BALLET REVIEW : Slimmer ‘Beauty’ in Modern Mode : Peter Martins’ taut ‘Sleeping Beauty’ has lost something in modernization--its magic as well as its leisure.

Once upon a time, dear children, in the dark and distant age when people weren’t in a constant rush, there was a wondrous, slow-moving Russian ballet called “The Sleeping Beauty.” Marius Petipa devised choreography that ennobled every lofty quiver and quaver in Tchaikovsky’s lush score.

This coming-of-age fairy tale on point entailed three acts plus a prologue. It spoke in elaborate mime, observed royal class distinctions and made telling use of formal set pieces set off by rich caractere diversions.

This wasn’t just a quaint romantic exercise, and it certainly wasn’t a kiddie show--the incidental arrival of Puss in Boots in Act Three notwithstanding. It was a poignant, multifaceted exploration of the triumph of goodness over evil--and, even more threatening, the triumph of virtue over the erosion of time.

A lot has been added to “The Sleeping Beauty” in countless productions in numerous countries over the last century. And now, in an elaborate incarnation devised by Peter Martins for the New York City Ballet, a lot has been subtracted.

Martins’ version, introduced amid controversy at Lincoln Center two years ago, owes nearly as much to George Balanchine as it does to Petipa. It retains the romantic outlines of the original, but it concentrates on elements that would have seemed very strange to anyone at the Maryinsky Theater in 1890: speed, concision and abstraction.

As presented at the Orange County Performing Arts Center on Thursday, “The Sleeping Beauty” looked oddly modern. The outline was, of course, familiar. The tone and focus were not.

Boldly reducing the narrative to bald essentials, eliding much of the action, stripping away a lot of mime, wielding an editor’s scissors with fierce determination, Martins insisted on making the sprawling favorite tight and taut at virtually any cost.

The oddly structured result spans only two acts and lasts no more than two hours and 40 minutes, including intermission. It is a terrific ballet for the tired businessperson.

But something has been lost in modernization. This “Beauty” lacks magic as well as leisure.

The difficulties begin with the deletions; more significantly, perhaps, they end with an aura of mechanical execution. There is more duty here than “Beauty.”

Martins doesn’t give the ballet sufficient time or space to cast its wonted spell. Warmth and expansion aren’t his fortes. He allows his neoclassically oriented dancers--more neo, perhaps, than classical--to concentrate on glitter rather than eloquence.

The problems became apparent on Thursday even before the curtain rose. Gordon Boelzner, conducting an excellent orchestra imported from New York, raced through the tender prelude as if he had only one goal: to reach the cadence as quickly as possible. Nostalgia be damned. Tradition, too.

Emotional nuances remained scarce even when the curtain did rise. David Mitchell’s storybook sets and travelogue projections looked more expensive than expressive (the tab for the production, we are told, reached $2.8 million). Patricia Zipprodt’s costly costumes acknowledged the changing epochs nicely, yet sometimes confused gaudiness with elegance.

At least Martins didn’t tamper much with the hit numbers. He’s no fool.

The Rose Adagio was intact. The final pas de deux still had its notorious fishdives. The show-off Bluebird and his princess still did their fluttery thing. The celebrated Garland Dance, inherited from Balanchine, was placed at last in its proper context.

The choreographer-director did reduce the court dances, however, and he pared the hunt scene to a fleeting flourish. He did away with those ominous knitting women, deprived the prince of his customary sarabande interpolation, and minimized the flamboyance of the wicked Carabosse.

Martins’ most notable contributions included a suite of “Jewel” dances in the last act that respectfully echo Balanchine models, a nifty trio for leaping mini-jesters (to music intended for Tom Thumb) and a rather fatuous finale in which King Florestan and his Queen abdicate the throne--for reasons unknown--in favor of Aurora and her all-purpose prince.

It would be fascinating, someday, to see this “Sleeping Beauty” performed by a company that savors character definition as much as dexterity and pizazz. It would be revealing, no doubt, to see the story told as if it really meant something.

The opening-night cast in Costa Mesa danced splendidly when it wasn’t striking picturesque poses. It seemed far more concerned with technical ritual, however, than with dramatic communication.

Darci Kistler floated through the ecstasies--never mind the agonies--of the title role with fearless cheer and easy bravura. She has conquered the timeless balances of the Rose Adagio, and she tosses herself into her lover’s arms, literally, with radiant trust. She didn’t tell us much on Thursday, however, about who this princess was, or who she is. She didn’t tell us much about what Aurora wants, or what she feels.

Damian Woetzel, easily the most illustrious alumnus of John Clifford’s Los Angeles Ballet, didn’t seem wholly comfortable in the noble-porteur platitudes assigned Prince Desire, a.k.a. Florimund. Still, he did what was demanded with uncommon strength, clarity and precision.

Wendy Whelan introduced a strangely dour, eminently reliable Lilac Fairy. Merrill Ashley provided the bizarre counterpoint of a pert rather than forbidding Carabosse. (It isn’t imperative that a man always play the witch, but a little unisex grotesquerie would go a long way here.)

Peter Boal danced an oddly restrained Bluebird opposite Nichol Hlinka’s charming Florine. Philip Neal glided smoothly through his “Gold” variation, in suave company with Lourdes Lopez, Kathleen Tracey and Katrina Killian. Leonid Kozlov, an erstwhile prince demoted to king, looked chronically bored as the paternal Florestan.

The five tippy-toe fairies in Act I flitted through their get-it-over-quick blessings with more energy than elan. The assorted Mother Goose escapees in the last act performed their cutesy maneuvers with finesse.

Sean Savoye played old Catalabutte young and pretty, and thus made nonsense of the cruel moment when Carabosse grabs the major-domo’s wig and tears at what remains of his real hair. Although it is a small detail, to be sure, it seemed particularly telling in context.