Paris calling

Vive la France: Boston Ballet outdoes itself

by Jeffrey Gantz

"AN AMERICAN IN PARIS," Symphony in C, by George Balanchine, to music by Georges Bizet. Lark Ascending, by Bruce Marks, to music by Ralph Vaughan Williams. An American in Paris, by Daniel Pelzig, to music by George Gershwin. Presented by Boston Ballet, at the Wang Center through April 12.

For the last of its three spring repertory programs, Boston Ballet is serving up April in Paris: George Balanchine's sumptuous Symphony in C, which he choreographed for the Paris Opéra in 1947 (it was originally called Le palais de crystal), and the world premiere of Daniel Pelzig's "The Ballet Formerly Known As 'An American in Paris' " (we'll get to that title shortly). It's a full evening of contrasting French cuisine, Balanchine's classic, Pelzig's eclectic, with a palate-cleansing sorbet in between, artistic director emeritus Bruce Marks's 1977 Lark Ascending; and it's every bit as delectable as the meals Balanchine used to whip up with his great friend Igor Stravinsky.

Georges Bizet wrote his Symphony in C in 1855, when he was just 17; it's a youthful, exuberant lark that shows off the basics of sonata form while reveling in the different textures of the orchestra (in particular the woodwinds). Balanchine matches Bizet by giving us the basics of ballet position and movement: in Symphony in C, the simplest tendus and pliés and relevés, exquisitely presented, become the stuff that dancing dreams are made of.

As always, he takes his cues from the music. The first theme of Bizet's opening Allegro vivo is based on a series of short, germinating figures; Balanchine depicts it in a series of poses by the eight corps members and two demi-soloists (they dance antiphonally, one group of five answering the other, in a way that gives point to Bizet's repeated phrases) before bringing out the soloist at the arrival of the more lyrical second theme. The development announces the entrance of three men, partners for the leading ladies; the recapitulation of the second theme finds the soloist and her partner in the spotlight.

The Adagio is a mini Swan Lake, with positions recalling Tchaikovsky's ballet and a regal pas de deux for the lead couple, often against a diagonal line of women. For the trio Balanchine incorporates the soloist into Bizet's fugal invention, then returns her to her partner for the reprise; as the oboe (her instrument in this movement) dies out, so does she. When in the trio of the Scherzo Bizet uses the lower strings to suggest bagpipes, Balanchine creates a Scottish country dance (it looks a bit like a Virginia reel). Bizet's Allegro vivace finale, a kind of sonata-rondo, has two themes and a perpetuum mobile chasing one another in a game of now-it's-over-no-it's-not; Balanchine has the dancers from the previous movements (à la Beethoven in the finale of his Ninth) chase one another about the stage until he brings them all (here 12 men and 28 women) together in a dizzying peroration of beaten jumping steps. It's ballet as nouvelle cuisine: simple, exquisite, unforgettable.

The sine qua non of this piece is precision, and Boston Ballet (which hasn't done Symphony in C since 1983) doesn't always have it. Particularly in the outer movements, Balanchine is trying to describe the geometry of sex (you get the feeling his dream is to choreograph the Rockettes), which means there's no room for error in the erotic equations. Kyra Strasberg, in the Adagio, conveys a maximum of sexuality with a minimum of movement: it's in the serene way she stands on barely supported point with that leg stretched out to the side (you'd never know it's a treacherous balance) before dropping into an arabesque penchée (and never mind if she doesn't try to emulate Suzanne Farrell by touching her forehead to her knee). Larissa Ponomarenko, in the opening Allegro vivo, is another Balanchine lady par excellence; she makes chaîné turns look as exciting as fouettés. Partner Patrick Armand has ballon ("lift") even without pyrotechnics. Making a return appearance, former company principal (she left at the end of the 1994-'95 season) Aleksandra Koltun seemed a little breathless and out of synch in the Scherzo and then the Allegro vivo last weekend, but her amplitude and elegance were a welcome sight. Is she back for good?

Even a slightly rough Symphony in C is a fabulous experience. And the way to better Balanchine is more Balanchine. Kudos to artistic director Anna-Marie Holmes for putting an entire evening of this century's greatest choreographer on next season's bill of fare: Divertimento No. 15, Serenade, and The Four Temperaments.

Boston Ballet hasn't done Lark Ascending in 10 or 12 years; here it's the perfect entr'acte, requiring just one lady on a program where the entire female corps is at full stretch. And with the right dancer it can be as moving and disturbing as the Ralph Vaughan Williams tone poem to which it's set. The opening tableau is enigmatic, five men executing floor somersaults while the "lark" tries to find her wings. She dances with one man, a struggling, closed-in pas de deux, while the other four look on. There's an exquisite moment when she sits astride her partner's shoulder, one leg straight and one bent, and is revolved with vertiginous speed. But she never takes flight till the very end, when all five men lift her skyward.

Kyra Strasberg (on what turned out to be Strasberg Appreciation Saturday: she had leading roles in all three pieces) gives Lark the birdlike softness and spontaneity it needs. Her phrasing is iridescent, and she conveys Vaughan Williams's pain and yearning in the way she makes you conscious of the other four men (who perhaps are yearning to dance with her), as if she knew they'll be needed if she's to soar. Jennifer Glaze is technically unexceptionable in a starker, more self-contained reading, but I didn't get the same feeling of plumage. Both Strasberg and Glaze had a sizable portion of the Wang Center up on its feet.

As for Daniel Pelzig's new Gershwin opus, I was prompted to stand up and cheer myself -- not least by that 18-foot French poodle in topiary. You could argue that this glitzy 45-minute tribute to love, loss, and the City of Lights (based primarily on music from An American in Paris and the piano concerto) replaces achievement with attitude, ballet with Broadway -- of course, the same charges were leveled at Balanchine. The similarity is superficial: where Balanchine gives us essences, Pelzig throws in the kitchen sink. And this world premiere attests to Pelzig's usual shortcomings: the characters are underdeveloped and the steps aren't memorable. The piece doesn't even have a name. But you'd have to be an awful grouch not to fall for it.

Maybe that's why the grouches at the Gershwin estate denied Pelzig permission to use his original title, An American in Paris. It seems a Broadway musical with that title is in the works, and the estate didn't want to risk confusion. I'd like to think that if the Gershwin people saw Pelzig's ballet, they'd have a change of heart. For the moment, Pelzig is calling it Tower symbol (i.e., Eiffel) with Running Water symbol (i.e., Seine) underneath.

This is not the worst of all possible worlds, since Pelzig's script is somewhat different from the 1951 Gene Kelly film. We actually have three Americans in Paris: a male Tourist in checked shirt and jeans who's looking to make out with the Parisian chicks; a male Artist (the Gene Kelly figure); and a Businesswoman packing sunglasses and a cell phone who has some not-well-defined relationship with the Artist (perhaps they're engaged). There's also the French Lady and her young son, who catch the eye of the Artist; there's a Workman, a janitor type in blue overalls, who wants to catch the eye of the Businesswoman. And there's a recurrent pair of dancing Frenchmen (customs inspectors, waiters, museum guides) who represent stability, friendship, and perhaps love.

The plot -- and the extraordinary sets -- can be a little confusing first time 'round. Once the American tourists (most of whom are dressed for Venice Beach rather than Paris, but they look great, so why not?) clear customs, they hit the outdoor café (represented by a striped-awning backdrop), where the Artist and the Businesswoman go their separate ways, the Workman hits on the Businesswoman, and the garçons are as ubiquitous as cabs on a rainy night in Boston. In a parklike setting (the Jardin du Carrousel?), the Artist falls for the French Lady, whose endearing son sails a toy boat, and the Businesswoman agrees to a rendezvous with the Workman. We hit the Louvre (keyed by a wonderful version of I.M. Pei's glass pyramid and that 18-foot poodle) and a bulletproof-glass-plated Mona Lisa, after which, in the "Too Many Monas" section, the Tourist dances with three Monas.

Back to the Jardin du Carrousel, where the Parisians are walking their Dalmatians -- some pugnacious pooches among them. Nightfall brings out the Artist (who tries to assuage himself with a Left Bank/Montmartre type but can't forget the French Lady) and the assignation of the Businesswoman with the Workman (set to the big Adagio melody from Gershwin's Piano Concerto in F). Pelzig's other pas de deux (to the big slow tune from An American in Paris) takes place the next evening, on what looks like the Titanic (funnels and exhaust tubes) but is really the exoskeleton of the Pompidou Center, between the Artist and the French Lady. After a "men and women in black" section for the chic people of Paris, it's back to the airport, where some of us bid a fond farewell and others . . . did I mention that Pelzig is an incurable romantic?

Like the Artist's work, it's a sketch rather than a portrait: Pelzig depends on the dancers to bring it to life. Paul Thrussell reprises some of his stunning "She's Hot To Go" country steps from Pelzig's Nine Lives; Carlos Santos's characterization is a tad hipper. Kyra Strasberg's Businesswoman is superb in the way her eyes say no but her body says yes to Zachary Hench's Workman; their pas de deux is the more affecting because you can see the Businesswoman discovering her sexuality even as you know it won't last. As the French Lady and the Artist, Larissa Ponomarenko and Viktor Plotnikov conjure Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant in Charade (and it doesn't get much better than that); but Tara Hench and Laszlo Berdo generate even more tension as a Leslie Caron/Gene Kelly pair. No praise can be too high for Boston Ballet's corps members, who as tourists and Parisians give Pelzig's work its heartbeat. Or for Jonathan McPhee's orchestra, which melds French amour and American panache in what ought to be a desert-island CD. This is one of Boston Ballet's best repertory programs ever. Don't miss it.