My witty friend whispered that Wayne McGregor’s new ballet Untitled, 2023 put her in mind of Google HQ – it’s certainly a mint-cool, squeaky-clean, future-perfect affair. The set by Carmen Herrera, subtly lit by Lucy Carter, suggests infinite space and distant horizons. The costumes by Burberry are streamlined and sexless. Anna Thorvaldsdottir’s vaporous score hovers over it all in a meditative trance. Ordinary human emotions struggle to express themselves in this brave new world: we have left planet Earth.

McGregor’s strengths and weaknesses are highlighted: on the credit side, there’s his energy and intelligence, his sophisticated visual taste, his empowering of young talent, his open questioning of boundaries, and readiness to do things differently; on the debit side, one notes his over-reliance on exaggerated movement (pelvic thrusts, 6 p.m. leg extensions), a tendency to use music as backdrop rather than motivation, and his habit of getting carried away by a concept at the cost of structure. He is hugely in demand globally but there’s a whiff of the same-old about Untitled. Perhaps he should slow down and do less.

Its execution is impeccable – a sexy fight between Leo Dixon and Joseph Sissens echoes one of McGregor’s strongest works, Obsidian Tear, and the gorgeous Fumi Kaneko mesmerises – but in form and vocabulary McGregor hasn’t created anything substantially different from what he made in the whiter-than-white Chroma, 17 years ago.

Completing this triple bill, the finale to the Royal Ballet’s current London season, were two revivals.

I enjoyed Christopher Wheeldon’s Corybantic Games much more than I did first time round in 2018 – costumes and choreography have been tweaked, but I think the comparison with the chill of Untitled is what made the difference. Wheeldon is not pretentious, and there’s no great aesthetic or intellectual ambition at work here. Bernstein’s violin concerto Serenade is an intractable score, but its bright energies have been seized on to produce a scintillatingly vivacious work with a sharp competitive edge and some nice flashes of wit. Elegantly integrated designs by Jean-Marc Puissant (sets), Peter Mumford (lighting), and Erdem Moralioglu (costumes) help to evoke the palestra of ancient Greek games, and everyone on stage was palpably enjoying themselves, at ease but exhilarated. Bouquets all round, but a special shout-out for the upcoming Annette Buvoli.

First seen in 1967, Kenneth MacMillan’s Anastasia Act III looks dated and threadbare now, alas. There are passages of perfunctory choreography; the depiction of Rasputin and the tsarist court is risible; the mimed introductory sequence is accompanied by electronic music that draws on nothing except twiddling knobs.

But this was once an original and powerful work, pioneering in its use of mixed media and its exposure of a woman’s violent mental collapse. MacMillan understands from the inside what it must feel like not to know who you are or the truth of what you remember. There are some extraordinary images of alienation, panic and resolution, culminating in Anastasia’s eerie circuit of the stage at the prow of a hospital bed.

What can hold it all together is the charisma of a great dramatic ballerina. The recently departed Lynn Seymour (to whose genius these performances are rightly dedicated) created the title role, and memories of her electric intensity and unedited anguish are indelible. Since her day, Viviana Durante, Leanne Benjamin and Natalia Osipova have also got close. A dancer of vivid presence and strong technique, Laura Morera isn’t quite in their class: she comes to the challenges too late in her splendid career to scale the rage and confusion that the choreography requires, and her facial expressions are silent-movie ham. But Morera will be much missed by her many fans when she retires next month, and it’s good to know that she can pass on her experience and insight as she continues with the company as a coach.