The peasant wedding, with its colorful scarves and maypole-like festivities, holds a distinct place in the classical repertory. Although it lacks the imperial solemnity of, say, the marriage of Aurora and Desire, it joyously aligns itself with the natural order of the seasons, from man’s first sowing to his final harvest. Bronislava Nijinska’s wedding in “Les Noces” presents the woman’s side, but in Pascal Rioult’s new interpretation of the masterwork, which made its premiere Tuesday at the Joyce, he divides his attention equally between the sexes, displaying an impressive originality.

This version relies heavily on the Modernist tradition that the original helped to create. A lean, psychological portrait of a bride preparing to be given away, “Les Noces” replaces the usual bright costumes with simple black and brown linens. Set to the rhythmic spell of Stravinsky’s cantata of the same name, the work was an aesthetic sequel to the earlier collaboration between Stravinsky and Nijinska’s legendary brother, Valsav Nijinsky, in “The Rite of Spring.” If the former famously broke with the St. Petersburg tradition, the latter finalized the divorce.

In the introductory section, commonly known as the Blessing of the Bride, four female dancers position themselves beside a row of chairs. Penelope Gonzalez, Posy Knight, Anastasia Sorocynski, and Marianna Tsartolia carry their fists and stomp assertively. With synchronized movements, they produce a coarse weave of motion, elegantly embroidered with oriental phrases. Bold leg extensions are followed by softer flourishes of the hip. They hammer a foot on the chair, then scoop mildly. The blatant turnout of the thigh hints at a sexual awakening, but they express reluctance by raising one hand over their mouths like a Noh actress holds her fan.

The entire set consists of two panels, from which hang Pilar Limosner’s costumes. Wearing only a white leotard, the brides take turns dressing in different articles of clothing. Each item suggests an additional phase in the marriage ritual, completing the timeless investiture of adult society. They begin by putting on their undergarments, then the corset – a symbol for the constraints of their sex – to be followed by a show of outward propriety, a sleeved blouse. Eventually they adorn themselves in elaborate hypocrisy, wearing Ms. Limosner’s rather bizarre transparent plastic skirt. Resembling the skeleton of a Victorian hoop dress, it is meant to be modest, but shows everything.

The Bridegrooms – performed by Brian Flynn, Michael Spencer Phillips, Robert Robinson, and Eric Yow – move during their preparation like Art Deco icons. Shirtless, utilitarian, they march with their backs to us. Kneeling after each step, they protest with expressive gestures of escape. Each is captured in mid-leap by the man next to him, or else rescued from a collapse.

Tableaux such as these make Mr. Rioult’s ensemble work often captivating, but uneven performances dogged the entire evening. The choreography is rich in innuendo and dramatic content. Too often, however, his frank sexual gestures frivolously spend the emotional impact of his more subtle combinations. Once the two genders face each other, they move with self-contained, fragmentary gestures of foreplay. But orgiastic gyrating soon follows for measures at a time.

The two other works on the program include his “Firebird,” a reenactment of the story ballet with the magical bird replaced by 10-year-old Hannah Burnette Cullen, and the most recent installment of “Kansas City Orfeo,” a work in progress. The myth of Orpheus is beloved by choreographers; recently, Pina Bausch resurrected her version set to Gluck’s opera. Peter Sparling, who, like Mr. Rioult, is an alumnus of the Martha Graham Company, also transformed the story into a ballet.

In Mr. Rioult’s take, as the name suggests, he trades the mythological underworld for the demi-monde of prohibition-era Kansas City. A hotbed for jazz and moonshine, the Juilliard Jazz Ensemble played live the Afro-Cuban danzon beats of Duke Ellington and the big band sounds of Count Basie and Jelly Roll Morton. Each number was inserted in between snippets of Gluck’s baroque score. Unfortunately, Mr. Rioult tilts the emphasis away from the myth and places it squarely on the anachronistic 1920s. He replaced the phantasmagoric furies with the mafia.

Orpheus is no longer a hint of the mythological lyricist whose music could charm even stones. Instead, he is a self-parodying literary hack. In a hammed up voiceover by Drew Scott, we hear a corruption of the last lines in “The Great Gatsby.” In a series of flashbacks, Carlos Molina of the Boston Ballet plays this young tee totaling Nick Carraway when he first encounters the physical charms of a flapper whose stage name is Euridyce. This means a garter-belt fantasy and the inevitable kickline. The tackiness is compounded insurmountably in a scene that records their domestic bliss together, as they wash dishes and the rest of the cast forms an assembly line.

Mr. Rioult’s own performance as the older Orpheus is a welcome exception. Emotionally encumbered by a desk in the corner of his room, he stretches longingly at remembered thoughts, restlessly whisking his body in round movements. David Finley’s lighting illuminates the scene that is tormenting him so much: Eurydice’s corpse. Penelope Gonzalez is as limp as a rag doll in her duet with Mr. Rioult, who tosses her around indulgently, while his younger self remains frozen in anguish. In a witty use of props, several mirrors become windows into the past as the young and old Orpheus make identical movements, backward and forward, while the pale Eurydice walks between them.

Until June 19 (175 Eighth Avenue, at 19th Street, 212-242-0800).