and perhaps that's why I wasn't so dismayed by her occasional stylistic missteps. She's shown over the years that she can change and grow, and I'd like to think she'll do so in Serenade, as well.

In a role she's come to own, Maria Kowroski was the Dark Angel figure, and, as has been her wont, was again breathtaking as the kneeling Stephen Hanna promenaded her in an enormous, deeply arched arabesque by turning her from her thigh. While I've often found Kowroski to be beautiful but blank, she brought more depth to the role than I've recalled; something I've noticed more and more with her lately.

In another debut, Stephen Hanna, tall, strong and handsome, handled his tricky partnering assignments with aplomb, and brought an appropriate gravitas to the second male lead, the man who enters and leaves blinded by the Dark Angel. In the Waltz, Philip Neal whirled Nichols about with graceful abandon. The corps, in many ways the real center of the ballet, danced with passion and commitment. Maurice Kaplow seemed actually to be paying attention to the dancers, and the orchestra sounded lovely indeed (perhaps because "Serenade for Strings" gave the problematic horns a break?).

Next was the much-anticipated revival of Jerome Robbins' Dybbuk, or at least one version of it. The last collaboration between Robbins and Leonard Bernstein, Dybbuk was a notoriously problematic work for the perfectionist Robbins, and it went through many incarnations over the years before Robbins more-or-less gave up on it. I saw it back when, but, perhaps thankfully, have retained little memory except for the puzzling image of Helgi Tomasson in a dress. (It wasn't really a dress, but his back-from-the-dead costume, but I digress.) It's a good thing Dybbuk has program notes, otherwise it would be impossible to decipher its convoluted story from the ballet, which might more properly be described as a suite of dances inspired by the dybbuk story. Said story, based on the eponymous Yiddish play by S. Ansky, is a variation on the eternal theme of "boy meets girl, boy loses girl." In this case the boy and girl are betrothed at a young age by their parents, but later the girl's parents break the engagement when the boy grows up to be a poor theological student. His studies of the kabbalah lead him to utter words of power in an attempt to win back the girl, but which instead cause him to die in a fit of ecstasy. He comes back as a dybbuk to possess said girl, until his spirit is exorcised, at which point, the girl dies, and they are reunited. In other words, Schvann Lake.

There is indeed something supernatural about Dybbuk. Again and again I was astonished at Bernstein's clairvoyance in that more than thirty years ago he knew to write some earth-shaking sturm und drang for the horns and percussion at the exact place in the score when, last Friday, I'd be falling asleep. If that's not magic, then I don't know what is. Dybbuk looks very much like the famously insecure Robbins was so determined to create a Masterpiece that he suffocated his own muse. Can you imagine Balanchine devoting a moment's thought to whether his next ballet would be a masterpiece? Although there are many lovely and intriguing moments in Dybbuk, overall it looks like the Hallmark Hall of Fame's production of Fiddler on the Roof's evil twin. Each of the ballet's cascading solos and duets is so serious and fraught with meaning I half expected Robbins own spirit to smack me upside the head for not paying close enough attention, or perhaps present me with a quiz before I could leave the theater. Dybbuk is so high-concept, so relentlessly artistic and tasteful that it sucks all the life out of its otherwise lively dancers, not to mention the air out of the State Theater.

I did rather like Holly Hynes' recreations of Patricia Zipprodt's original costumes, especially for the theological students with the tefillin on their heads and left arms. (Question for the talmudically inclined: should Benjamin Millepied, a notorious lefty have worn his hand-tefillin on his right arm?), and Bernstein's score had its truly moving moments (especially when it shocked me back to consciousness). And it is indeed possible to note and admire Robbins' many subtle choreographic devices, without actually being moved by, or even particularly liking, the result. I feel somewhat the same about The Cage. I admire Robbins' craft, but am increasingly repelled by the ballet. At least The Cage has its hard-hitting ugliness; Dybbuk is, forgive me, lifeless. And a mishegas.

Whatever Dybbuk's weaknesses, they have nothing to do with the superb and hard-working performances by the various dancers. Jenifer Ringer does sweet and virginal very, very well, and was a perfect choice for the unhappy bride-never-to-be, and the ensembles and solos for the male students once again reminded that Martins has developed a fine crop of young male dancers.

The program ended with a kind of schizophrenic performance of a perennial favorite, Balanchine's Stravinsky Violin Concerto. While in other ballets I've bemoaned the recent or impending loss of veteran dancers, I left this Violin Concerto thinking that the time might've come for a wholesale recasting. While the ensemble sections, the ballet's buoyant and high-spirited beginning and ending movements, were for the most part a treat, the two central long pas de deux, set to the concerto's two "arias," were a different story. Wendy Whelan and Albert Evans shared the first aria, and it wasn't the finest moment for either. While Whelan was appropriately sinuous in the twisty and bendy bits Balanchine devised for Karin von Aroldigen, there were also moments when she seemed to be conserving her energy, especially in the ballet's finale. As much as I have adored Whelan, and will continue to do so, it's increasingly hard to escape noticing she's not the dancer she was, especially in the years when she seemed to be carrying the entire repertory on her back, and the sad and sorry truth is that sometimes she phones in performances. Even though she did the wonderful perky tippy-toe folk-dancing bits in the finale with her usual happily expansive upper body, her footwork was, alas, less ambitious. As for Evans, he certainly did all the steps, but didn't look to be in good enough shape to do much better than flail at the trickier bits, and at times it looked as if he thought flailing about was an appropriate way of rendering Balanchine's angular choreography, and it would've been, if he were aiming for the sort of rendering they do in meat-packing plants.

The pairing of Yvonne Borree and Nilas Martins was, in its own way, even sadder. In the second aria, Borree's air of fragility gives her a kind of similarity to the role's originator, Kay Mazzo, but even at her best, Borree is brittle as Mazzo never was. While Borree has, not so many years ago, been quite affecting in this odd duet in which the woman seems an extraordinarily passive vessel for her partner, this time she was once again hit with her twin afflictions of an ever-tightening upper back, and ever-shakier hands. Had she been free of these, she'd have doubtless turned in a lovely performance, as she's far from an incapable dancer, but the stage of the State Theater really isn't a place for this sort of protracted physical therapy. As for Nilas Martins, he was once again in the position he's handled with admirable professionalism throughout his career, essaying a role created on, and better danced by, his father. As with Borree, Martins is quite a capable dancer, when he's not phoning it in, or, worse, turning himself into The Invisible Man, as he did on Friday, reverting to the days when he'd dance like distilled water (pure, clean and without flavor). I long ago gave up wondering whether Martins was simply bored to tears with his job, or whether he just has a very subdued and vanilla way of expressing himself onstage. Some things we'll never know. Martins partnered Borree with his usual care and professionalism, but it did seem that on the whole he'd rather have been in Philadelphia.

Also, while male dancers aren't expected to be as painfully thin as women these days, I'd think that if a professional knows he's going to be appearing in an unforgiving ensemble of white t-shirt and black tights, he might make an effort to lose his love handles. Or, in the case of both Evans and Martins, perhaps not. God knows I'm in far worse shape than both of them put together, but nobody's paying good money to see me in the almost altogether, either.

I left Violin Concerto wondering how the hard-working men in the ensemble must feel seeing these principal men turn in such lackluster performances, and seriously thinking that I could blindfold myself and pick two men out of the corps who'd do a better, or at least more enthusiastic, job than Evans and Martins. Indeed, the men and women in the ensemble, especially the high-flying men, danced with all the enthusiasm and brio I found so lacking in the leads. While it might not be quite so easy to find replacements for Whelan and Borree (where's Alexandra Ansanelli when we really need her?), the time has come to start a serious search. After all, it's better to pass the torch to a new generation before it slips altogether from your fingers. From what I could see in Violin Concerto, that younger generation has earned it.

I'll finish by noting that Kurt Nikkanen's violin was exquisite, as usual, in the Stravinsky.