HOLDEN RETURNS AS WIDOW SIMONE : JOFFREY SEASON OPENS WITH ‘FILLE’

Thursday night at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, the Joffrey Ballet inaugurated its West Coast season, celebrated its 30th birthday and introduced a lavish, brand-new version of a quasi-modern classic borrowed from the Royal Ballet of London --all at the same blissful time.

It wasn’t exactly another op’nin’, another show.

The evening ended in a well-choreographed shower of flowers, bravos and balloons. Cake (courtesy, it says here, of Ralphs) was served to all and sundry, especially sundry, on the Music Center Plaza.

The festivities were nice. No doubt about it. But, thank goodness, the ballet was the thing.

The ballet was Sir Frederick Ashton’s “La Fille mal Gardee,” a charming, whimsical, wistful concoction that dates back a quarter-century but can trace its choreographic and stylistic roots to 1789. It pretends to be simple and bucolic, even cartoonish, but really deals much of the time in sophisticated verities.

Even when he was cute, Ashton tended to be wise. Even when he was intentionally derivative, he tended to be original. He couldn’t help it.

Despite the archaic French title, “La Fille mal Gardee”--or, if you must, “The Badly Guarded Daughter”--remains a very British ballet. It may owe its outlines to an ancient Gallic revolution, but it makes knowing use of some lofty English traditions, from the music hall and the Christmas pantomime as well as the polite world of toe shoes and tutus.

In retelling the tale of the silly widow who wants her lovely daughter to marry a rich dunce instead of a passionate peasant, Ashton strove for a precarious fusion of folksy diversions and lyrical indulgences.

With a little help from John Lanchbery, who concocted a delicately frothy, blithely anachronistic score from music of Ferdinand Herold, Donizetti, Rossini and other useful ghosts, Ashton somehow made an aesthetic triumph of that precarious fusion.

Los Angeles first saw the work, not long after the world premiere, when the Royal Ballet visited Shrine Auditorium in 1960. The critics were kind, but the audience was small. The fans wanted “Swan Lake.”

Los Angeles saw “La Fille” again in 1979, when the San Francisco Ballet under Michael Smuin brought a reasonable facsimile to Pasadena Civic Auditorium. The critics were kind, but the audiences were tiny. They still preferred “Swan Lake.”

Perhaps the Joffrey version, as staged by Alexander Grant, will turn the popular tide.

A faithful replica of the Royal original, the new production respects all the essential values. The comic-book sets of the late Osbert Lancaster may not convey the pastoral serenity reportedly envisioned by the choreographer, but they continue to frame the action with gentle wit. Lancaster’s costumes, moreover, retain their candy-box sweetness.

Ashton’s bigger-than-life rooster and hens still scratch and preen with cocky bravura. His peasants still execute elegantly intricate rituals with ribbons and Maypoles. His young lovers still explore the possibilities of the ecstatic pas de deux in delightfully unlikely positions and delightfully unexpected places.

The widow-in-drag still needs little coaxing to erupt in a delirious clog dance straight from Lancashire. The heroine’s moronic would-be suitor still wins all hearts when he soars through the mock-stormy sky on his beloved red umbrella.

And so it goes its civilized way. Merrily. Cleverly. Deftly. Gracefully. If anything, familiarity has made the heart grow fonder.

It would be something of an exaggeration to claim that “La Fille” went its way smoothly, however, on this occasion. Everyone involved in the premiere seemed a bit nervous, from the hero who muffed his one-arm lift to the stagehands who omitted a crucial piece of scenery. Still, the basic ingredients were appealing.

Most basic and most appealing, of course, was Stanley Holden, who came out of retirement to re-create the role-- his role--of the Widow Simone.

He kicked her heels, swished her skirts, fluttered her lashes with ultra-demure compulsion. He beamed the most devastating of flirtatious smiles, fidgeted and fussed all over the stage with dazzling nonchalance. And yet he never exaggerated, never stooped to vulgarity, never confused caricature with character. This still is a classic, and classically feminine, performance.

Young Edward Stierle as Alain, the nitwit with the umbrella, did confuse caricature with character. But since he did so with the supervision and obvious blessings of the dancer who created the role, he is absolved of blame. And since he performed with incredible speed, uncanny authority, zany virtuosity and even a trace of pathos, one can forgive him almost anything.

In Tina LeBlanc and David Palmer, Joffrey found a pair of dewy lovers more notable for promise than for polish.

She looked prim and pleasant, executed the leitmotific hops on pointe with cool elan, rose neatly to the loftiest technical challenge, yet conveyed little mischievous allure and less rapture. He demonstrated all the skills of a superior heroic firebrand and an attentive partner, but didn’t always focus those skills with temporal clarity or dramatic force.

Never mind. There is time.

Paul Shoemaker blustered amiably as Alain’s prosperous papa. The resident fowl strutted with fine barnyard bravado and the assorted villagers suggested that their pervasive caution will give way to verve at any moment.

Allan Lewis and a splendid ad hoc orchestra tended affectionately to Lanchbery’s inspired mishmash in the pit.