Unerring Eros
Mark Morris brings Sylvia up to date, brilliantly.

By Rita Felciano

CAN YOU MAKE a 21st-century ballet with woodland nymphs and country swains and have it be neither sappy nor campy? You can if you're Mark Morris. No one else (and there have been a half dozen other attempts) should even try. Morris has infused a very slight tale – about an abducted maiden, jealous gods, and thwarted love – with humanity, wit, and passion. Not to mention some great dancing. In other words, if you've never set foot inside the War Memorial Opera House, now's the time to do so. San Francisco Ballet's glorious Sylvia, a Morris world premiere, is worth every cent you'll spend.

Morris claims he first was attracted to the work by Léo Delibes's music composed in 1876. Tchaikovsky has written that he changed his approach to composing for ballet after he saw a production of Sylvia. Delibes's score comes with high recommendations, yet on its own, it's thin and at times ponderous, despite the composer's undeniable gift for melody. (Delibes also wasn't above stealing from everyone around him, starting with Wagner.) It's Morris's genius – a word I don't throw around – that allowed him to take what is essentially a hollow shell and fill it to the point of overflowing.

Morris's Sylvia affirms love and eroticism as joyously positive life forces. Sylvia (Yuan Yuan Tan) is a wood nymph dedicated to the virgin cult of Diana (Muriel Maffre). Aminta (Gonzalo Garcia) is a shepherd who has fallen in love with Sylvia; Orion (Yuri Possokhov) is a brutish lecher who also wants her. Aminta and Sylvia are united thanks to meddling Eros (Jaime Garcia Castilla), who points out to Diana that her wrath at Sylvia's betrayal is somewhat hypocritical, since Diana isn't quite as virginal as she proclaims to be.

When the curtain opens, a statue of Eros benignly watches over wood and water nymphs being pursued by rambunctious satyrs. There's playfulness but also longing as these creatures of nature give in to their own and each other's bodies. A completely different sensuality pervades the world of Sylvia and her virginal nymphs: they jog as well as jeté. Still, Eros's presence cannot be denied, even if instead of prayers, the women send kicks in his direction. During the Slow Waltz, Sylvia gently sways on a swing as the women undo each other's hair. It's a softly idyllic picture of an all-female society, perhaps godfathered by Balanchine's water ballet in The Goldwyn Follies.

Morris plays much of the Orion's cave-set second act – in which Sylvia holds her beastly suitor at bay by getting everyone drunk – like a silent-movie melodrama, except that his imperiled maiden hits back with force. Tan, who can be excessively self-absorbed, here is both feisty and vulnerable. Morris keeps the action going and makes the most of the Dance of the Slaves for Orion's hilariously bestial and toothless minions.

Morris adds a few drag queen touches to the Eros figure, who – moving through magician and pirate disguises – gets the ballet's most technically demanding dancing. But brutish Orion is probably Morris's best creation. The two figures stand at opposite poles: one is all artifice, the other inchoate. Orion's primitive urge is something he can neither understand nor control. Possokhov plays him close to tragedy. Though uproarious when pounding his weapon and fumbling for the unattainable, he's heartbreaking when – in a drunken stupor – he's plastered against a huge rock that, like his needs, looks like it's about to squash him.

The last act, performed in brilliant sunshine in front of Diana's temple, is a classic divertissement. (Delibes's use of the newly invented saxophone for the arrival of the slave ship – which returns Sylvia in disguise – works wonderfully.) As he does throughout, Morris choreographs this act straightforwardly but with a wink to the audience. One of the two toy heralds (Ruben Martin and Garen Scribner), for instance, is an apprentice in the company, so Morris has him stumble. Morris slowly leads to the Pas de Deux, the classic ballet's high point, and fragments it, breaking it up with dancing by slave women and local citizen celebrants. The foreplay in the veil dance takes so long that you fear for the climactic recognition scene. Yet it works. The lovers embrace – by fusing palms. The gesture feels like a prayer. Garcia's joyous exuberance, which always enlivens his technical prowess, has never been better used than in this ballet, in which he grows from pining youth to loving and loved human being. 'Sylvia' runs through Sun/9. Wed. and Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Thurs., 7:30 p.m.; Sat.-Sun., 2 p.m., War Memorial Opera House, 301 Van Ness, S.F. $8-$132. (415) 865-2000.