Do these faults lie at the feet of Possokhov, librettist Valeriy Pecheykin, or composer Ilya Demutsky? It is impossible to say, but it is clear that the team, collectively, should sit down with an editor. Personally, I wouldn’t mind seeing some of Demutsky’s music shorn. In a “Works and Process” interview at the Guggenheim last fall, SF Ballet’s music director Martin West was practically worshipful about Demutsky’s score, comparing it to Prokofiev. I heard a similarity in certain scenes—the horn-heavy pounding of oppression isn’t subtle, and the creepy waltzes remind me of “Cinderella”—but I can’t say that any of the swelling love melodies stayed in mind, even after a second listen. Then there are the razz-ma-tazz passages where the spring sprites hoof it up, almost Charleston-style. I felt I had suddenly jumped into a Gene Kelly musical.

All this said, the cathartic final scene, when Tom Pye’s serviceable scenery falls away, leaving Eugene alone in the snow, is a wonder. That’s why I’d be eager to see refinements, and to see this “Eugene Onegin” come back. No doubt it will, and when it does, which cast you see will still matter hugely. Floppy-haired, with a mischievous face you can read three miles away, Joseph Walsh was made to be Eugene, and along with flawlessly controlled dancing, he imbued the role with charm and charisma—an essential likeability lurking beneath his contempt and self-regard. Opening night’s Tatiana, soloist Katherine Barkman, came off as thoughtful and inherently dignified, and her commanding performance proved for the umpteenth time that she deserves promotion to principal. As Lensky, Wei Wang seamlessly melded his classical technique to Possokhov’s floorwork and his naturalistic style. Wona Park was a perfect match, the sweetness of her character embodied in her lightness, not telegraphed through facial expressions.

At Saturday’s matinee, our Eugene was Francesco Gabriele Frola, and although his dancing was powerful, the glimpses of charm that draw us towards Eugene were nowhere to be seen. Sasha De Sola could not compensate for this as Tatiana, more coy than Barkman’s interpretation. Among this second cast it was Esteban Hernandez who most distinguished himself as Lensky, seemingly on the verge of tears in the duel scene, so convincing I nearly cried for him. But it is the title character we must cry for in this “Eugene Onegin”—the title character who represents our own existential peril. Great novels are not written in one draft, and few ballets are instant masterpieces. Revision requires both time and fortitude. Possokhov and Demutsky have embraced a high literary challenge. May they rise to it.