The Hamburg Ballet.

THE HAMBURG BALLET BAM HOWARD GILMAN OPERA HOUSE, NYC FEBRUARY 7- 10, 2007

John Neumeier's Death in Venice (2003), given its U.S. premiere recently at BAM, exists in a tug of war between polarized impulses. Lengthy and bustling with action, the ballet is also aesthetically spare, as if Neumeier and scenic designer Peter Schmidt had snipped photos from magazines to represent the characters, then pasted them onto every crisp, white page of a brand-new scrapbook. The accompaniment veers between Bach and Wagner, those old polar opposites, with some Jethro Tull thrown in for good measure. Neumeier's choreography does little to freshen Thomas Mann's well-known tale of homoerotic obsession, vulnerability and devastation. But the silky, buoyant Hamburg Ballet provides diversion, if not profound satisfaction.

The evening-length ballet remains faithful to Mann's novella, save for one critical detail: the artistic profession of its protagonist. Neumeier has re-envisioned aging poet Gustav von Aschenbach, danced by Lloyd Riggins, as an esteemed but tightly-wound, burnt-out choreographer with the moves of a cartoonishly severe marionette. By repeatedly wrapping an invisible chain around his forehead or waving stiffened arms in front of his face, von Aschenbach signals his creative impotency and mental distress. Principal dancers, soloists, and members of the corps de ballet represent his attractive but futile "concepts" and "sketches," making brief appearances while he struggles to create a ballet about Frederick the Great.

One look at Tadzio, the wide-eyed beach boy portrayed by Edvin Revazov, and von Aschenbach finds an antidote to his sterile artificiality and the superficial elegance of Venetian society. Rangy, shaggy-haired Revazov is also Neumeier's best, most beguiling ingredient. This Tadzio rushes about the stage like a rain-fed stream glowing in the sun. In his presence, von Aschenbach's own moves grow lighter, sleeker, and more feline. But like any addiction, this unrequited lust takes more than it gives, until all dignity is lost.

With its swank Venetians heaving up blood, its mountain of debauched omni-sexuals in tiger-striped slacks tumbling from a toppled beach tent, and its intimation of pedophilia, Death in Venice is a curious entertainment to set before Bush-era America. As an occasion of art, it feels, despite its two-hour-plus running time, surprisingly thin and ephemeral.