Future is now for this troupe

Ballet junkies in need of a swan fix or a jolt of "Giselle" were out of luck Wednesday night at the Orange County Performing Arts Center. Which isn't to say there weren't plenty of high points -- and tutus and tights, as well as oodles of silver and gold spandex -- when San Francisco Ballet tore through the second of two programs (running through Sunday) as if on methedrine.

And at 75 years of age, the oldest classical company in the U.S. may never have looked so young -- and fabulous.

Thanks are due, of course, to artistic director Helgi Tomasson, whose 23-year tenure has proved not only a boon for the classics of the ballet canon but, more important, a fertile seedbed of commissioned works tailor-made for his multi-culti roster of extraordinary dancers.

Indeed, in three Southland premieres -- all accompanied by a full orchestra under the able baton of Martin West -- it seemed evident that there is nothing these dancers cannot do. Mark Morris' "Joyride," set to the propulsive churnings of Minimalist guru John Adams, was, in a word, a blast. Clad in high-sheen metallic unitards by Isaac Mizrahi, eight dancers, all sporting tiny LED screens with constantly changing numbers on their chests, sprinted, skipped and spun with dazzling ferocity.

Whether faux kick-boxing like Olympic athletes or preening haughtily like extraterrestrial high priests and priestesses, the performers responded to Adams' cacophonous, three-movement score in typical Morris fashion. One moment a sturdy Martyn Garside was tossing off, yes, fouettes; another found the group prone on the floor, executing unison leg lifts a la Richard Simmons. There were also flashes of "A Chorus Line," but instead of brandishing top hats and canes, the octet offered rapidly beating feet.

The middle section, notable for its quasi-lyrical duets and solos, featured Sarah Van Patten and Genadi Nedvigin languorously stretching and dipping to horn filigrees and oomphy percussion. This was sprawling music, and Morris' steps were wedded to it, his arm work a sea of quirky traffic-signal gestures and swirling, flamenco-esque hands. Gloriously lighted by James F. Ingalls, the piece hummed with continually surprising entrances and exits, building to a whirlwind finale of pliant solos that once more affirmed Morris' singular stature.