BALLET REVIEW : Bocca, Yeager Dance ABT ‘Don Quixote’

The fancy American Ballet Theatre production of “Don Quixote” first materialized a decade ago. It has seen a lot of action in the interim. Merrily glitzy action. Violently vicissitudinous action.

The choreographic scheme of Mikhail Baryshnikov, after Petipa and Gorsky, has been blown up, readjusted to accommodate a motley parade of protagonists, ultimately trimmed and streamlined for the sake of speed and focus.

The lavish designs of Santo Loquasto--self-conscious fusions of the grandeur of Goya and the chic of Yves St. Laurent--have hit the road most years in all their kitschy glory. The last time around, however, they were ignobly reduced to a few el-cheapo flats and drapes.

Washington and New York first saw the big dancing show (that is the right noun) as a grateful collaborative vehicle for everyone’s favorite ex-Soviet firebrand himself and the mercurial Gelsey Kirkland. Los Angeles first saw it in 1979 with the aristocratically mischievous Anthony Dowell partnering the outrageously, wonderfully indulgent Natalia Makarova.

The latest version, presented Friday night at a sparsely populated Shrine Auditorium, utilized much of the original choreography and most of the original sets.

The central roles were entrusted to Julio Bocca and Cheryl Yeager. Loved him. Liked her.

Bocca, the Argentine wonder who just recently turned 20, doesn’t command a perfect line. Problems persist regarding head placement. His thumping energy and modest height do not automatically make him the danseur noble of one’s dreams.

But watch him gobble up the stage. Watch him ooze nonchalant charm as he embellishes the already difficult bravura turns. Watch him dart through the air with smirking velocity and suddenly change directions in mid-flight, just for the fun of it.

This young man certainly knows how to court the masses. But he does so with a deceptively modest gee-whiz demeanor. He still savors such old-fashioned virtues as consistent characterization, crisp phrasing, careful articulation and, above all, attentive support of his ballerina.

He has already danced Basilio, the brazen barber of La Mancha, with the Kirov and Bolshoi companies, and obviously has learned a thing or two about refined neo-Soviet athleticism. Watch him hint at heroic self-mockery. Watch him stretch for unexpected power in those infamous one-arm lifts. . . .

Yeager did just about everything right as Kitri, the flirtatious should-be vixen who models the central tutu and flutters the emblematic fan. She did just about everything right, that is, up to a point.

She flitted across the stage with ferocious zeal. She flashed a pretty smile, in contrast to a pretty pout. She threw her tiny body into Bocca’s trusty arms with fearless abandon. She reveled in razor-sharp attacks, neatly exaggerated extensions, timeless balances and a final flurry of fouettes that probably could have gone on forever.

But, for all her earnest effort, she gave the impression of a girl sent to do a woman’s job. She remained chronically pert, cutely wholesome, sweetly enthusiastic when Kitri should have been tempestuous, wily, voluptuous. The same qualities that used to make her a beguiling Amour made her a pallid femme fatale.

Entrusted with the current reduction of the street dancer, Christine Dunham exuded just the right aura of sensuous flamboyance. In the last act, this Mercedes unexpectedly inherited the variation of the second Flower Girl from an injured colleague and performed it with willowy elegance.

Ricardo Bustamante flourished the capes of Espada, the mock-matador, with muted macho authority. Amanda McKerrow tripped and twinkled sweetly in the valentine cliches of Amour. Like Danilo Radojevic and Johan Renvall before him, Robert Wallace served notice of a major talent in the feverish bounds allotted the anonymous urchin in Act One.

The character roles were deftly mimed. Victor Barbee, the only major survivor of the original cast, proved that he is still a Gamache without prissy compare. Roman Greller and Thomas Titone dispatched the incidental stances of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza with panache. Michael Owen bumbled agreeably as the innkeeper.

Jack Everly tended appreciatively to the rinky-dink maneuvers of Ludwig Minkus, and friends, in the well-staffed pit.