BALLETIC WHODUNIT? : BEJART AND CO. INTRODUCE ‘LE CONCOURS’ TO NEW YORK

Maurice Bejart has never paid a great deal of attention, much less respect, to tippy-toe tradition with his Ballet of the 20th Century.

His ballerinas don’t spend much time modeling tutus, and they certainly don’t worry much about the niceties of impersonating swooning swans, pretty peasants or pallid princesses.

That hardly prevents Bejart, however, from casting a satirical or demeaning glance, from time to time, in the direction of the hoary conventions he has scorned.

Wednesday night, before a chic and generally adoring audience at the City Center, he introduced his latest would-be sensation to America. It is a mildly spooky balletic spoof with presumably serious undertones, a sprawling, undisciplined, witless, tedious, two-hour, intermissionless, in-joke concoction called “Le Concours.”

The title means “The Competition.” For some reason Bejart calls the opus “a film.” It isn’t that, of course, but it really isn’t a ballet either. It is an unfocused cartoonish skit in fancy dress.

The plot involves one of those big, puffy, international dancing contests. Stereotypic judges are on hand from France (Dominique Sournac offers a curious imitation of Joel Grey in “Cabaret”), the Soviet Union (Rouben Bach and Axelle Arnouts are very, very severe), Japan (Eiji Mihara and Hitomi Kimura are very, very sweet) and, oh yes, the good old U. S. of A.

The last-named gives the esteemed Colleen Neary, former Balanchine etoile , an opportunity to splash across the stage a particularly coy, campy and idiotic caricature of the all-American dumb gum-chewing blond.

In the midst of predictable feverish preparations, the most promising contestant--the lovely Shonach Mirk--gets shot. Dead.

Enter a Charlie Chan-ish detective (Jorge Dunn at the Brussels premiere, Marc Hwang here).

Enter a sextet of potential suspects: the girl’s ex-ballerina mamma (Grazia Galante); her teacher (Christine Anthony); her lover (Marco Berriel); a prissy TV choreographer (Michel Gascard); a suave magician (Joszef Tari); a sleazy pop idol (Benjamin Craft).

Exit coherence.

Bejart--and his wily inspector--pretend to examine the baby ballerina’s world. In the sticky process, they also pretend to explore the complex world of ballet: blood, sweat, tears, greasepaint, the whole microcosmic thing. Somehow, they manage to make it all simplistic.

The narrative gimmick in this quest for eternal and internal truth is the flashback. The inherent dramatic premise isn’t without promise. Its execution, unfortunately, is a muddle of gags, cliches, choreographic snippets, satirical splotches and push-button pathos.

Bejart can’t seem to decide if he wants to be clever or profound, nasty or smart, cute or crass. In any case, his pursuit ends up seeming terminally trivial.

The ballet ends with the ghost of the murdered girl dancing a revelatory tango with the inspector to nostalgic strains of “Giselle,” Act II. It is not enough to give one the Wilis.

Between the early shooting and the late moment of retribution, Bejart splices in unrelated and undeveloped diversions. Ronald Perry brings down the house with an orgy of fouettes. Dressing-room scenes provide an excuse for teasing flashes of modest nudity. The judges demonstrate distortions of their national styles. The entertainment-world suspects perform show-biz acts. The various suitors begin, but never seem to end, a variety of pas de deux indulgences.

And so it bumbles. There is a little bravura for its own sake, a little rehashing of old “Chorus Line” confessionals, a little put-down of the competitive aesthetic, a little mod preening and psychotheatrical strutting. The dancing, incidentally, is vastly superior to the material.

The humor, what little there is, aims no higher than the sophomoric. The social commentary on a cruel artistic world is too superficial to compel concern. The mystery is so banal that the viewer cannot give a damn about who dunit.

That leaves us with a dreary series of classical quotations (poor Adam, poor Tchaikovsky, poor Minkus, poor Drigo, poor Pugni . . . ), with inane bits of dialogue and with some primitive-mod electronic music by Hughes Le Bars in between.

Union demonstrators outside the theater protested the use of canned music. In “Le Concours,” that turned out to be the least of the problems.