WEEKEND REVIEWS : Ballet : Bournonville’s ‘Folk Tale’: Royal Danes Go Trolling

It took “A Folk Tale” 141 years to reach the West Coast. But the Royal Danish Ballet made handsome amends for the delay Friday night at the Orange County Performing Arts Center.

August Bournonville’s whimsical fantasy is considered something of a national treasure at home. Now we know why.

The story--a glorious mythological mishmash--involves multilayered intrigues among innocent lovers, nasty trolls, confused changelings, cutesy elves, lofty nobles and pleasant peasants. The narrative brushes gracefully past Hans Christian Andersen on its path to push-button religious uplift.

The sweet, nonstop-sprightly score is a composite effort by Niels W. Gade and J.P.E. Hartmann. It culminates in a lilting, irresistibly sensuous waltz that, we are told, still embellishes many a Danish wedding.

The choreography represents a subtle fusion of not-so-subtle disparities. Bournonville tells his tale in elaborate mime as well as casual gesture.

Moving blithely and swiftly from the natural to the supernatural, the choreographer deals in colorful character indulgences that give way, on occasion, to colorful caricature indulgences. At the end, he allows the convolutions to dissolve in a series of dressed-up folk divertissements that lead to cathartic romantic display. It is lovely.

“A Folk Tale” can seem unabashedly foolish. That is part of its charm. On both sides of the footlights it is important to bear in mind, however, that that pathos always lurks beneath the silly surface.

The essential key to success here is restraint. Bournonville had a penchant for subtlety, whether delineating monsters and witches or heroes and heroines. He cared little for circus routines or contests of muscle power. He wasn’t interested in vulgar virtuosity, though he certainly had nothing against elegant virtuosity. Always guided by the music, he was a gentle giant.

The current production, staged by Anne Marie Vessel and Frank Andersen in 1991, is tasteful. It respects the delicate line that separates primitive fairy tale and sophisticated fable. And, not incidentally, it boasts nice, naive storybook decors designed by none less than Her Majesty Queen Margrethe II of Denmark. (Too bad the Segerstrom Hall stage couldn’t provide the wonted trapdoors for hocus-pocus entrances and exits.)

It is possible that the much-loved production of “A Folk Tale” that preceded the current version in the Royal Danish repertory stressed the conflicts of good and evil with greater clarity. The trolls, in their present guise, exude about as much menace as adorable fugitives from a Maurice Sendak menagerie. It is possible, too, that artists in past performances brought more dramatic flair to their contrasting challenges.

At its local premiere, the action wasn’t always perfectly focused. The motivations sometimes seemed a bit fuzzy, the theatrical projection fussy. Some of the cast didn’t seem inspired to rise above respectful routine.

Part of the interpretive problem could, no doubt, be a matter of style perception. It takes a while to appreciate the force of Bournonville’s muted dynamic scale. Part of the problem might be attributed to timid casting in several not-so-timid roles.

In context, however, the problems mattered little. The Royal Danes brought us an enlightened facsimile of an adorable artifact.

*

The mere mortals were in especially good hands. And feet.

Rose Gad exuded purity and exulted in lyrical expansion as wide-eyed Hilda, the demure maiden abducted at birth by scheming trolls. Lloyd Riggins partnered her with poetic sensitivity as Junker Ove, another brooding hero in temporary conflict with one of those dangerously seductive sororities unique to ballet.

Lise Stripp was a bit bland as Birthe, the tempestuous trollette borne rather than born to the manor. Jette Buchwald popped her eyes and struck dutiful-warrior poses as mean Muri of the underworld.

Alexander Koelpin, matinee idol manque, brought Chaplinesque sympathy to the flat-- not fleet--footed antics of Viderik, the troll with a heart of gold. Lars Damsgaard galoomphed neatly as his nasty brother.

Minor roles were generously cast with such major artists as Kirsten Simone and Eva Kloborg. The resident gypsy-pipsies executed their famous pas de sept in Act Three with folksy elan, and the assembled kiddies (some Danish, some local) did their cuddly things deftly.

Harry Damgaard restored order and even enforced grace on behalf of Gade and Hartmann in the pit. The Pacific Symphony responded to his masterly urgings with enough spirit to compensate for limited finesse.

One left the hall smiling. At last.