SOVIET CLASSICISM : BOLSHOI BALLET TURNS TO ‘RAYMONDA’

“Raymonda,” which the mighty Bolshoi unloaded at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion this weekend in all its tarnished glory, is the ballet modern choreographers--Balanchine most notable among them--have loved to cut up and serve in small pieces.

Despite its basic content of pristine Petipa classicism, the sprawling original remains a stylistic hodgepodge, a primitive narrative jumble and an odd balletic hook upon which Glazunov happened to hang a score that meanders in search of Wagnerian pomp one moment and hootchy-kootch glitz the next.

The West has never clutched “Raymonda” to its collective bosom. The old Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo created a short-lived viewer’s digest version in 1946. The Kirov--which in an earlier incarnation had staged the world premiere--introduced its presumably authentic production to America in 1964.

Two years later, Rudolf Nureyev showed Los Angeles the egocentric post-Freudian edition that he had created for the Australian Ballet. In 1975, he concocted an elaborate variation on the same theme for American Ballet Theatre.

Still, America thinks of “Raymonda” primarily as a quick and showy divertissement. To us it remains little more than a Grand Pas Hongrois or, if you will, a fancy Pas de Dix. It certainly isn’t the convoluted essay in dainty dreaming and noble heroism created 90 years ago in imperial Leningrad.

The current Bolshoi “Raymonda,” which dates to 1984, is revised by the ubiquitous Yuri Grigorovich. The verb shades a very broad euphemism.

Grigorovich does respect the outline and central choreography of the awkward original. He passes along a lot of Petipa as well as a little uncredited Gorsky. He adds a good deal of his own padding and posturing, however; and, as usual, he invents a lot of fussy, frantic repetitive dance movement to supplant the crucial mime passages that have fallen from favor in Moscow.

What emerges is an exceedingly old-fashioned, ponderous three-act story ballet in which the story stops at the end of the second act.

Raymonda, the sweet medieval maiden, is torn between her love for the galant and somewhat boring white knight to whom she is engaged and the temptation represented by the evil and eminently interesting Saracen knight who lusts after her. Ultimately, lofty boredom triumphs over exotic sensuality and, after an orgy of visions, variations, diversions and high- as well as lowfalutin’ character dances, everyone except the Saracen lives happily every after.

Somehow, it isn’t particularly engrossing.

Still, given the right set of dancers, it can be at least sporadically compelling. The dancers were emphatically right Friday night.

Ludmila Semenyaka offered a classic, radiant demonstration of ballerina refinement in the title role. Her line was exquisite, her phrasing immaculate, her sense of theatrical dynamics impeccable.

Although she maintained an unruffled air of delicacy, Kirov style, one always sensed the underlying strength of discipline and expressive focus. She also managed to exude just the right aura of sophisticated, muted sexiness in the famous Grand Pas solo, silent hand-claps notwithstanding. This was a great performance by a great dancer in her prime.

Alexei Fadeyechev, her Jean de Brienne, again proved himself the noblest of the Bolshoi’s principal danseurs.

Given his innate dignity and somewhat beefy physique, one expected him to attend to his partner with sturdy sympathy, even with touching devotion. This did not prepare one, however, for the neat and easy bravura with which he dispatched his climactic flights, or the poetic appeal of his heroic confrontation with his arch-nemesis.

The Saturday-night principals proved somewhat less satisfying.

Nina Ananiashvili--gentle in temperament, somewhat bland in characterization and somewhat fuzzy in technical execution--reduced Raymonda to an imposing display of lyric ballerina prowess, with the accent on spectacular extension. As her air-borne white knight, Andris Liepa turned out to be more romantic and more assertive than Fadeyechev; also more mannered, more narcissistic and less tidy.

Alexander Vetrov, who appeared in both casts, was unable to convey much erotic suavity in the savage caricature Grigorovich has sanctioned for the macabre Abderakhman. Nevertheless, he stalked his prey with a nice simulation of crazed, pop-eyed ardor and executed the acrobatic leaps and spins with the sort of grotesque bravado that invariably brings the house down.

Lavish Bolshoi casting found none other than Ananiashvili dancing a minor solo in the vision scene when Semenyaka took the title role. By the same selfless token, Fadeyechev was demoted to supporting troubadour on Liepa’s night of would-be glory.

Incidentally, the often maladroit program credits (the Grand Pas Classique was translated as “Big Classical Dance”) labeled Ananiashvili’s difficult but modest variation a “variant.”

Most notable in other secondary duties were Marina Nudga, who wiggled and squirmed with charming energy opposite Mikhail Sharkov in an incredibly vulgar Saracen Dance (Friday); Ilze Liepa (sister of Andris), who together with Yuri Vetrov led the Mazurka with paprika verve; four anonymous gentlemen who managed the multiple turns of the wedding divertissement in elegant turn, and Alla Khaniasvili-Artyushkina, who defined the final extraneous variation with classical character (Friday).

The women of the corps danced with uniform suavity in tutus and seemed only minimally embarrassed by the archaic cutesy-kitschy harem-urchin routines imposed upon them in Act II. Contrary to Bolshoi tradition, the men tended to confuse muscularity with vitality.

Simon Virsaladze provided the literal, functional but ponderous storybook sets and generally ugly costumes. The mania for one leg in black, one in white continues.

Alexander Lavrenyuk conducted the excellent pit orchestra with the savoir-faire of an enlightened musician and the special sympathy of a former dancer. He happens to be both.

The capacity audiences seemed to love everything. Saturday night, Elena Bobrova as the Countess Sybil--a minor mime role--was showered with applause at her insignificant entrance. The push-button enthusiasts mistook her, no doubt, for Raymonda.

The Russian visitors milked ovations at every opportunity. Sometimes, alas, they milked ovations even when there was no legitimate opportunity, or when the opportunity had passed.