© Paul Kolnik NYCB 'Apollo' reviews 'Apollo' reviews NYCB 'Flower Festival at Genzano' reviews 'Flower Festival at Genzano' reviews Hubbe in reviews recent NYCB reviews more Eric Taub reviews Discuss this review (Open for at least 6 months)

Hübbe showed us the guileless wonder within James and how his selfish flaws, his temper, lust, and fatal naivety, sprang from his ardor. Hübbe brought flashes of James to most of his roles, and it's not just the Sylph that inspired him; he could make any woman into an object of desire. The foolhardy, doomed Poet in La Sonnambula could be James' twin. Then there's that scene in the shadowy final section of Duo Concertante, when the spotlight irises open to light up the ballerina, Galatea come to brilliant life. You could see her beauty hitting Hübbe like a brick, blowing him halfway across the stage so he might rush back to her, leaping in a huge jeté in which he plummets to his knee before her. Cold and ironic, Peter Martins would hint that he was just play-acting with Kay Mazzo or Suzanne Farrell. Peter Boal was as pure and unromantic as an angel, and Nilas Martins a dutiful servant. Hübbe turned those few seconds into a Romantic ballet writ small. Other dancers play down this part, lest it hit us like a bucket of kitsch, but not Hübbe. In fearlessly embracing and vanquishing sentimentality, Hübbe reminded us that the strongest tides of the heart care nothing for restraint. In Hübbe's regard, Yvonne Borree was not merely at her most beautiful, but the most beautiful woman in the world.

It was no wonder, then, that Borree was crying her eyes out at Hübbe's final curtain, or that other ballerinas were near tears, much as they were at Jock Soto's farewell. Soto made his partners beautiful by being a rock beneath their feet; Hübbe made them beautiful by looking at them. And what man without a stone for his heart could watch Hübbe without a sympathetic twinge or tear of his own? Who doesn't remember loving with such passion, or dream of it, or, luckiest of all, see his own romance reflected in Hübbe's? It might even please me to think so of myself, although you'd never get me to admit it.

I was a little concerned that Hübbe chose such an ambitious, even grueling, afternoon for himself, but a look at the emotional scenes of his bows with Wendy Whelan, Yvonne Borree and Maria Kowroski made it clear that he'd chosen this program to say farwell to his favorite ballerinas as much as to his own favorite roles. He looked utterly exhausted by the matinee's end, but the huge smile on his face showed that he'd made the right decision.
 

Although very much an Apollo of the blond Nordic god variety carved in stone decades ago by Peter Martins, Hübbe's always emphasized Apollo's impetuosity and curiosity. He makes a great deal out of tipping his kythera from end to end, as if measuring the ground, and I've seldom seen an Apollo as pleased with himself for discovering the that he can, indeed, open and shut his hands with rapidity. For this performance, Hübbe was particularly ebullient and almost wackily spontaneous. He'd burst into full motion from a dead stop, or shift the direction of a run so abruptly he'd verge on a comedic double-take. He had a punchiness which might've spoken of adrenaline, or impending exhaustion. Regardless, this was a rather idiosyncratic portrayal, Apollo as a powerful, handsome child who treats the world as presents beneath his personal Christmas tree.

What better presents for Hübbe's Apollo than ballerinas? And what a trio: Wendy Whelan's Terpsichore, Rachel Rutherford's Calliope and Ashley Bouder's Polyhymnia. Rutherford was dancing porcelain, in her declamatory solo before offering Apollo the poem he refuses. I usually get agitated at any hint that a muse is flirting with Apollo; I still cringe remembering a trio of soubrettes from the Kirov. Yet, as Bouder breezed through the difficulties of Polyhymnia's solo (did those double pirouettes into arabesque ever look more solid?), she'd make eyes at Hübbe, with a sweet and somewhat knowing smile growing beneath her shushing index finger. Partly it was an expression of Bouder's inherent bravado, partly flirting, but mostly it was, I think, Bouder giving Hübbe her own silent farewell. On occasions like this, the division between a performer's public and private faces gets blurred, as it did repeatedly this afternoon.

I don't think I'd ever seen Whelan's Terpsichore before; she hasn't danced it recently. It's a shame; she's a magnificent Terpsichore, with her familiar expansiveness and clarity giving a particularly sculptural reading, from her first hooves-pawing-at-the-ground flicks of her feet to the "swimming lesson" of the pas de deux. She kept a beautiful balance between the muse's serious and playful sides. Like Apollo, Terpsichore is divine and so, by extension, is her dance. When Whelan hopped downstage in three brisés, she looked back over her shoulder at Hübbe with a smile, but still in her role of teaching Apollo to dance — too often this looks far too flirty. Although Whelan never danced with Hübbe as much as she did with Soto, the two did have a happy rapport. Their Mozartianas were celebrations, and they brought that same joy, tinged with sadness, to their duet.
 

Nikolaj Hbbbe's as Apollo (from 2004)
© Paul Kolnik

In the following allegro ensemble, Hübbe's Apollo reveled in the presence of his three muses (musagete indeed), alternately lifting Whelan and curling his arms around Bouder and Rutherford. More than ever, he reminded me of a playboy leading his entourage of women to the very choicest table at Studio 54, back in the day. At the ballet's end, Hübbe stood upstage center, waiting for his muses to drape themselves into that famous "fan" position behind him. As in previous moments of repose, Hübbe's face was impassive; he looked tired, but making his face a mask rather than show a hint of fatigue. Watching through my binoculars, I saw Whelan arrive, and drape one arm over his shoulder while nestling her head against his chest in preparation for her arabesque at the final pose. At Whelan's first touch, Hübbe's face broke into a glowing, if bittersweet smile, and he tenderly clasped her hand to his chest, savoring, it seems, her last touch as his partner.

When the four took their bows to great cheers, as the muses ran back behind the curtain, Hübbe grabbed Whelan's wrist, and kept her out for a few bows together, not releasing her until they'd returned backstage. That's when it became clear to me that to him this farewell was as much about his ballerinas as his roles.

After the intermission, two of City Ballet's youngest dancers, Kathryn Morgan and David Prottas, paid tribute to Hübbe's once and future home with the Royal Danish Ballet by dancing the pas de deux from Bournonville's The Flower Festival at Genzano. It was a delight, with the petite Morgan both charming and delicate, and Prottas, who only joined the company last October, showing off some impressive elevation in his jetés and explosive sissones. If these weren't the most pure performances, they were exciting enough to make me hope that the company might revive Bournonville Divertissment, which died a quiet death six or seven years ago when the company appeared to have run out of dancers who looked at all comfortable with the style. Certainly the young generation of corp men can jump with happy authority!

After a pause was an odd sort of tag-team performance of Peter Martins' tiresome Zakouski, that hodge-podge of Slavicisms set to miscellaneous bits from Russian composers, played beautifully by Kurt Nikkanen's violin and Cameron Grant's piano. Zakouski, originally made for Margaret Tracey and Hübbe, has a brutally hard role for the man, all thigh-slapping, heel-kicking peasantisms, interspersed with booming, tricky jumps. Perhaps that's why the ballet started with Megan Fairchild and Andrew Veyette making their debuts, only to be replaced later by Yvonne Borree and Hübbe. He was, as ever, suave and casually virtuosic in his big solo. While Borree had a nice rapport with Hübbe in their duets, I'd be remiss in not observing her dancing often devolved to her sadly familiar, sketched scrawl. She can certainly do the steps, but in phrasing, shape, accent, musicality, she's all over the place.
 

Borree has had an unfortunate career, with a promising beginning marred by too many years of nerves, trembling hands, and crash-and-burn performances. There were times, back around 2000, when it seemed Hübbe was making a point of not cutting her any slack as her partner, leading to some memorably star-crossed outings (I'm sure I want to forget her debut in Donizetti Variations as much as she does). But since then, she and Hübbe developed a rapport. I remember him patiently calming her shaking hands in Brahms-Schoenberg Quartet, and coaxing her to her finest performances. As I wrote above, in Duo Concertante he made her glow. She regularly danced Rubies with him, and was Terpsichore to his Apollo. As she and Hübbe took their bows before the curtain, she was in tears, and turned and gave him a deep curtsy, almost on her knees. He bowed to her, then hugged her repeatedly and whispered in her ear. By all accounts, Borree is a sweet and modest person, and I've hated having to report on her long decline. I can only imagine how she must have felt taking her last bow with him.

Another intermission, and Hübbe returned as Biff, leader of the Jets in Jerome Robbins' West Side Story Suite. Looking glamorous even in his sneakers, jeans and white teeshirt, he sang "Cool," snapping his fingers and admonishing his edgy gang members to "cool it!" (Excellent advice in most circumstances.) I remember the first time I heard him sing, I was astonished at his lack of an accent; I suppose I was expecting a moody Danish prince of a gang leader. Here it seemed this ambitious program was catching up with him, as he shouted as much as he sang, which only showed that if you're truly cool, you don't have to hit the right note. Hübbe is nothing if not cool.

After a pause, the lengthy program concluded with Balanchine's Western Symphony. The first two movements were cast as in my recent review. Abi Stafford looked marginally more at ease in the first movement, and, while much of the comic import of the second movement's Great Plains Giselle eluded Sterling Hyltin, at least she was now on the chase. In the last movement, Hübbe trotted onstage with Maria Kowroski to resounding applause. As he traded "can-you-top-this" tricks with Kowroski, Hübbe was almost manic in his ebullience. (In writing of Hübbe, I found myself so naturally pairing his name with "ebullient" that I'd force myself to choose other adjectives. Yet it fits him better than any other dancer, and I think I'll let ebullience follow its archetype into retirement.) I've seen him dance this better, as he must've been exhausted and running on fumes. While he managed all his tricky jumps and turns, he punched them out with an abruptness that suggested he was forcing his body into things it no longer wanted to do. It didn't matter. Kowroski was wonderfully goofy and strong, blowing Hübbe kisses with both hands before her big, clean fouettes, and, for the last time, "surprising" him with those kicks aimed at his head.
 

Nikolaj Hübbe's Farewell
© Paul Kolnik

I think the entire audience joined me in ignoring the massed dancers in the finale, focussing instead on Hübbe as he sauntered up to Kowroski at the stage's edge, shot her a huge grin as he pulled his cowboy hat off his tousled blond hair. Everyone knew what was coming as he backed her up against the proscenium, and delivered what appeared to be the Kiss of the Century, while modestly hiding their faces with his hat. The audience cheered. The cheers continued when they finally broke the clinch, Hübbe wiping his lips and smiling like a schoolboy, Kowroski gasping and fanning her face with her hand while blushing madly (apparently it's possible to mime a blush — who knew?). Ok, maybe they didn't actually kiss behind his hat, but I'd like to think so.

Then it was time for Hübbe's final bows, as the entire company joined him onstage. A procession of City Ballet's principal ballerinas presented him with flowers, including Kyra Nichols, returning to the stage for a too-brief moment. There were more than a few tears, particularly from Borree, who knelt at his feet, before joining the other women, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. The pile of flowers grew, with more tossed in from the orchestra, and confetti raining down from above. Then the curtain rose for Hübbe's final bow, alone. Smiling and waving, he held his hands to his heart as the curtain feel again. As the houselights rose and the audience filed out, I could hear the company still applauding Hübbe behind the curtain.