THE MIND BEHIND THE KIROV BALLET

Oleg Vinogradov looks a bit weary.

He has just herded the mighty Kirov Ballet-- his Kirov--from Leningrad to Vancouver, where the company will appear in the Expo 86 World Festival prior to its first U.S. tour in 21 years.

He is trying to get settled in a strange theater in a strange land, to solve all the artistic problems that result from drastic geographical dislocation and to cope with a few sociopolitical and/or bureaucratic issues at the same time.

What he didn’t need, right now, was the intrusion of an American interviewer on a tight deadline. He certainly didn’t need the complications that attended this particular intrusion. But he acquiesced.

At the appointed hour, the director of what may be the world’s finest classical ballet company awaited his incipient interrogator at his current home away from home: a Sandman Inn in beautiful downtown Vancouver.

As a perverse fate would have it, the interrogator was waiting for Vinogradov at the right time but in the wrong Sandman Inn, a dozen blocks away.

Precious time had flown, and patient temperaments had been tested before the twain finally met. When the interview finally took place, it turned out to be something akin to group therapy.

Vinogradov brought along his boss, Maksim Krastin, general director of all activity--opera and ballet--at the Kirov Theater. Expo 86 officialdom sent along two lofty representatives and, although Vinogradov seems to grasp English very nicely, a split-second translator was on active duty, too.

The result did not turn out to be what one would describe as an intimate encounter. Nevertheless, it was friendly, stimulating, enlightening.

Gaunt and intense as only a former Russian danseur can be gaunt and intense, Vinogradov brushed aside the obligatory apologies. He wanted to get along with the business at hand. Vancouver being cold, wet and gray, he also wanted to know what the weather would be like in Los Angeles.

The good news produced the first of many smiles. Obviously, a thaw was imminent.

When the Kirov first danced in Los Angeles at Shrine Auditorium back in 1961, the roster of the corps de ballet included the name of one Oleg Vinogradov. We assumed this was the fledgling choreographer/impresario.

We assumed wrong.

“No,” he insists. “That was another Oleg Vinogradov. I was still dancing in Siberia in 1961. I was only 22 then.”

A classmate and friend of Rudolf Nureyev’s, the more important Vinogradov worked his way up through the ranks and, in 1977, assumed leadership of a fabled ensemble that had reportedly suffered artistic stagnation, a decline in morale and the embarrassment of defections.

Nureyev had fled to the wicked West, followed by Natalia Makarova and Mikhail Baryshnikov. Documents and publicity materials from the Kirov no longer mention these names.

Vinogradov, however, does. Gingerly.

“We were all more or less of the same generation,” he says. “We all had the same training, the same aesthetic orientation, the same ideals. In a way, Nureyev, Makarova and Baryshnikov have served as ambassadors for us. No matter what they do, no matter where they dance, they still reflect the Kirov background.”

Why, then, are the defectors deleted from all Soviet literature?

Vinogradov responds to the minor provocation with a wry shrug.

“No comment.”

“These things are not just by chance,” volunteers Krastin, seemingly sympathetic, eminently enigmatic.

Both visitors saw Baryshnikov on film, in his anti-Soviet diatribe “White Nights,” during a preparatory trip to Canada. What did they think of the inherent political implications?

“No comment,” they reply, virtually in unison.

And what did they think of Baryshnikov’s dancing in the film?

Now there is comment. The enthusiasm is undisguised.

“It was absolutely excellent, fantastic,” says Vinogradov. “Baryshnikov still feels what he does and projects that feeling like no one else. Of course, there have been changes, but he certainly has not become worse.”

Krastin nods agreement.

Most critics who saw the Kirov in Paris three years ago lamented a decline in the quality of the male dancers since the departure of Nureyev and Baryshnikov and the mysterious suicide of Yuri Soloviev.

“When you see our company,” says Vinogradov, “you can tell me if there is such a decline. “Soloviev’s death was a horrible tragedy. No one can explain it. No one can give a reason.

“I think we have a young dancer today who is remarkably like him. He has the same leap, the same ballon . He is only 21 and still a member of the corps, but we already give him principal roles. Watch for him in the ‘Swan Lake’ pas de trois. His name is Aleksander Lunev.”

Vinogradov winces, just a bit, when asked if the Kirov has changed since the last U.S. tour.

“Everything has changed,” he says. “The world has changed. Hasn’t America changed?

“We have a new generation of dancers, new perspectives.

“Still, the teaching remains the same, the great tradition continues. No one else has our purity of style. We must never give that up. We want to remain the world’s greatest classical theater, and our school maintains the essential values.

“At the same time, we want to open our doors to new ideas, to new choreographers. Ideally, we want to balance the old and the new. Beside the best ‘Swan Lake’ and ‘Giselle,’ we encourage novelties--our own novelties and works by such recent guests as Maurice Bejart, Pierre Lacotte and Roland Petit. I have also introduced Bournonville classics to our repertory.”

In Paris, the Kirov even danced a relatively mod, reasonably erotic pas de deux with the rock music of Pink Floyd.

“It was interesting,” sighs Vinogradov, “but not very important. Perhaps we will bring it, or something like it, next time.”

Did the Kirov have to get permission to use the Pink Floyd score?

“ Nyet .”

The works scheduled for the current tour are conservative. Vinogradov doesn’t appear to take advance announcements regarding repertory and casting too seriously, however.

“There still may be some surprises,” he says. “We like to surprise the public.” Pause. “And the critics.”

The only official novelty on the Vancouver agenda, Vinogradov’s full-length “Knight in the Tiger’s Skin,” will be seen only in Canada.

“We wanted to take it to United States cities, but there was not enough time and money for orchestra rehearsals.”

Contrary to claims by the Los Angeles sponsor, the Ambassador Foundation, the Russians are not bringing along their own musicians. They are relying on local pickup ensembles.

Ambassadorial hype also promises Los Angeles a company of 200. That makes Vinogradov grin.

“If we brought 200 people, there would be no one left to perform at home. We have 100 here, and we leave 100 in Leningrad. After all, we have no right to leave Leningrad without ballet.

“The number is silly anyway. Why would we bring 200 people? What would they do?”

He does not deny a certain apprehension regarding the 6,600-seat Shrine Auditorium.

“The Kirov Theater seats 1,625. That is our ambiance. The idea of dancing in so huge a theater represents a violation of our taste. It threatens to damage our style.

“Of course, we understand the commercial reasons, and we are happy that so many people will be able to see us in a short period of time.”

Sophisticated balletomanes have always regarded the much-traveled Bolshoi of Moscow as the company that specializes in large-scale, muscular, potentially vulgar flamboyance.

The Kirov, by contrast, has always epitomized a balletic finesse that goes back 200 years, to the Imperial Ballet of St. Petersburg.

Now, with a Kirov alumnus, Yuri Grigorovich, heading the Bolshoi, the stylistic distinctions between the companies may have blurred.

“Not really,” says Vinogradov. “Grigorovich has been greatly influenced by the Bolshoi. The system cannot be resisted. He has become a product of the Bolshoi. The reverse would be too difficult.”

In 1982, Vinogradov took his ballet based on “The Inspector General” to Paris, where it met a so-called mixed reception. This August, the Kirov will take it to Japan.

“They insisted on it. We kept asking, are you sure you want this? They said yes. We asked why. ‘Because we love the story,’ they said.

“They seem to love Gogol in Japan.”

Two months ago, Leningrad saw the premiere of the latest Vinogradov ballet, this one dealing with the historical saga of the battleship Potemkin. Still, one vastly different goal remains elusive.

Vinogradov wants to do a ballet about Charlie Chaplin. He has wanted to do it for a long, long time, perhaps in a Fellini-esque manner.

“It is still in my head,” he says. “It is not yet born. The child will be created one day.”

Another dream is to bring a Balanchine ballet back to the theater where Balanchine had his roots.

“I think of it all the time. I know Balanchine wanted this. Sooner or later it will happen. The idea is more difficult now that Balanchine is dead. I know he would have loved us to do it.

“I want the Russian people to remember him, to see where he came from. I think we could do his works very well. But. . . .”

The incisive, resonant voice trails off.

His admiration for the czar of the New York City Ballet would seem to suggest an aesthetic contradiction. Vinogradov, after all, is an avowed enemy of abstraction.

“I do not like the style of a Merce Cunningham. I cannot stand it. That is not our style. Our audience is not excited by it. However, I think it should be performed.

“In any case, this has nothing to do with Balanchine. Balanchine is not abstract.”

The tone gets agitated.

“Balanchine may not deal in explicit narrative meaning, but he has great, profound emotional meaning. That is completely different.”

The Kirov, Vinogradov admits, has suffered from isolation.

“Isolation is harmful to everyone.” He weighs his words with obvious care. “When misunderstanding influences the arts, everyone pays for it. Culture is still the best means of communication, and dance is the most direct, the most universal. It requires no language.

“Maybe I am saying something terrible, but I must say it. The unifying theme of Expo 86 is man in motion. That seems to mean transportation. I think it is a mistake. It ignores the role of culture.”

A whole generation of Americans knows the Kirov only through a pair of recent films, “The Children of Theater Street” and “Backstage at the Kirov.” Contradicting critical responses in the States, Vinogradov says he hated the former but liked the latter.

“ ‘The Children of Theater Street,’ ” he explains, “was too pretentious and it was very evil. It went out of its way to show unpleasant things, to distort, to stress problems.

“Of course, we have problems, everyone does. But our theater is strong. It is legendary in spite of specific dancers and their passing contributions.

“The glory of the Kirov has always been the corps. The corps defines the stage, the mood, the values, the heritage. Principals may come and go, they may bring different personalities and different perspectives. The corps remains the same. It is our foundation.

“This movie did not want to show our art. It did not care about historical perspective.

“It had a nasty undertone. In a sweeping panorama of the theater facade, for instance, the cameras suddenly zoomed in on a man climbing the steps, with difficulty, on crutches.

“It was ugly, unnecessary. Why?”

Perhaps Vinogradov protests too much. The general tone of the film, after all, is reverential. Still, he cannot be dissuaded.

Krastin telegraphs approval, looks at his watch and clears his throat. Other duties beckon. The delayed interview has consumed more time than was alloted.

Although Vinogradov acknowledges the schedule pressures, he obviously does not want to leave a mood of negativism in his wake.

Impulsively, he grabs the interviewer’s notebook and pen. Deftly, he sketches a ballerina in elegant arabesque at the bottom of the page. He signs and dates it, then rises to leave.

He is a nice man.