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The trio provided stellar examples in French, Russian and Royal Ballet training, harmonized, along with the slight variations based on body structure: Blanc, Nedvigin,Yamamoto. Katita Waldo’s clarity exerted a panache equal to her off-balance skill in Filling Station, a woman for all roles with two decades of company dancing. The line of her shoulders, articulation between shoulder and arm socket, proceed from some secret source in the middle of her lower spine; summary words are organic and flow. Vanessa Zahorian isn’t far behind her, though the thrust of her port de bras is higher; her articulation of torso and technique is admirable, with rubato in her phrasing.

Kristin Long made her first appearance of the 2008 season,her allegro as good as ever. The delicate balance between articulation and the necessary pulled up aplomb in the torso seemed on the low side as also Rachel Viselli; Frances Chung showed evidences of nuance I hope will deepen.

Drink To Me Only With Thine Eyes, Mark Morris’ first essay for a ballet company, made its debut with American Ballet Theater in 1988, with San Francisco in 1996. It had a stellar cast with ABT, here too no technical slouches were present. As in Morris’ first commission with San Francisco, there are many unexpected exits and entrances; he added a good many first positions en haut, the individual display is more fragment than variations. He provided a dose of lateral torso sways for the women to mitigate the dominant vertical line, especially good for dancers not schooled in plastique. The men seemed to come off better in this than the women - one wouldn’t be surprised with Baryshnikov and Bocca among the originating dancers. Maria Kochetkova’s textbook clarity and suppleness provided sunniness to the proceedings, nicely partnered by Ruben Martin; his low arabesques spoke of strength and control which someone should exploit. Baryshnikov’s role must have fallen to Pascal Molat, for his center assignments spoke of a major figure. Sarah Van Patten’s tardy solos were delivered with a smile and obvious pleasure. Elizabeth Miner and Rory Hohenstein partnered each other briefly, an interesting contrast in sharp clear technique and fluidity. James Sofranko’s dynamics made me want to see him as Mac in Christensen’s Filling Station and as Kostei in Possokhov’s Firebird. Spaulding made an impression coming from jumps into energetic fifth positions. Elana Altman is an imposing figure, currently lacking in rubato, here not so important;Doris Andre, Courtney Elizabeth and Garen Scribner provided important links. In white, the girls in loose tunics with white knickers under their skirts and the fellows in creamy-tone trousers and tops, seemed to match the blandness of the choreography. This Morris endeavor pales markedly from his accomplishments in Pacific and Sylvia.

Finishing the program was the second season of Yuri Possokhov’s reading of Igor Stravinsky’s Firebird, metallic structures designed by Yur I Zhukov, costumes by Sandra Woodall. Possokhov is a choreographer given to themes and stories: Magrittomania; The Damned; Reflections; now Firebird. He's good at it.
 

He places Koschei front and center in the prelude, caressing his egg; the audience is clued immediately how crucial it is. Pascal Molat, wild hair and extended fingers and nails, devoured the role, a malicious imp. Brooke Byrne remarked, “Pascal is having too much fun.” Damian Smith, his first as the nice guy, the prince, is the agreeable young man, less astute future monarch. It’s spring, he’s full of vim, particularly when meeting the luscious flame-hued Firebird with her exotic tail of orange silk. Yuan Yuan Tan, creating the role, makes her striking, fearful, gradually beguiled by the hunk who’s managed to capture her. Possokhov displays Tan’s length, line and suppleness splendidly.

Rachel Viselli is a Princess equal in energy to the Prince - she has some engaging moments with her six companions and her response to the Prince and he to her is plain story book.

When Koschei appears with his minions, their capacity to depict life’s creepy crawlies match Stravinsky’s chords with zest. The Prince, confined to a spiral tube, watches with horror as the Princess and her companions are jostled; the minions crawl around his confines with menace. I thought the Prince would never remember the Firebird’s feather; there is audible relief when flaming Yuan Yuan appears to the rescue. It takes a while for that egg to reappear, which Firebird Tan hands over to the Prince, initiating jerky cinematic movement runs between Prince, Koschei and minions, until the Prince gathers the courage to drop it; flash and blackout.

The finale has the benefit of the weeping Firebird exiting stage right, the joyous embrace of the simple Prince and Princess, but sixteen pairs of villagers in a celebration with dancing and ceremonial circles. I testify there is little more thrilling than to see men executing traditional Russian folk steps well. It makes the world seem in its rightful place briefly.