Dance : A Success Story for Ballet by the Bay

Three years ago, the San Francisco Ballet was a company at the crossroads. It also was a company in trouble.

Founded in 1938, it had come a long way from being a scrappy, regional enterprise languishing in the shadow of the younger New York City Ballet, American Ballet Theatre and the Joffrey. It had managed to build a lavish, glamorous edifice to house its studios and offices. Thanks to canny TV exposure and keen public relations, its visibility quotient had reached new peaks. The ensemble, though patently uneven, danced an eclectic repertory with gutsy aplomb and infectious high spirits.

Unfortunately, Michael Smuin, the primary artistic director and chief choreographer, had managed to stress show-biz theatrics to a degree that antagonized some of the press and public, not to mention key portions of his own board and administration. The problem festered for a while. Then the acrimony could be read in headlines.

Eventually, Smuin lost what turned out to be a fatal power struggle. Enter Helgi Tomasson.

An Icelandic danseur noble with royal Danish inclinations and solid Balanchine credentials, he promised to introduce a consistent element of class to ballet by the bay. Flamboyance, for its own sake, was out. Refinement, after a fashion, was in.

Tomasson wasted no time in making changes. He dismissed some dancers of dubious merit, brought in some imposing fresh talent. He bolstered the training staff and devoted an in-depth effort to the polishing of technique and to the perfection of style.

Contractual and/or moral obligations kept some of the controversial Smuin ballets on view for a while. It can be no coincidence, however, that none are on the agenda this season.

As could be predicted, Tomasson brought with him much of the essential Balanchine aesthetic. But, being an enlightened individualist, the new director steadfastly resisted turning the San Francisco Ballet into the Western edition--or imitation--of the New York City Ballet.

In some ways, Tomasson instituted conservative values. Despite the occasional avant-garde experiment, he pointed the repertory comfortably in the direction of Establishment tradition. Next month, he will stage an ambitious new production of “Swan Lake.” If it turns out to be a success, “Giselle” probably cannot linger far behind. The moment obviously has arrived when lofty comparisons need not be feared.

One senses an air of contentment around the War Memorial Opera House these days. The audience may not fill the 3,200-seat hall at every performance. Nevertheless, it is remarkably discerning and enthusiastic. Box-office receipts reportedly are good enough to warrant long-deferred internal optimism and, a visitor is assured, morale among the dancers has never been higher.

Even the New York press, normally loath to acknowledge anything of artistic significance that doesn’t happen to occur at the core of the Big Apple, has bestowed critical benediction. Funding, both public and private, is going nicely, with the New York Times now joining the roster of so-called corporate collaborators and the E. L. Wiegand Foundation donating $239,000 just for “Swan Lake.”

A recent Far East tour created the expected ambassadorial fanfares and flourishes. The current season, one of the longest in history, has been extended to include 69 performances.

Under the circumstances, no one could be surprised to learn that Tomasson’s contract has just been renewed. He will be around until, at the very least, July, 1990. Everyone seems happy.

Three different mixed bills, seen on consecutive days last weekend, offered a reasonable gauge of that happiness. The company as a whole retained the exuberance of yore, but projected that estimable quality with a new-found combination of suavity and strength. Several of the principals and soloists resembled bona-fide stars. Despite some qualitative vagaries, the programs reflected a healthy fusion of innovation and convention.

At least two important elements usually slighted by other major companies, moreover, were treated with luxurious respect here. The $1 program magazine, edited by William Huck, provided a meticulously researched, exhaustive compendium of background information. Even more impressive, perhaps, the youthful ballet orchestra--a full-time resident orchestra--played even the most demanding symphonic scores with virtuosic elegance under the knowing leadership of Denis de Coteau.

The Friday-night festivities were dominated by a rare Balanchine export, “Ballo della Regina.” Created in 1978 for Merrill Ashley--who, in turn, traveled west to set it on Evelyn Cisneros--it is a neo-classical showpiece that reduces the inane and incidental ballet music from Verdi’s “Don Carlos” to abstract dazzle. Cisneros made it marvelously mercurial abstract dazzle. Her poised, radiant, eminently stellar performance was nicely supported and fleetly complemented by her partner, Anthony Randazzo.

The same program ended with the brashly enigmatic, mildly comic, Dada-esque meanderings and caricature strokes of William Forsythe’s “New Sleep” (1987). Tracy Kai-Maier and dedicated colleagues executed tricky, hocus-pocus, athletic-balletic maneuvers and attendant saucy poses with steely precision. Tom Willems’ electronic score sounded like regurgitation of the stuff that accompanied silent images on movie-palace organs. Forsythe’s dramatic lighting scheme flicked and flashed around the dancers with bold invention.

One couldn’t be sure what the thing meant. One didn’t necessarily care. But it was amusing.

The works in the middle proved less engrossing. Lew Christensen’s “Jinx” re-introduced a hoary circus allegory by a San Francisco pioneer very much of another era. It may have looked profound in 1942. In the cool light of 1988, notwithstanding the wonderful “Frank Bridge” score of Benjamin Britten, it merely looked portentous.

Jim Sohm portrayed the ominous clown with the broken heart. Wendy Van Dyck was the wily tightrope-walker, Jamie Zimmerman the sympathetic bearded lady. They did what they could.

The bravura of the inevitable “Corsaire” pas de deux was approximated by a rather ill-matched pair of obvious audience-favorites: Ludmila Lopukhova, formerly of Leningrad, and Jean-Charles Gil, formerly of Marseilles.

The Saturday matinee opened with another dated ode to Christensen’s historic influence. “Scarlatti Portfolio” (1979). On the surface, it remains a cute, cute, cute commedia dell’arte charade. But the sexist elements--a grotesque drag-queen number and a nasty duettino in which Arlequin does a lot of hilarious yanking of Columbine’s hair--tend to offend. Benjamin Lee’s lush orchestrations of the lean musical inspirations seem hopelessly anachronistic. The most compelling element in the exercise turned out to be Andre Reyes’ acrobatic manipulation of Arlequin’s ‘oop.

One of Michael Smuin’s most memorable contributions to San Francisco involved the acquisition of works by Frederick Ashton. On this occasion, the company revived “Monotones, I and II” (1966, 1965). The local trios didn’t quite re-create the unison fluidity we have appreciated in performances by the Royal Ballet and the Joffrey; still, the essential tone of muted sensuality emerged intact.

The best came last, with James Kudelka’s bold setting of the Schumann Second Symphony, “Dreams of Harmony” (1987). This is a kaleidoscopic piece in which groups of soloists, masquerading as corps, execute bravura maneuvers in lines that ebb, flow and intertwine with marvelously expansive point. The early movements, utilizing men alone, provide a heroic frame for the subsequent acts of fluid aggression introduced by the woman.

The choreographer’s command of melodic indulgence, grandiose form and contrapuntal exchange makes him an almost-worthy foil for the composer. That says a lot.

Tomasson opened the Sunday-evening performance with his own “Ballet d’Isoline,” first performed by the New York City Ballet in 1983. A sensitive realization of the airy, ultra-Gallic music of Messager, it speaks Balanchine’s basic body language with quirky, lyrical charm. It also provides especially grateful opportunities for a flying imp (in this case, Reyes) and a bravura-oriented duo (in this case, the blithely extrovert Lopukhova and a promising, somewhat tentative newcomer, Mikko Nissinen, who tried earnestly to efface memories of Suzanne Farrell and Peter Martins).

The program notes for “The Sons of Horus” (1985), a novelty by the fashionable British Wunderkind David Bintley, suggested all manner of complexity and quaint mysticism. This, we were told, is a ballet concerned with the ancient Egyptians, their belief in the separation and preservation of mummies’ body parts, their quest for a spiritual afterlife, their symbolic journey through a “field of reeds,” and the mythic creatures who traditionally guard the viscera: the falcon protecting the intestines, the ape protecting the lungs, the jackal protecting the stomach, etc., etc., etc.

It all seems very deep. Bintley’s slick choreography, aligned with Peter McGowan’s cinematic music, doesn’t.

The work is effective on easy, superficial terms. It deals in kinetic patterns of hypnotic propulsion and ever-changing density. It provides each of the “animal” dancers with a characteristic, cartoonish maneuver that looks witty and clever. It occasionally quotes old balletic antecedents with a wink. It makes an affecting case for exotic rituals and frieze-like poses.

Alas, not much happens.

The performance was brilliant. Joanna Berman conveyed the stoic agonies of Isis with quiet power. Lawrence Pech, remembered for his undervalued career at Ballet Theatre, flapped his figurative wings magnificently as the soaring falcon. Christopher Stowell lumbered deftly, dragging his arms, as the ape. Christopher Boatwright, remembered for his brief stint with the Los Angeles Ballet, exuded authority as the superhuman charged with preserving the liver. Simon Dow sketched the noblest of jackals.

The communal journey to the field of reeds was undeniably picturesque. One couldn’t be sure, however, that it was necessary.

Balanchine’s “Rubies” (1967)--danced with fine pizazz by Cisneros, Maier and a not very idiomatic Gil--sent everyone home in a mood of glitzy cheer. It always does.

And so San Francisco moves on, swiftly and bravely, to Rothbart’s lake. The prospect is intriguing, and promising. The timing is right.