THREE WHO CAPTURE THE MAGIC New ballerinas from Italy, Russia and France are revelations

By Martha Duffy.

Perhaps the most frequently quoted remark about dance in recent years is George Balanchine's maxim, ''Ballet is woman.'' People respond to it heartily: for once, someone on the inside had the guts to state the obvious. Though some of the greatest stars, from Nijinsky to Baryshnikov, have been men, women carry the art form, providing its focus as well as much of its mystery. The appearance of a new, genuine ballerina is one of the exciting events in the theater. Of course she does not materialize overnight. Years of steely determination and self-denial precede the epiphany, and serious dance fans have been following her every step. But the time comes when the image is complete; the name itself takes on magic and exudes the perfume of the theater. With homegrown stars like Cynthia Gregory and Gelsey Kirkland, Americans have long since stopped regarding ballerinas as imports. But this year the headlines have been captured by three young foreigners. A major factor in American Ballet Theatre's most successful season in years is Italy's Alessandra Ferri, 23, an ethereal, hugely gifted dramatic dancer. Leningrad's Kirov Ballet, which has just finished its first North American tour in 22 years, is full of talent, but the great ovations have gone to Altynai Asylmuratova, 25, an exotic beauty blessed with a perfect line and the more elusive qualities of gentle lyricism and knockout sexual allure. Still to come is Sylvie Guillem, 21, of the Paris Opera Ballet, which arrives next month on its first U.S. visit since 1948. Guillem stands out with a sensational, long- limbed body and a cool, thoroughly modern wit. In alphabetical order, then, to avoid billing squabbles, portrait sketches of the three: ALTYNAI ASYLMURATOVA. ''She was an Oriental beauty, and she dreamed of lying in bed being fanned--a modern Scheherazade. And so I bit her.'' That is Kirov Artistic Director Oleg Vinogradov's fanciful way of explaining how he put iron willpower into his prize ballerina. Asylmuratova (Ah-sil-mu-rah- tova) has an expansive, luscious quality. In a tantalizing way, she seems to represent the past and the future: her round face and small, full mouth recall a silent-film heroine's docility, yet her bold attack is as fresh and fearless as tomorrow. She was born in Alma-Ata, Kazakhstan, deep in Central Asia. Both of her parents were dancers. At ballet school in Leningrad, her talents were spotted early. Says Vinogradov: ''I saw she had unique possibilities. She feels the movement very profoundly, and she is very beautiful on stage.'' In the stratified Soviet system, he has brought her along relatively fast. He felt he was taking a chance when he put her in Swan Lake in Paris during the company's 1982 engagement because her portrayal was not yet ''precise.'' But the debut was a triumph. She enchanted the Western press, and word of her began to spread. On this year's tour, Asylmuratova mostly danced the role of Nikiya in the Shades sequence of La Bayadere. It was a grandly imagined, romantic portrayal that sailed out over the footlights. She is married to Konstantin Zaklinsky, one of the Kirov's leading male dancers and its handsomest. She likes to dance with him, cook for him, anything but rehearse with him. ''We are both very critical, and we tell each other the truth.'' Offstage, she shows little of the fire that ignites her performances, but perhaps she does not need to. Says Elena Tchernichova, an A.B.T. ballet mistress and former Kirov dancer: ''God didn't make a single mistake with this girl.'' ALESSANDRA FERRI. No one would ever picture Ferri as a drowsing Oriental beauty. She seems made for motion: wraith-thin, bonelessly supple, with enormous dark eyes that radiate intensity. It is easy to see why Mikhail Baryshnikov's search for a partner stopped with her. ''Her special power comes from her ability to concentrate with such intensity that the audience can directly share her imagination,'' says Baryshnikov. ''It is like listening in on someone's most candid truths about themselves.'' There were no other dancers in Ferri's comfortable Milanese family, but at seven she had determined to be a ballerina. ''Because of this,'' she says, ''I always felt more mature than my little friends. A small part of me knew what I was about.'' At 15 she went to London's Royal Ballet School and spent her spare time wisely, watching Anthony Dowell rehearse. She was picked for the company at 17, but chafed at being in the corps. ''I never felt part of the whole, I hated to be in line.'' Spoken like a ballerina. Ferri's big break came when Sir Kenneth MacMillan cast her in Mayerling, and she was soon performing a wide repertory. When Baryshnikov came calling, Ferri was ready, leaving the Royals with a mere ''You only live once.'' In her first year at A.B.T., she has worked with typical speed and intelligence, learning six major roles, three of them in full-length ballets. Says the A.B.T.'s Tchernichova, with whom Ferri now studies: ''In Act I of Giselle she is like Anna Magnani when she goes mad. In Act II she is like a cloud.'' SYLVIE GUILLEM. Until she was eleven and fell in love with ''le spectacle,'' or the show-biz side of ballet, this lyrical athlete was a whiz-kid gymnast in the blue-collar Paris suburb of Le Blanc-Mesnil. In 1980 Balanchine picked her out of a line of 15-year-olds when he called on the Paris Opera Ballet School. Three years later, Rudolf Nureyev, who had taken over as the company's director, did the same, casting her out of the corps in his production of Raymonda. Now she is the darling of choreographers on the international scene: Rudi van Dantzig, William Forsythe, Lucinda Childs. Says Nureyev: ''She has extraordinary physical attributes, long legs, a long neck. She has musicality. And what is most important, she glows on stage.'' All accurate. But he adds, ''At 21, she already has nerves of steel.'' Not quite so, according to Guillem. Before a performance she suffers from le trac, or stage fright: ''No more legs. I go limp, and panic inside.'' It does not show. She commands a wide repertory, including the obligatory Swan Lake, but what shows her off best is a rather outrageous theater piece by Maurice Bejart. In Arepo, Guillem performs five roles, with suitable costume changes, that display her personal range as well as the gamut of ballet's dramatic postures. She does the classic ballerina turn, the rehearsal-costume pas de deux, the androgynous duet, the music-hall floozy and, best of all, the woman-as-Mephisto, in a sexy getup that is mostly tights. She runs her career with great savvy. When things looked dull for a stretch in Paris last winter, she free-lanced a string of guest appearances, learning Giselle on her own. She lives with a dancer colleague, Manuel Legris. Ballet, she concedes, has become all absorbing: ''I've lost everything from before, my friends, everything. But I don't regret it.'' She adds, with the insouciance of youth, ''If someday I feel like something else--to sing, maybe?--well, I would take the time to learn how. I have plenty of time before me.'' For ballet audiences too, there is plenty of time to watch these splendid creatures develop.

With reporting by Jordan Bonfante/Paris and Nancy Newman/New York