THE story of “Romeo and Juliet,” so often choreographed, lends itself to a popular idea: that dance is in any case all about sex. Those supple young bodies aglow! So ballet versions of “Romeo” have become for many the epitome of why they go to dance. The thrilling arc that leads the star-crossed lovers from their meeting in the ballroom, through their declaration by the balcony and their consummation in the bedroom, to their double suicide in the tomb: Isn't this what ballet is all about?

This spring, my first as the chief dance critic of The New York Times, Lincoln Center offers rival productions of “Romeo”: Peter Martins 's new version at the New York City Ballet and Kenneth MacMillan's 1965 setting at American Ballet Theater . Other new versions are in embryo: Mark Morris has announced a production for next year that will use Prokofiev's original score, with music previously unchoreographed; and Matthew Bourne starts workshop preparation this summer for a gay “Romeo, Romeo.” Looking back I see how much “Romeo” — not least, the MacMillan version — was a key to my own discovery of ballet.

To dancegoers with long memories the choice of “Romeo” is nothing new. It is part of the scene. Since the 1960s New York, London and other leading ballet cities have often had seasons in which two or more companies have sent their “Romeo” productions into the lists against one another. Many experienced fans have earned their stripes in the exercise of compare and contrast.

The story itself changes from one version to the next. Act III of Rudolf Nureyev 's all-too-clever version of 1977 started with Death taking Juliet's maidenhead before Romeo joined her in bed; I hope that no more ghoulish an image has ever been wrought on the ballet than that. Then, in case you thought you had said goodbye to Mercutio with his death scene in Act II, the Nureyev version proved you wrong: Back came Mercutio's ghost to bully Juliet through her big decision scenes, notwithstanding that she had scarcely met him in life.

The MacMillan hasn't become the definitive ballet “Romeo,” but after more than 40 years in international repertory it has proved the most durable. When it was new, MacMillan fielded four Juliets and four Romeos, giving each of them exceptional interpretive leeway. From 1974 to 1978 I was able to catch three each of those original Juliets and Romeos, five of whom branded me for life.

If you went to see Merle Park's Juliet (my first), you soon learned never to buy a seat on the right side of the theater, because you needed a full view of Ms. Park running down the balcony steps (in those days on the extreme right of the stage) like a spring torrent.

When Nureyev danced Romeo to Margot Fonteyn's Juliet, he took his time to kneel and kiss the hem of her dress with as much piety as if this were the Holy Grail. And even though Fonteyn was 56 the one time I saw her dance Juliet, her reaction to his gesture was one of innocent wonder pitched on a tidal scale. After looking down at him in amazement, she threw her arms up and looked up through them to the heavens in glory, held them motionless, then brought them down, down over her face, down over her body, down in a wave that made the whole house gasp in emotion. I was 20. If there was a single moment in my life that turned me into a ballet obsessive, that was it.

I did not see Lynn Seymour, the Juliet on whom MacMillan had originally built the role, until I had seen four others. She was a rebellious Juliet in whom Romeo awoke both adult temper and molten sexuality. Where other Juliets on the balcony would look longingly up to the stars, she used to writhe like a cat in heat, brushing her arms, shoulders, neck against the balcony itself, her whole body in need of friction. “That's not Juliet, that's a whore,” I remember some fans saying. I was smitten, and I would spend my Seymour “Romeo” intermissions in defense of my chosen heroine.

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