DTH performed under the banner of cultural diversity before the term was invented, and their opening programme at the Wells is typically ambitious in its range. Starting from Balanchine's Serenade, which laid down the first principles of American neoclassicism in 1934, and ending with Michael Smuin's elegy for native Americans, this triple bill covers all the bases, from European-bred ballet to political dance theatre.
But variety is not an automatic virtue and the big issue is obviously whether any company can convincingly stake out so wide a terrain. Balanchine at least is a choreographer with whom DTH have grown up, and Tuesday's cast performed Serenade with a clear sense of ownership. Despite technical weakness - slack footwork that rode roughshod over the faster passages, and some unnerving wobbles in the men's partnering - I liked the dancers' rhythmic attack and their dramatic relishing of the climaxes.
It would have added up to a fresh and assertive performance by any standards, except that it was lumbered with a terrible tape recording of Tchaikovsky' accompanying score. When the music is played live a complicity is forged between dance and orchestra that animates and expands the whole piece. With canned music, however, Serenade's artfully spun surface looks wrinkled and dull, and however much energy the dancers pump into it, the subtle mysteries of the piece flag.
The luscious Massenet that accompanies Frederick Ashton's Thais gets the same canned treatment, though here the dancers themselves don't really know what they are doing. This romantic slither of piece should be as elegant and evanescent as the titular heroine's veil. Tuesdays cast made it look like a crude piece of exotica.
It was a relief finally to see the company in Smuin's A Song for Dead Warriors, which is exactly the kind of work they do best. It tells the story of a young native American who draws on the strength of his warrior ancestors to avenge his girlfriend's murder at the hands of a white policeman.
The ballet's designers have crammed the stage with epic effects: images of dead native heroes and swirling dry ice loom over the boys head, and a herd of woolly buffalos thunder at his back. Smuin's choreography is equally crammed with showstopping jumps and splashy duets, and the dancers get to beam out all their virtuosity and theatrical brio unhampered.
Even though the work's excesses now look dated, DTH honour it by dancing as though it were made yesterday.
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