Of course, this opera is a reflection of Morris' particular personality. He is caffeined-out, highly intelligent, cosmopolitan, volatile, musical, sensitive, and self-assured, and his King Arthur bears all of these qualities. The pace is fast, as if Morris might bore himself, and us, if he dwelled too long. The first part of Act 1 is bucolic and sometimes camp, the audience respectful yet cool. But when Morris brings a fridge onstage and opens the door to reveal a frozen old man in The Frost Section, they are charmed. There is also an overspill of enthusiasm from his ensemble, who look like they are genuinely having fun. The dance vocabulary is rooted in natural steps: There's little fancy work here. As Morris says, "The setting is the stage. The time is now. The performers are themselves."

Act 2 starts in a nightclub with only the disembodied legs of two women gyrating seductively. The only reference to classicism is the appearance of a ballerina in a long tutu. She returns wearing a mallard's head. Is Morris' joke on the Dying Swan or The Clucking Duck? She is accompanied by a dancing giraffe. Purcell is now the background to a circus. Morris also gives us a leopard and a bear. Why? It was inspired by Mizrahi telling him that after the storm scene, all the animals might emerge. "Well, why not," he agrees and then says roguishly: "If anyone can explain that scene to me, I'd be happy to listen."

Behind all the tomfoolery is a serious vein and there are moments when Morris' accumulation of wild imagery really reaches an apotheosis. I particularly liked the scene in Act 2 where performers sit on chairs and watch what Morris calls "The Romeo and Juliet part."

This is Purcell and Dryden's poignant evocation of love, fidelity, and betrayal. We observe performers watching one another as if at an audition. Morris' achievement is making a 17th-century royalist propaganda play into a modern piece of Total Theater. The dancers sing a little and the singers dance a little. He tells me, "Some people say, 'This isn't opera, there's all that dance.' They don't know that opera always had dance and that opera is meant to be dance, theater, masque. I mean, who took the dance out of it? The 20th century? At the last minute, someone said, 'We haven't got any backflips in this,' and so I said, 'Well, do some!'"

As we talk, he mentions critics who ask, "Why couldn't he have done a production like some other production?" "Well, I didn't because this is what I thought of and this is what I like," he answers.

When we met, he wore a sweater and long beads. For his curtain call, he wore a suit but also with the beads. After everyone had taken their calls, he turned to the audience waving a tiny red and white flag in mock honor of Arthur, England, and its World Cup quest.

Outside in the street, speeding cars flew red and white flags like courtly steeds bearing knights wearing their ladies' colors.

The lady is no longer nubile Guinevere. She is sclerotic Elizabethan England. Outside the opera, the crowd melts into streets where medieval London meets modern London. Mark Morris has the confluence just right.

Julia Pascal is a London-based playwright, theater director, and journalist. She was dance editor for London's City Limits magazine and a dance feature writer for The Guardian and Sunday Times.

Mark Morris' King Arthur runs September 30 to October 7 at Zellerbach Hall. See www.calperfs.berkeley.edu or call 510/ 642-9988 for times and tickets.

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