Few signs of heat in a mixed bill at New York City Ballet

Heatscape, a 2015 work set originally on Miami City Ballet, made its New York City Ballet debut last week – another in a long line of Justin Peck’s sprightly ballets that democratize the ensemble, merging principals with the corps. Suggestions of an oppressive Floridian climate were limited to the elegant take on tennis whites by Reid & Harriet, whose clean lines were confounded by a fussy backdrop dominated by a red sunburst, the work of Shepard Fairey, whose agit-prop chic most famously graced the HOPE poster associated with Barack Obama’s 2008 presidential campaign.

Heat phenomena were concentrated in two duets amid long stretches of bustling yet tepid choreography for the ensemble that, in trademark Peck style, had them peel out of and back into circular formations. It kicked off with a frieze of dancers in silhouette who raced downstage to welcome us to their carefree world. Peck’s ensemble work seems invariably dedicated to convincing us that a ballet company is like one big happy family. Having watched ‘Black Swan’ and ‘Étoile’, we are skeptical.

In a lovely nod to Swan Lake, Roman Mejia spotted Alexa Maxwell then lost her amid a phalanx of dancers. United, the pair romped vivaciously through the first movement. The minutes only stopped ticking, however, when Mira Nadon and Chun Wai Chan were onstage in the middle solemn movement. Truly one of the great duets in ballet history, this deserves to be preserved in isolation. 

Oboe, strings and piano from Martinů’s first piano concerto ebbed and flowed like a calm but mighty river as energy flowed through Nadon’s long limbs with a gorgeous plastique. Paired with the elegant Chan, she launched into the air on a diagonal trajectory, only for him to pull her back gently, over and over, to gorgeous effect, so that she seemed to be following a curved orbit. Joined by the ensemble, they hopped on pointe with arms en couronne in a heavenly glimmer of Balanchine’s Concerto Barocco.

Heavenly, too, was the standout piece on the otherwise lackluster mixed bill, Ulysses Dove’s Red Angels from 1994, set to the ferocious howl of Richard Einhorn’s ‘Maxwell’s Demon’ for solo electric violin – played in 1994 and today by the extraordinary Mary Rowell.

Sheathed in low-cut laced-up fire engine red unitards, occupying tight spotlights, Taylor Stanley, Mira Nadon, Jules Mabie and Ashley Hod danced dangerously. Appearing mostly solo, occasionally partnered, they glided, undulated, twitched and preened for each other, stabbed one pointe into the ground in a deep knee bend, and whipped around in fouettés. The sequences were diabolical and jagged, the execution sinewy and silky. Stanley finished a fast spin by diving into a steep arabesque penchée. Mabie ended a warp speed sequence with a balance, one leg held in a high extension to the side. Come Nadon’s turn, the stage outside her spotlight was bathed in red, like a pool of blood. She was all slashing extensions and control, her leg making an impressively slow descent from a high arabesque relevé. Toward the end, each dancer took their turn striding down an imaginary runway through a narrow portal of light. It was unexpected, fierce and exhilarating.

Gianna Reisen’s Signs opened the program, making a slighter impression than on first viewing. Originally set on students at the School of American Ballet, the movements resonate with a youthful ungainliness and casualness, which was novel the first time around. One move that remained breathtaking on second viewing was the running jump to the partner’s shoulder, upon which the woman put her hand up to shade her eyes and scanned the horizon. Mary Thomas MacKinnon, partnered with Harrison Coll, gave this cryptic sequence a dramatic read. Olivia Bell commanded her peers with a dry wit. Victor Abreu made every step count, no matter how trifling. And Mia Williams made her grand allegro even grander, to be carried off by Abreu in a thrilling overhead lift in which she made one giant vertical arrow with her petite frame aimed skywards.

Signs may not have staying power in rep. Then again, why is a ballet like Zakouski still around after 33 years? Seven years after Peter Martins’ departure under a cloud, the company continues to present his work, including the clunkers. 

This great mystery aside, Megan Fairchild, in her farewell season, did what she could, with the aid of Joseph Gordon. In the most ghastly of ruffled and bejeweled dresses, she tilted her head and cast her eyes downward to wrest some drama from the leaden choreography. Snippets of Rachmaninoff and compatriots inspired Martins to flavor his work with Russian folk steps but all that toe tapping, foot flicking and thigh slapping fell flat. As did Fairchild at one point. She bounced back up and launched into a cyclone of turns and lightning-fast petit allegro with her trademark sunniness.