DANCE REVIEW : Joffrey Introduces Victorian ‘Nutcracker’

Yes, Virginia, another “Nutcracker.”

Everybody wants to get into this instantly adorable, perennially kitschy, eminently profitable yuletide act. On Peter Ilyich, on Marius, on Lev, on E.T.A., on Dancer, on Prancer. . . .

The Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo led the way for us back in 1940, touring the land with its abridged ode to Tchaikovsky, Ivanov and tippy-toe sugarplums. Staged in the exalted Maryinsky manner by Alexandra Federova, it enlisted such balletic paragons as Alexandra Danilova, Alicia Markova and Andre Eglevsky.

An impressionable young dreamer named Anver Bey Abdullah Jaffa Khan--later known as Robert Joffrey--often saw the show in his native Seattle. On one traumatic occasion, he even found employment as the gondola boy who transports little Clara to the enchanted land of candy.

Willam Christensen gave America its first full-length “Nutcracker” four years later in San Francisco. Balanchine’s classic production--still the gauge for most would-be emulators--

materialized in New York in 1954.

Since then we have endured cartoon versions, neo-Freudian versions, super-fantastic versions, sinister Hoffmannesque versions, cutesy-klutzy kiddie versions, elegantly prissy gotta-dance versions and an endless onslaught of earnest academic versions. Now--from Iowa City and New York, with a little help from a lot a friends and a conspicuous $1.5-million budget--comes the bicoastal Joffrey Ballet version.

No, Ebenezer, not another humbug. Well, not quite.

The new Christmas-card production, which engendered push-button ovations at its Music Center opening on Friday, is listed officially as a “collaboration . . . conceived and directed by Robert Joffrey.” Therein lies a sad tale.

Joffrey had intended to set the work himself on his youthful

ensemble. He wanted to create a distinctly American “Nutcracker,” focusing on prim Victorian manners and an aura of Currier and Ives innocence. He lived to see the premiere on Dec. 10, 1987, but failing health had forced him to farm out the choreographic chores.

George Verdak enforced what he could recall of the fading Ballet Russe tradition. Scott Barnard served as practical terpsichorean intermediary. Gerald Arpino contributed frantic unisex maneuvers for the waltzes of the Snowflakes and Flowers. Balanchine haunted the proceedings like some unacknowledged ghost of Christmas past.

The result, though patently uneven and sometimes numbingly banal, isn’t the stylistic mishmash one might have feared. It has certain unifying factors in its favor: Intimacy, speed, exuberance, naivete, enthusiasm, show-biz pizazz, historic sentiment and--hardly to be discounted in context--an abiding spirit of affectionate dedication.

One can argue about the taste of John David Ridge’s cloying costumes and Oliver Smith’s decors, which tend toward marshmallow rather than marzipan. One can regret the modest growth of the two-dimensional Christmas tree. One can deplore the dehumanizing of Mother Ginger, as elevated by the televisionary Kermit Love to the status of a 14-foot doll.

Still, one can savor ample scenic distractions and conceptual compensations. Clara’s family, friends and toys become specific, reasonably consistent participants in her dream. Drosselmeyer doesn’t evaporate at midnight. A nifty balloon-carriage gives the heroine a climactic ride home. (Never mind that she leaves her beloved but apparently fickle Nutcracker Prince behind with the Sugar Plum Fairy.)

A year ago in New York, the resources of the company seemed unduly stretched by the massive challenge. The dancers performed with far more urgency than suavity, with much sweat but little character. Much of that has changed. Familiarity seems to have bred competence.

There are no star turns in this scheme, but the team effort is definitely winning. Alexander Grant, formerly of the Royal Ballet, offers amiable Robert Helpmann imitations in the hocus-pocus antics of old Drosselmeyer. Tina LeBlanc sparkles deftly in the compact ballerina rituals of the Sugar Plum. Glenn Edgerton partners her nobly as the Nutcracker Prince. Carl Corry doubles him crisply as the Nutcracker Doll (don’t ask me why the role must be split).

For the role of Clara, Joffrey chose a grown-up dancer, the lovely Mary Barton, rather than a child. Unfortunately, no one gave her much to dance. Edward Stierle, however, was encouraged to zip about the stage with nonstop abandon as her mischievous brother Fritz. He returned later as Arpino’s super-mercurial Snow Prince and as an airborne imp in the Chinese Tea divertissement. Leslie Carothers and Douglas Martin graduated appreciatively from Mom and Dad at home to King and Queen in the snow.

The assorted mechanical dolls, soldiers, mice, clowns, confections, familial fossils, flora, fauna and ornamental children did their assorted things with wonted panache. In the well-staffed pit, Allan Lewis tended sensitively--and, thank goodness, swiftly--to the mutual needs of Tchaikovsky and the dancers.

Everything in the production was pink and pretty and heart-warming and nostalgic and cunning and pure as the driven snowflake. Everything was dusted in sugar and cocoa, in resin and saccharine.

The ritual was, of course, chronically sweet. For those who must restrict their intake of calories, it threatened to be terminally sweet.

Oh, well. ‘Tis the season.