GLAMOUR PLUS KITSCH : BOLSHOI BALLET PRESENTS HIGHLIGHTS

Having dispatched the foolish and tarnished modernism of “The Golden Age” at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion--and not a moment too soon--the mighty Bolshoi Ballet turned this week end to vaudeville.

At least it was very high-class vaudeville.

Although the details changed from performance to performance, the formula remained the same. As generous balletic book-ends, Yuri Grigorovich offered the first act of his lavishly steam-rolled “Romeo and Juliet” and the second act of his outrageously kitschy “Spartacus.”

The middle portion of the inevitably long programs accommodated showy snippets and star turns. Multiple stars. Multiple turns.

Say this for the Bolshoi dancers: Even if they cannot make the tawdry look profound, they can dance with what looks like total dedication, unerring conviction and disarming flamboyance. They understand their mission and their tradition. They certainly mind their stylistic manners. And they know how to get out there and sell.

Choreographic trivia be damned. Or, if you will, choreographic trivia be elevated.

It can be no accident that Grigorovich wants to send us home with delirious visions of the ancient Roman Empire spinning in our heads. In other seasons, he has given us the whole hyper-vulgar super-spectacular quasi-historical mess that won him maximum Soviet acclaim in 1968. Perhaps we should be grateful that the current tour comes up with only a third of that awful and awesome totality.

A line in Grigorovich’s program biography may be significant: “It was the circus and not ballet that first captured his imagination.”

That may explain his fondness for acrobatic pyrotechnics. It also may tell us something about his aesthetic priorities.

“Spartacus,” in any case, tells it all. Looking for all the world like a crazed fusion of Tarzan and Superman, the indomitable slave-hero clenches his teeth and his fists, strikes defiant poses and gobbles up the air. Phrygia, his faithful ever-lyrical wife, melts upon command and clutches her mate’s shoulders while soaring, ramrod stiff, in the symbolic glory of the one-arm lift. Meanwhile, the pit band grinds out a tacky and catchy Khachaturian tune that sounds for all the world like “Stormy Weather.”

The evil Crassus strides about, one hip permanently askew, scowling primitively and leaping like a confused gazelle. Aegina, the cruel royal vamp, sports a strategically placed jewel on her breast and stalks the boards en pointe in an energetic elegant slink. She also kicks the back of her pretty head at the slightest provocation, and, aided by her muscular consort, rises heavenward in a triumphant crotch-lift when erotic and political triumphs beckon.

Before the curtain mercifully falls, we are subjected to bevy of pretty, prancing shepherdesses, a gaggle of goose-stepping warriors and a communal dance of triumph that resembles a rumba.

All this might be beneath serious contemplation, if not contempt, were it not for the dancing.

On Friday night, Irek Mukhamedov brought feverish intensity and blanket sincerity to the title role, not to mention gasp-producing embellishments in the much-elevated barrel turns. On Saturday, Alexei Fadeyechev, son of the fondly remembered Nicolai, toned down the bravura, toned up the nobility and turned on the power.

As Crassus, Vitali Artyushkin stressed muscle where his most illustrious predecessor, Maris Liepa, had stressed dramatic insinuation. The great Natalia Bessmertnova, under-employed as Phrygia, epitomized finesse. Maria Bilova, defiantly appealing as the nasty Aegina, actually made the cliches seem compelling.

The “Romeo” chunk that opened the program revealed a more artful side of Grigorovich. The 1978 production, somewhat simplified since last seen here, tries to deal with Shakespeare and Prokofiev in busy, semi-abstract, almost cinematic terms.

Pure dance, preferably aggressive, supercedes such old-fashioned concepts as mime and narrative cohesion. The pace is desperately brisk, the patterns fascinating, the feats rewarding, the dramatic images striking.

Still, one misses lyrical repose, not to mention such minor theatrical niceties as an initially reticent Romeo, a really demure Juliet and a balcony for their great pas de deux.

At the end of that crucial encounter, not incidentally, Prokofiev’s magical score clearly describes the ecstatic Juliet running up a flight of steps. In this version, however, there are no steps. While the music rises, the star-cross’d lovers sink in an admittedly effective but contradictory embrace.

Here, again, the dancing--not the dance--was the thing. Andris Liepa--son of Maris--introduced a chronically blond, sweet and innocent Romeo. He was earnest in demeanor, gentle in articulation, modest in flight. Nina Ananiashvili, his fragile, long-limbed Juliet, exuded airy purity and generalized innocence despite the screaming contradiction of a long red tutu.

Alexander Vetrov could only approximate the menacing, cat-like, grotesquely athletic devices of Tybalt (a major role created for and by Alexander Godunov), but Mikhail Sharkov was exceptionally fleet and funny as the cheeky Mercutio. Alexei Dovgopoliy (Saturday) made more of the classical challenge of Paris than could Yuri Posokhov (Friday). The program credits, incidentally, listed Elena Akhulkova as Juliet’s Wet Nurse, which tells us something startling about the heroine’s arrested development.

The exceedingly diverse divertissements dealt mixed pleasures. On Friday, young Fadeyechev defined princely dignity worthy of his father (Maya Plisetskaya’s favored partner) in an otherwise undistinguished “Swan Lake” pas de trois. Her feet whispering about the stage with uncommon speed, grace and precision, Natalia Bessmertnova brought lofty style as well as lofty nostalgia to the waltz from “Chopiniana” (a.k.a. “Les Sylphides”). Contrary to the credit in the often misinformative program, her competent partner was Yuri Vasyuchenko.

A glittery Nina Semizorova and a hard-pressed Alexander Vetrov all but begged for applause (and instantly received same) in a mind-boggling junk-duet from something called “The Talisman,” tawdry score by Drigo, predictable choreography by Peter Gusev “after” Petipa.

Alla Mikhalchenko executed a smooth, restrained, rubber-armed approximation of the “Dying Swan,” at the end of which the titular fowl lay down and took a prim little nap. Anyone who recalls the definitive tragedy of Plisetskaya’s Bolshoi Swan should abandon all hope before passing through the metal detectors at the Pavilion entrance.

The inevitable “Corsaire” pas de deux found rather meek but eminently tasteful protagonists in Nina Ananiashvili and Andris Liepa.

On Saturday, Nina Semizorova, partnered selflessly by Yuri Posokhov, tripped daintily through the “Sleeping Beauty” pas de deux.

The highlight among the highlights, however, was the grand pas from “Don Quixote.” Irek Mukhamedov jumped higher, moved faster, phrased cleaner than anyone else in sight, and, while at it, added hurdles above and beyond the norm even for this hoary fireworks indulgence. Although she tended to substitute calculated razzle-dazzle for saucy charm, Nina Ananiashvili matched her partner in frenzy and proved herself a casual mistress of the fouette marathon.

In its own wonderfully mindless way, it was exhilarating.