DANCE REVIEW : Cracking a ‘Hard Nut’ in Brooklyn

NEW YORK —  Skip the candy canes. Forget the sugarplums. Don’t even think about a canvas Christmas tree growing before our wondrous eyes.

This is Mark Morris’ bubblegum version of “The Nutcracker.” Version? Call it a delirious yet enlightened deconstruction.

Actually, the inspired--and apparently inspiring--bad boy of modern choreography calls it “The Hard Nut,” partly because it is just that and partly because the scenario incorporates a related E.T.A. Hoffmann tale of that now-ambiguous title.

This, dear children, is a “Nutcracker” for people who have never sampled the holiday sweet before. More important, perhaps, this is a “Nutcracker” for people who have sampled the sticky old thing too often. That, incidentally, makes it an ideal “Nutcracker” for churls like me.

Morris created it a year ago as the valedictory installment of his controversial tenure at the Theatre de la Monnaie in Brussels. The cartoon ballet received its U.S. premiere this weekend as part of the Next Wave Festival at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. An oddly abridged version will be telecast nationally on Wednesday as part of PBS’ “Dance in America” series.

The idea for this unorthodox project reportedly came from none less than Mikhail Baryshnikov, who, in the spirit of Morris’ sexual obfuscation, offered to play little Marie. Cooler heads prevailed, and he was eventually scheduled to play the prince, but an injury reportedly kept him out of the cast.

Never mind. “The Hard Nut” requires no star turns. It is a star turn.

It is good, relatively clean fun. It also happens to be drastically irreverent.

Morris knows what he is doing when he takes liberties with tradition and, unlike many an innovator in the muddled world of contemporary dance, he does it brilliantly. He is witty and stylish, wildly original and unabashedly vulgar in an elegant way.

In “The Hard Nut,” he filters romantic kitsch through the not-so-heavy metal glitz of suburban pop culture in the 1960s. The stark yet lavish designs--linear sets created by Adrianne Lobel, rainbow costumes by Martin (“Lucia” at the Met) Pakledinaz--reflect the creepy comic-book sensibility of Charles Burns.

Morris’ “Nut” pays strict attention to Tchaikovsky, but still manages to be tacky, nasty, brassy and delicately decadent. He turns the Stahlbaum living room into a plastic nightmare equipped with decor strictly from K mart. The sassy kiddies (played, thank goodness, by grown-ups) are TV addicts, and the glow of burning embers emanates not from a fireplace--there is none--but from a convenient VCR.

Mama Stahlbaum turns out to be an adorably giddy matron who just happens to have some oddly masculine features. The party guests are crude dudes of both genders outfitted in outrageous bell bottoms, riotous polyester minidresses and klutzy platform shoes.

When the guests gotta dance, gotta dance, they do the hokey-pokey, not to mention the stroll, the hesitation and the bump. Somehow, Piotr Ilyich doesn’t seem to mind.

The soldiers who battle those infernal rats are muscle-bound GI Joes. The favored doll is, natch, a Barbie. The dramatis personae further include a robot, a dentist, a sly, tippy-toe nursemaid to end all nursemaids, and numerous satirical strangers in the national dance paradise of Act II.

The corps de ballet? Unisex Snowflakes of various anatomical types, definitions and persuasions model fluffy tutus and waltz on pointe, impeccably punctuating the climactic beats by tossing handfuls of white confetti into a black blizzard. Later, a similar band does its droopy thing impersonating barefoot flowers who, at one delicate moment, lie on their flexible backs to mock-moon the folks out front.

They do so, incidentally, under the emblem of a huge pink rose. The florid image makes the viewer wonder why our sexist language yields no feminine equivalent of phallic symbol.

Morris and his cohorts muster their share of nifty magic tricks: a hypnotic spiral spins on the backdrop at transformation time, and remote-control rodents with electric eyes stalk the boards.

Nevertheless, the choreographer wants none of the usual hocus-pocus gimmicks. He drafts a pair of nonchalant stagehands to stroll on and wheel off the fake Christmas tree, soon to be replaced by a matter-of-fact drop curtain. The same gentlemen come back later as dressers who help Princess Perlipat change back into the clothes of a hormonally overcharged teen-ager. The audience, invariably eager to suspend disbelief in one way or another, is amused.

Morris’ choreographic ideas--like Ivanov’s and Vainonen’s and Baryshnikov’s and, just maybe, Balanchine’s--tend to thin out a bit in the diversions of never-neverland. His climactic kissy-face pas de deux for Marie (who takes off her bunny slippers at last) and her cavalier looks almost as if it were intended for a couple of dreamy kids named Laurie and Curly. His sardonic fairy-tale detour is not structurally sound.

None of this matters much. Despite occasional disparities and lapses, Morris wins all hearts--well, most hearts--with dauntless invention reinforced by dynamic sensitivity. “The Hard Nut” serves as a bracing antidote to ritual goo.

The performance on Sunday afternoon elicited a lot of whooping and hollering, all of it justified. Morris himself made two delectable cameo appearances: Sporting a formidable Afro, he staggered about the stage as a supersleazy supermacho party guest; he returned voluptuously in Act II wearing a veil, diaphanous robe and delicate ankle jewels as an Arabian harem danseuse . For reasons unknown, the latter episode will be omitted in the telecast.

His prime scene-stealing allies included Peter Wing Healey as the robustly befuddled Mrs. Stahlbaum, Kraig Patterson as the tough maid in itty-bitty toe shoes, Tina Fehlandt as lusty little Louise, Marianne Moore as bratty little Fritz, and Keith Sabado as a genuinely miraculous mandarin.

Rob Besserer appeared suavely charismatic as Drosselmeyer. Jean-Guillaume Weis was his debonair nephew, a.k.a. Nutcracker prince. Clarice Marshall generated a more-than-reasonable facsimile of feverish innocence as the more-than-usually troubled Marie.

Donald York conducted the excellent Brooklyn Philharmonic Orchestra with obvious respect for the composer and apparent affection for the choreographer.

If the world needed yet another edition of Tchaikovsky’s yuletide perennial for the centenary celebrations, this must be the right one. Mark Morris will be a hard nut to follow.