SHOSTAKOVICH BALLET : Bolshoi Opens With ‘The Golden Age’

The mighty Bolshoi Ballet of Moscow returned to Los Angeles on Tuesday after an eight-year fondness-making absence.

For their inaugural vehicle at the security-tight Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, the fiercely virtuosic, chronically flashy, impeccably trained dancers executed something they apparently regard as modern and daring: Yuri Grigorovich’s quaint bastardization, anno 1982, of Shostakovich’s 57-year-old “The Golden Age.”

Loved them. Hated it.

The bad guys in the ballet are decadent 1920s caricatures of the demimonde. They tango and, gosh, Charleston. They sip champagne and slink, cheek to cheek with their flapper-molls, to the tune of “Tea for Two.” But “No, No, Nanette” was never like this. The habitues of The Golden Age--that is the name of their Soviet-seaside nightclub--rob the nasty nouveau riche as well as the powerful poor.

They also run a lot. They execute speedy, menacing pirouettes. They are an athletic bunch.

Their leader--Vitali Artyushkin--leers lustily, sneers silently and sports black tights. He likes to throw loose-limbed ballerinas over his shoulder.

The good guys are pure, kopekless, idealistic fisherfolk. They go in for agitprop theater and wave flags. They fight sleaze for the motherland. They smile and strike aggressive poses.

They also run a lot. They leap in militaristic unison. They are an athletic bunch.

Their leader--the charismatic, much ballyhooed Irek Mukhamedov--sports a white T-shirt and tight, white pants. He flexes his ample muscles, sticks out his heroic chin, puffs up his massive chest and flies. When he wants to be climactic, he nonchalantly twists, flips and turns while flying. He also likes to throw loose-limbed ballerinas over his shoulder.

Nearly everyone on the stage wears a color-coded costume that wraps one leg in one hue, the other in another. The effect, in motion, distorts conventional perceptions of balletic line. Perhaps there is some sort of aesthetic symbolism at work here.

Simon Virsaladze’s sets, a bleak series of semi-abstract drops depicting sails, banners and slogans, are the sort that could give nostalgia a bad name.

Before the leisurely triumph of good over evil, there is a fight with a knife, a swift and sanitized murder (the resident vamp must die) and a convoluted chase. The repetitive, simplistic choreographic maneuvers are cumulatively exhausting. They exhaust those out front as well as those on the hyperactive stage.

The plot currently in favor bears only a faint resemblance to the original libretto. The music, by the same liberal token, represents an odd hodgepodge of the piquant, the tough, the black-humored and the slick output of the very young Shostakovich plus sentimental adagios appropriated from later piano concertos. These are tacked on for lyrical contrast in the love duets.

“The Golden Age” is the sort of ballet that pleases people who don’t normally like, or attend, ballet. As such, it garnered push-button ovations from the dressy first-nighters.

Grigorovich makes no demands on the intellect, few on the emotions. He tries to tell the sweet, primitive story essentially in pure-dance language. The language in question is rooted in bad old show-biz pizazz, yet it bears the strenuous, uplifting accent of class.

The Bolshoi dancers defy us not to adore them and their vehicle. They are very competent high-pressure salespersons.

The corps struts, gesticulates, preens, twirls and contorts with an irresistible combination of Rockette precision and pristine Muscovite fervor. The secondary dancers--most notably Stanislav Chasov as the frenetic nightclub emcee--perform as if lives were at stake. The youthful principals manage to convey savoir-faire and conviction under fatuous, demeaning pressure.

Alla Mikhalchenko as Rita, the dance-hall diva with the heart of gold, manages to sustain delicacy and perfect ballerina poise even in the most acrobatic escapades. Nina Semizorova, a protegee of the fabled Galina Ulanova, manages to define the sacrificial vulgarity of Lyushka with perky elegance.

Vitali Artyushkin exudes taut, quasi-heroic authority in the slimy platitudes of Yashka, the lithe arch-hooligan.

Ultimately, however, these exemplary efforts matter little. The ballet belongs to Irek Mukhamedov. In other roles he will be able to present himself, one hopes, as an actor and a stylist, perhaps even as a danseur noble . As Boris, the exalted working-class fisherman, he functions primarily as a grinning super-athlete. As such, he functions magnetically and magnificently.

The evening’s banal pleasures are enhanced at every turn, jump and catch by the spiffy performance of the pit orchestra--key players from Moscow supported by local recruits--under Alexander Lavrenyuk.

Contrary to advance fears, incidentally, the Pavilion was not turned into a mini-police state on this occasion. The discomforts dictated by safety precautions turned out to be minor. The audience had to pass through airport-style metal detectors to gain admission. Once in, the audience was forbidden to leave the house. The curtain rose 20 minutes late, and security agents loomed in doorways. Otherwise it was business as usual.

That may be a contradiction in terms. This, after all, was Bolshoi business.