danceview
a quarterly review of dance

Reviews

Welcome Back, Petipa

The Kirov Ballet’s recent New York season: an old Sleeping Beauty seen through new eyes, traditional and Balanchine repertory, and some new dancers

by Mary Cargill
copyright © 1999 by Mary Cargill
Autumn 1999

The Kirov began its brief (June 28-July 10) visit to New York’s Metropolitan Opera House with the much anticipated revival of what was advertised as the original 1890 production of The Sleeping Beauty. This production was without a doubt the most important ballet of the 20th century, for without it and its effect on the St. Petersburg intelligentsia there would have been no Diaghilev Ballet, and thus no Royal Ballet, no ABT, and no New York City Ballet.

This miraculous performance has been heroically recreated as accurately as possible from the set and costume designs and from the choreographic notations of the 1903 production by the new director Makhar Vaziev and his assistants. According to an article by David Vaughan in the Spring 1984 issue of Ballet Review, the former director Oleg Vinogradev had been thinking about redoing The Sleeping Beauty and restoring as much of the older material, including the mime, as possible, so the idea of some sort of a revival has been in the air for some time. But the idea of reconstructing the original came when the American ballet scholar Tim Scholl discussed the Nicholas Sergeyev Collection of the Stepanov notations in the Harvard Theatre Collection with Makhar Vaziev. Everyone familiar with ballet history was eagerly awaiting the Kirov’s visit, primed to welcome Beauty back home. But the question remained—how would a nineteenth century production, with the longer tutus, elaborate headgear, expanded character dances, and extensive mime, look to twentieth century eyes? The answer is “magnificent,” I have seen the past and it works.

The sets are mainly painted flats, with intricate but not massive architectural detail, and long, luxurious perspectives. They set the scene but do not overwhelm the action, and serve as a canvas for the costumes. The courtiers’ costumes are infinitely varied and make an interesting and harmonious stage picture, with just a few bright spots of red for spice. Though of course they left the corsets in the museum, the tutus are mid-thigh and soft, so they echo the movements of the dancing. The various headpieces draw attention to the dancers’ noble carriage. And the final tableaux, when the view of Versailles seems to rise into the clouds in perfect harmony with Tchaikovsky’s magnificent music, is one of the most effective and moving pieces of theater I have ever seen.

It seems, remembering the sets of the magical Ruslan and Ludmilla and the moving Mazeppa that the Kirov Opera brought last year (both reproduced from earlier productions) that late nineteenth century Russia was an unheralded hotbed of extraordinarily effective stage designers. It is not the case, as critics say about some of the current Metropolitan Opera productions, of people leaving the theater humming the sets. It is more that the sets and costumes hum the music. The brief interlude for Aurora’s friends after the Rose Adagio is usually danced by an undifferentiated group of girls. It seems that in the original production, it was danced by three groups in completely different costumes. I realized for the first time that the music and choreography do change mood a bit for each group, turning what is usually a throw away number to give the ballerina a rest into a lively and varied choreographic piece. (And I suspect that the sight of corps girls in short bloomers and tights created a lively and varied interest among certain male members of the original audience.)

The production is generous (it lasts almost four hours), but the pacing and the variety, with the processions, the court dances, the character dances, and the mime passages interspersed to highlight the classical variations are so perfect it seems much shorter. In fact, I wish it could have been longer; the famous panorama of the Prince’s journey to Aurora’s castle had to be left in St. Petersburg, though we did get the lovely violin solo Tchaikovsky had written but which was cut from the original production to save time.

The changes in the structure from more familiar versions all work. The vision scene differs from the pure white romantic abstraction we are used to. It takes place in the same forest that the hunt scene did; there is no transformation to a dream world, and the corps are wearing green tutus. They are dryads, after all. This locates the scene and anchors it to the natural world; the power of nature of course being one of the guiding forces of the ballet. The prince keeps his hat and jacket on, and he wears heeled boots (at least when danced by Igor Zelenzky), and the contrast between his boots and the dryads’ point work makes him seem like a real person surrounded by magical creatures, not like a ballet dancer in the middle of an abstract ballet. It looked like the most beautiful of fairy tale illustrations come to life. Unfortunately, Andrian Fadeyev substituted ballet boots in this act, making the prince seem artificial, contrived, and unimportant. He seemed to be searching more for fifth position than for Aurora.

The role of Carabosse, too, is slightly changed. Having already been defeated, she does not skulk around during the awakening scene. Listening to the music, I realized Carabosse is not present—there is mystery and expectantcy, but there is no danger in that music. In this production, the emphasis of the awakening is all on Aurora. Carabosse, too, is invited to the wedding, quite appropriately, since order and harmony and generosity have been restored.

The knitting ladies’ scene before the Rose Adagio has been greatly expanded. The six girls knit, while doing a charming clog dance (one of the glories of this production is the restoration of so many character dances), are caught and condemned to death by the king, portrayed by Vladimir Ponomarev. His character is more defined in this production, and Ponomarev conveyed a slight sense of melancholy, which was perfectly logical, since he had spent sixteen years worrying about his beloved daughter. The king now has a long mime scene, to unfamiliar but absolutely lovely music, where we see a loving father waver between justice and mercy, while members of the court plead, successfully, for forgiveness. This brief scene establishes the moral tone of the court, and reinforces the triumph of the final act.

The issue of justice versus mercy underlies this production, while the current versions, derived from the Royal Ballet’s 1946 interpretation, tend to stress the absolute triumph of good over evil. Of course, in post-war Britain the idea of good defeating evil had a special resonance, and I certainly am thrilled to leave The Sleeping Beauty with the feeling that some overarching power has restored order and harmony. But this Sleeping Beauty, for all its grandeur and length, stresses much more attainable, human virtues; the audience leaves with the feeling that it is possible (and desirable) to do good, to be kind, to invite Carabosse to the wedding.

Production styles are easier to recreate than dancing styles, and the current Kirov model of extreme thinness and hyper-flexibility did divide opinion. I agreed with those who found the 180 degree extensions in the Rose Adagio and the vision scene distorting and distracting. Those gorgeous tutus don’t look elegant flopped over a dancer’s rear end. The elongated, stretched-out style, currently in vogue at the Kirov, doesn’t suit the control, balance, and detail built into The Sleeping Beauty choreography. The mime, too, was a bit perfunctory. The detailed and formal mime so important for the flow and variety of this production are not part of the Kirov’s recent heritage; they have been dancing this version only a short time and surely richness and nuance will come with experience.

I saw two Désirés, Igor Zelensky and Andrian Fadeyev. This production does leave the Konstantin Sergeyev solo for the Prince in the final act (authenticity apparently does not extend to resuscitating Pavel Gerdt). Both danced very well, but a bit mechanically, and there was little real rapport with their partners, and almost none of the intimate grandeur of some of the couples I have seen in other productions.

Many of the male parts were danced by very young men, who clearly were still insecure partners. I enjoyed Anton Korsakov’s enthusiasm as the Blue Bird, but as yet he lacks the batterie and the partnering skills to dance the part. His poor partnering did not appear to come from lack of interest, as he approached the supported pirouettes with an eager desperation that was quite touching if not always effective. The Florines (Irina Zhelonkina and Daria Pavlenko), too, seemed miscast, with their distorting extensions. But nothing could dim the charm of the demi-point work which the production restored to the Blue Birds.

I also particularly enjoyed Yelena Vasiukovich as Little Red Riding Hood and Polina Rassadina as Cinderella in their delicate and charming character dances, Elvira Tarasova tearing through the Diamond Fairy variation at a clip that would do City Ballet proud, and Veronica Part’s majestic beauty as the Lilac Fairy. And the orchestra, conducted by Gianandrea Noseda, played with a passion and a magnificence that was wonderful to hear.

Despite some reservations about the dancing, this Sleeping Beauty is a triumph. The production, with its astounding variety and richness, is as close to perfect as I ever expect to find, and it was an honor and a privilege to get the chance to see it. This Sleeping Beauty is a ballet for adults of all ages.

The Kirov’s aversion to formal mime was evident in its Giselle, which was, in the first act, a somewhat routine exercise. All the expected elements were there—the daisy, the horn, the mad scene (done by several dancers with their hair still up), but the dramatic impulse, the conviction that this is a story of two real people, was oddly missing.

The sets were traditional (forest glade, castle in the distance, convenient bench, etc.), but the costumes were a bit dressy for German peasants, giving the proceedings a somewhat operettaish, artificial air. The arrangement of the set numbers in the first act, too, tended to work against the drama. After the peasants crown Giselle queen of the harvest, she does her famous solo with Bathilde and the Duke still in the cottage, oblivious to the commotion. Albrecht returns for her solo, apparently having forgotten why he ran away in the first place. Then Giselle, her mother, and Albrecht leave the stage just in time to miss the peasant pas de deux, which was danced strictly for the audience’s benefit, and to heck with any dramatic continuity. By the time both classical numbers were over, most of the drama of Albrecht’s dilemma had dissipated.

This lack of dramatic cohesion was compounded by the generally by the book action of the lead dancers. (I did not see Zakharova, who, I understand, was a magnificent Giselle.) Vishneva and Maya Dumchenko went through the motions, and danced well, with extremely decorous mad scenes, but conveyed little individuality. Their performances were not helped by the uninflected Faydeyv, who did not seem to know who Albrecht was and what he was doing with Giselle. His argument with Hilarion had all the passion of a man asking a waiter to fill up his water glass.

Viacheslav Samodurov, with Asylmuratova, was much more effective, since he could convey a sense of Albrecht as an aristocratic cad. His mental calculation of the number of petals on that daisy and selfish fear that his deception might be discovered was an interesting touch, and his repentance and sorrow in the second act were very moving. Both he and Fadeyev tend to stand ostentatiously in something approximating fifth position whenever they are not dancing, a habit that looks to Western eyes affected and distracting, as if signaling to the audience “I am really a ballet dancer, first, last, and always, no matter what character I am pretending to be”.

Asylmuratova, though clearly near the end of her glorious career, was a very fine Giselle, fresh and innocent. Her pain and shock during her frantic and desperate mad scene was direct and moving. Irma Nioradze, too, is not young and, unlike Asylmuratova, does not have a face that can look young. But she clearly knows a lot about Giselle and gave a professional performance without the over polished, every gesture just so atmosphere that some Russian dancers have. She believed in Giselle, believed in her situation, and believed in her Albrecht, the somewhat stolid but supportive Zelensky.

The second act made up for the dramatically inept first act, even though it too was not as effective as it might be. Having Hilarion begin the act with a long, sorrowful walk to Giselle’s grave lessens the effect of Albrecht’s similar walk a few minutes later. And Myrtha, though she does mime “You must dance” does not add “and you will DIE” in the dramatic fist over fist movement. But the Myrthas, especially the tall and icy Titania Amosova, danced with a sharp clarity. (It was audible also; the wilis clattered on the stage like little machine guns.) There was not much of the gentle Romanticism of a nineteenth century pastiche in the Kirov’s second act. The costumes, though long and white, are quite 1950’s décolleté, and the arms pull through the air with dramatic intensity. Daria Pavlenko as Zulma looked like she couldn’t wait for her next victim. The beautifully lit dance of the wilis was magnificent (even with the persistent rat a tat tat of their shoes). The corps, with their lines straight and torsos erect passed each other like two icebergs in the familiar dance of the wilis.

Vishneva and Dumchenko were ethereal Giselles, but they seemed to concentrate on the dancing and not the love. Fadeyev, with his lush plié and soaring effortless jump danced beautifully, but he, too, seems somewhat oblivious to the rich implications of the story. His balletic spin and careful arrangement of his body over Giselle’s grave in the final moment was far less involving than Samodurov’s despairing collapse. Nioradze, too, had some fine, distinctive touches. I was especially struck by her desperation as she tried to bribe Myrtha with her flowers, and the final quivering of her fingertips as the sun rose and she had to leave Albrecht.

There was plenty of drama in the American debut of The Fountain of Bakhchisaray, choreographed in 1934 by Rostislav Zakharov for Galina Ulanova. Based on the Pushkin poem about the civilizing effect of an unattainable love for a Christian maiden on the barbaric Khan Girei, it is best known in the West in the brief filmed excerpt of the good girl/bad girl confrontation between Ulanova and Maya Plisetskaya.

It is certainly not well known for its music which is unmemorable (and bound to increase membership in the Minkus fan club), or its choreography, which is second-rate. But hoisted by its striking production and magnificently committed performances, it was the most completely satisfying production the Kirov brought.

The first act takes place in a Polish palace, where Maria (the Christian beauty of the poem, though in the Stalin-era ballet she is given a fiancé and a harp instead of religion) and her friends dance. This act is mainly padding, but instead of the interminable balletic variations seen in so many modern full-length ballets, it is packed with full-blooded folk-dancing. All the various mazurkas, polonaises, and krakovienes were very well danced and full of variety. Anton Korsakov especially stood out in his soldier’s variation, with his sweet earnestness and wonderful leaps.

The dancing is interrupted by Khan Girei and his band of cutthroats, who slaughter all the Poles, including Maria’s fiancé—he is never seen again. (This role seems to be the balletic equivalent of Carmen’s Micaela—an unnecessary fourth added to the original work to balance the soprano, mezzo, baritone combination.) The Khan is struck by Maria’s beauty, spares her life, and abducts her. The second act is a colorful harem ballet, full of jeweled brassieres, mincing eunuchs, and a wonderfully Norma Desmond entrance for Zarema, the Khan’s erstwhile favorite. Her servant crawls before her, carrying a large mirror, so Zarema can constantly be reassured of her beauty. This beauty, of course, is not enough and she gradually realizes that Girei’s thoughts are with Maria. In a nice touch, the other wives deride her fall from favor by mocking her movements. I saw two Zaremas, the haughty Uliana Lopatkina, who played Zarema with a cold and desperate fury, and Asylmuratova, who was softer and more seductive. They were both outstanding in the most interesting choreography of the ballet, when Zarema dances for the Khan, seductively secure in her charms at the beginning, and building to a frantic desperation as she realizes she has lost him.

The famous confrontation and murder scene is dramballet at its powerful best, performed with an intensity of the best of the silent films. The despairing backbends of both Zaremas as they begged the Khan to kill them himself and the Khan’s contemptuous refusal to dignify Zarema with his anger shoed unexpected nuances of characterization. I saw two Marias, Zakharova and Veronica Part. Zakharova was wonderful, using her magnificent carriage to portray Maria’s nobility, her beautiful face and expressive eyes to show her purity, and her fine-boned frame to emphasize her vulnerability. Her death scene, where her hand grabbed a pillar and then gradually let it go, was an understated tour-de-force. Part was heartier than Zakharova, and has a less exotic beauty, but she, too, was very moving in this scene. The Khan was Vladimir Ponomarev, whose brooding, moody presence dominated the stage without officially dancing a step and whose depth of characterization helped save this production from sinking into pure melodrama.

Possibly the most anticipated performances were the two Balanchine evenings; the Kirov brought Apollo and Tschaikovsky Pas de Deux which have been in their repertoire for several years, and the newly acquired Serenade and Symphony in C.

The reaction to Serenade by the New York City Ballet aficionados was somewhat mixed (the audience loved it), but I thought it among the most beautiful and magical I have seen. The orchestra played the music with passion and devotion, providing a wonderful and luxurious cushion. It was staged by Francia Russell, who set the older version where the leads keep their hair up. I prefer this; the audience is not distracted by the dancer fiddling with her hair on stage and wondering if she will ever get those bobby pins out and it forces the drama to come from within the dancers, who can not just rely on swishing their hair to make an effect. Lopatkina as the waltz girl was magnificent, and danced with beautiful phrasing and an air of mystery. Dumchenko, who danced the Russian girl with Lopatkina was equally good and danced with a charming sincerity. Zakharova danced the waltz girl the second night and her physical and mental abandon suits the role; it seems to me that she is much more suited for romantic roles than the purely classical ones. Elvira Tarasova, a small, precise and energetic dancer, was her Russian girl. Unfortunately, she fell in the middle of her solo, but made a quick recovery and continued dancing strongly. I hope she was aware that Balanchine was said to have liked dancers who weren’t afraid to fall.

Apollo, danced with the prologue, featured Igor Zelensky, whose interpretation is familiar to City Ballet audiences. It was cleanly danced, but to my eyes his version of Apollo lacks a certain subtlety. He seems too strong and massive to portray the young, playful god, just growing into his power. His Terpsichores were Zakharova, who emphasized the youthful joy of the role, but whose natural elegance gave it an air of exaltation, and Veronica Part, who, possibly to cover up her nerves, just grinned all through the role. Both Polyhymnias and Calliopes were clearly trying, but were defeated by the speed and off-balance nature of the choreography. The Apollo was an honorable attempt, but not a complete success.

Symphony in C, however, was exhilarating. Staged by John Taras, it had new costumes by Irene Press, which I thought worked very well. Like the original French version, each part was danced in a different color, but the designer avoided the obvious bright jewel colors in favor of more sophisticated and subtle colors of tan, olive green, marine blue, and dark purple. The variations of the colors in the costumes of the principals, demis, and corps highlighted the variety of the steps, and the finale, especially, was so much more vivid than the indistinguishable mass of white that the City Ballet uses. The Kirov corps was especially impressive in the last movement, with clean lines and stunning precision—those feel were up and down in one breathtakingly accurate movement, building a tremendous excitement.

Loptakina’s second movement was one of the highlights of the season. She is an unusual dancer, very tall and lean ( though less lean, fortunately, than she was when the Kirov last visited) with comparatively broad shoulders. She does not have the physical delicacy or glamour of a traditional ballerina, but she has a wonderfully vivid stage presence that draws the audience in without overpowering it; she seems to be showing the audience undiscovered secrets of the choreography. Her second movement was one long, seamless thread, with no artificial highlights or pauses to let the audience admire her extensions. The deep arabesque, now so often used as an applause generator, flowed out of her without undue emphasis; she danced as if she were using one breath, and the audience, too, seemed to hold its own breath until her last quiver, and then it exploded.

The company was not at full strength (Zelensky was the only male principal available) so it is hard to made generalizations about its direction. But it is somewhat distressing to see a lack of continuity in the dancers. Elena Pankova and Larissa Lezhnina, so promising in the 1986 visit, have both left for other companies. Yulia Makhalina, who was so lovely when New York first saw her in 1986, and the lustrous Zhanna Ayupova remained at home. Asylmuratova, with her Wednesday matinee Aurora, seems to be given less prominence than someone of her stature might deserve. Of the “basketball team” so prominently featured in 1996, only Uliana Lopatkina was seen much during this visit. It would be a real loss if the Kirov were to adopt the attitude of some other companies and disregard experience in favor of novelty.