Petit Paradise

An enormous luminous egg hangs in the darkness. A neon light suddenly flashes: 5. ..4. ..3. ..2... 1.

The egg, wreathed in white neon, blazes brilliantly and then goes dark. A figure outlined in pulsing, multicolored lights appears and begins to dance. The houselights come up. The dancer walks forward. Out of the primeval egg, Adam is born.

Thus, like a peek inside some space-age incubator, began the world premiere last week of Roland Petit's Paradise Lost -- no direct kin, obviously, to John Milton's sturdy epic of the same name. Neon eggs are unusual enough, but more unusual was the fact that the work was hatched by London's Royal Ballet, the venerable guardian of traditional repertory. What is more, the roles of Adam and Eve were danced by the foremost duo in romantic ballet, Rudolf Nureyev and Margot Fonteyn.

Bolt of Neon. There was precious little romance this time. Nureyev, attired only in white tights, was a rambunctious Adam in his opening solo, kicking up his heels like a colt let out to pasture. But Paradise is not complete until Adam lies down to rest--whereupon Eve is born, costumed in a white plastic minidress. The two embrace in curious, mandala-like configurations, testing each other like momentary sculptors of flesh.

Against the backdrop of a pop-art tree of knowledge, temptation appears in the form of five male dancers in green jump suits who slither and weave, snakelike, about Eve. As the scenery changes to a large rectangle covered with eyes and a huge lipsticked mouth, Eve succumbs to the tempters and is spirited away. Alone and frenzied, Adam circles the stage and, running full speed up a ramp, dives spectacularly headfirst through the mouth. The music becomes increasingly cacophonous and, as bolts of neon lightning flare overhead, there is a blinding flash and Adam dies. Eve clumsily drags him upstage and kneels, cradling his twisted, stumped body in one final, agonizing embrace.

Fluid Drive. If the story line was somewhat benumbing, the dancing was dashing and vigorous. The audience, which included Princess Margaret and Rolling Stone Mick Jagger, was obviously enthralled. Nureyev's dancing was all primal passion, Fonteyn's all youthful savage grace. Petit's choreography had the clean, square-cut lines and angles of an abstract painting and included some wild acrobatics. At one point, Nureyev executed somersaults while with one hand supporting Fonteyn as she turned in arabesque.

Paradise was, obviously, hellish for the dancers to learn. The music, composed by Modernist Marius Constant, did not even allow them the luxury of discernible rhythms, sometimes consisted only of randomly twanging gongs and thumping drums. It was at times like a dance performed to the sound effects of a shoot-'em-up western. But Nureyev and Fonteyn conquered the unfamiliar idiom, emphasizing in new and exquisite ways the fluid drive and rhythmic power of their artistry.

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