Dream a Little Dream

On watching “Midsummer Night’s Dream” at New York City Ballet

One of the casts of Midsummer Night’s Dream at New York City Ballet: Alston Macgill, Alexa Maxwell, Naomi Corti, Preston Chamblee, KJ Takahashi, Agatha Onishi (page), Daniel Ulbricht, Miriam Miller, Gilbert Bolden III, Sara Adams

It is good to see the seats full at New York City Ballet these days. Some alchemy of programming, buzz, and ticket prices seems to be attracting a plentiful, young-ish audience to the company’s performances. And that audience seems to be enjoying what it sees. The applause for this week’s performances of George Balanchine’s Midsummer Night’s Dream, the final ballet of the season, has been particularly effusive, and the sound of laughter has echoed throughout the ballet, always a good sign. It’s not just the usual automatic standing ovation at the end—people are truly enjoying themselves.

Of course, it is a wonderful ballet. Debates about whether this version of the Shakespeare play or Frederick Ashton’s, which premiered two years later in 1964, seem fruitless. They are both suffused with humor, charm, and a touch of magic. And they are also very different, with contrasting emphases and strengths. Ashton’s is warmer, more interested in the human foibles of the characters, particularly the weakness, occasional peevishness, and bliss with which love infuses their, and our, lives. The final pas de deux, for the fairies Titania and Oberon, explodes with all the trembling emotion and slight ridiculousness that we are capable of when in love, even after years of what the marriage expert Esther Perel calls “mating in captivity.”

Balanchine’s version is cooler in this respect. Titania and Oberon remain slightly remote beings. They never dance with each other; Titania dances two pas de deux, but the first is with an unnamed cavalier, and the second with a man who has been turned into an ass (Bottom). Titania and Oberon’s states of mind are not human, because they are not human–they’re fairies. Nor are the humans in the story, these comic lovers who fight, and make up, terribly poignant, that is, with the exception of Helena, who cries woefully, and wipes away her tears with a leaf provided by Puck, a sprite whom she cannot see. But hers is a generalized sadness—the sadness of all those who feel unloved.

Miriam Miller as Titania, with Bottom. Photo by Paul Kolnik.

Balanchine’s feelings about love are expressed, true to type, through pure dance, in a pas de deux during the story-less second act, after the narrative has come to an end. Accompanied by the limpid slow movement of Mendelssohn’s Ninth Symphony, so reminiscent of Mozart, two nameless dancers perform a diaphanous duet that feels as if it were sustained by a single breath. Four times, reflecting repetitions in the music, they trace a diagonal from upstage left to downstage right, circling their arms slowly, like the hands of time, or revolving around each other, like planets on separate but related orbits. It is an image of perfect harmony, in which each partner is given maximum space in which to extend and radiate. In its final moments, the woman, tilted backward in her partner’s arms, unfurls one leg as her partner slowly pulls her upward and forward until she is perfectly balanced on one pointe, then gently tilts her off-balance, catching her as she floats downward on the other side. Her arc is like the trajectory of the sun across the sky, from sunrise to sunset.

Megan Fairchild and Chun Wai Chan in the divertissement pas de deux. Photo by Erin Baiano.

It is curious that Balanchine chose to detach his ideas about love from the characters in the story, whose dramas, such as they are, all occur in the first act. But what a first act! Here, the action moves, breathlessly, from beginning to end, in swift, interlocking scenes, using cinematic techniques: freeze frames, replays, lighting effects that move us from one part of the forest to another, moments that feel as if they were sped up, closeups, and a final, magical dissolve in which the walls of a ballroom disappear, melting away until we find ourselves back in the forest, the realm of magic. The only slack spot is that first pas de deux which I feel goes on, and on, and on.

And then there are the kids. Twenty-five of them counting Titania’s tiny page, all from the School of American Ballet, swirling and running, flapping their little arms like wings. They are the first ones onstage, and the last, animating the space, filling it with their eagerness and nervous energy. And they are astonishingly good, always where they’re supposed to be, with the precision of a corps de ballet but the un-studied élan of a swarm.

The action begins with a marital spat. Titania and Oberon, king and queen of the fairies, fight over possession of the diminutive page. Titania refuses to concede, and this sets up Oberon’s revenge, in which he sprinkles her with a love potion that causes her to fall in love with an ass. Each character is presented in turn. Oberon, through a flickering, silvery solo full of beaten jumps, as the little butterflies and bugs flitter around him. His feet seem to never touch the ground. Puck crawls and creeps and flickers through the forest. Titania dances a surprisingly tender pas de deux with Bottom, in which she decorates one of his ears with a garland of flowers and brings him grass to nibble. He is torn between his admiration for her, and his even greater admiration for grass. The human lovers fall in love, fight, cry. And then a giant, magical storm erupts (shades of The Tempest), causing all the threads of the story to unravel and then be tied up in a neat bow. At the end, peace reigns, harmony is established.

I saw three different casts. Unity Phelan was best in the pas de deux with Bottom; elsewhere in the ballet she went in and out of focus, as she often does, relying too heavily on her beauty, and not enough on her interpretation of the choreography, to convey the story and her state of mind. She also has a tendency to thwack her limbs, perhaps because she is so loose-limbed, so that the movements lose their contour and shape. Miriam Miller seemed to bask in her own glow, creating a dreamy, expansive Titania, imbued with a beatific softness. With her more controlled and yet still free use of her legs, and the lilt and sway of her upper body, she created waves and swoops of movement you could feel in your own body. The billowing of the fabric of her dress reminded me of Loie Fuller. Sara Mearns was authoritative and slightly wry at the start, but soon gave into the rush of movement, diving into her arabesques and swoons in the first pas de deux with abandon, and then glowing with delight in the pas de deux with Bottom.

Anthony Huxley as Oberon. Photo by Erin Baiano.

Huxley, Mearns’s Oberon, danced with taste, brilliance, and finesse. Lately he has developed a greater stage presence as well. His Oberon is elegant, and noble, like his dancing; his clean, fluid transitions are particularly impressive, though I sometimes wish there were a little bit more separation, or punctuation, between one idea and the next. Ulbricht, who joined the company 24 years ago, is still in impeccable form: excellent beats, deep plié, spot-on turns. And he engages everyone onstage, as if acknowledging that he is part a whole world, in which everyone plays a part. (Ulbricht, who is on the shorter side, was paired with the very tall Miriam Miller.) Joseph Gordon, who danced with Unity Phelan, had speed and force, but seemed unsure of how, exactly, he wanted to play the character.

Daniel Ulbricht as Oberon. Photo by Paul Kolnik.

Of the three Pucks, my favorite was Taylor Stanley, who creates a character that is very much a creature of the forest, a sprite, androgynous and shape-shifting, moving on the very tips of the toes, with an elfin smile. KJ Takahashi, more comic and sharp, almost like a Disney character, exhibited wonderful timing, and beautiful jumps, in his début. Only Roman Mejía seemed slightly unsuited to the role. Though he jumps high and moves quickly, he has more of a leading man personality, and had trouble fitting into the fairy mold. You felt he wanted to charm you rather than focus on his mischievous duties.

Taylor Stanley (Puck) and Preston Chamblee (Bottom). Photo by Erin Baiano.

Where the company should invest more time is in the coaching of the lovers. Here the tone varied widely. Some, like Erica Pereira (Hermia), were too vague. Others, like Ashley Bouder (Helena), too emphatic.  Sara Adams, Davide Riccardo (a début), and Alec Knight got it just right, with a broad but not excessive characterization that was vivid and humorous, without tipping into cartoonishness. Both Alexa Maxwell (a début) and Mira Nadon were extraordinary as Helena, a woman jilted by her lover, Maxwell touchingly vulnerable, Nadon fluid, floating, as if lost in her own thoughts. She has a way of making even the smallest gesture read.

As Butterfly, Alston Macgill (a début) was sprightly and quick, without being ingratiating, pausing slightly in rélévés as if to create a tiny breath between phrases. Naomi Corti (a début) and Emily Kikta flew boldly across the stage as Hippolyta. I liked Corti’s slightly softer take on the role. And Gilbert Bolden III made a remarkably strong impression both as Bottom and as a gracious King Theseus, depicting him as a monarch who takes real interest in the other characters. He is one of the best actors in the company, as well as a fine partner.

All of which brings us back to that lilting pas de deux in the second act—Balanchine’s illustration of the perfect balance between two humans in the universe. After a slight partnering blip at the start, Megan Fairchild gave one of the most expansive, poetic, and present performances I have ever seen from her: relaxed, buoyant, joyful, as if basking in the spareness of the movement, and allowing herself to be carried along by the sustained melody in the strings. Her partner was Chun Wai Chan (a début), slightly cautious, slightly recessive, but a stalwart, reassuring presence. The tilt at the end took my breath away. Fairchild seemed truly to be diving through time and space.

The most effortless partnership, unsurprisingly, was that of Tiler Peck and Tyler Angle, who have danced the pas de deux many times before. He was more present than Chan, and the two dancers sought each other with their eyes. Here, too, the end was perfectly coordinated, calm, stirring. It seems churlish to say, but at times Peck plays a little bit too much with the music, enlarging each step with an extra tilt of the head or playing with the give and take of a phrase. But the pas de deux doesn’t need it—it speaks for itself.

Brooks Landegger and Taylor Naturkas from Miami City Ballet in George Balanchine’sAMidsummer Night’s Dream.Photo by Erin Baiano

The third pair consisted of Taylor Naturkas and Brooks Landegger, two guests from Miami City Ballet, which also performs Balanchine’s Midsummer. She is a principal soloist, he a soloist. Both have been in the company only a few years, and are full of promise. Neither had danced the pas de deux before. Imagine the pressure! They danced with the modesty, freshness, and clarity characteristic of the Miami dancers. It’s not about them, they seem to be saying, but about the choreography.  The two looked happiest in the allegro sections of the second act, where they seemed to glide together across the stage. Landegger’s turns were excellent.  The pas de deux was also beautifully and musically danced. But, unsuprisingly, they looked a tiny bit tense. The partnering in this pas de deux, one tends to forget, is incredibly tricky and very exposed. The look of effortlessness is hard-won. With time, Naturkas and Landegger will surely reach a level of ease that will allow them to let go and give full rein to their imagination, delving into the ideas behind the choreography. Still, as a one-off, it was impeccable.

A note on the music, by Mendelssohn. Balanchine used the incidental music from Midsummer Night’s Dream, plus two overtures, from Athalie and The Fair Melusine, and The First Walpurgis Night (for the storm), as well as three movements from the ninth symphony (for the act II divertissement). All of this music has that endlessly flowing, unspooling  energy that characterizes Mendelssohn. It’s a wonderful score. But at New York City Ballet, the tempo of the opening is just too fast; you can hear the orchestra straining to keep up, and the strings aren’t always clean. More generally, there is little room for subtlety, and a lot of the dynamics are too loud. Over the course of the evening there were a couple of alarming notes from the horn section and woodwinds, too. Things came off better at the third performance I saw, with Andrews Sill at the helm (the other two had been conducted by Andrew Litton). But whether this is the result of not enough rehearsal or of interpretation, the score, and the ballet, deserves better.

But nothing, not even a few bleats from the pit, can spoil Midsummer Night’s Dream. Afterwards we are all, like Puck, merry wanderers of the night.