Pasadena Civic : THE MOSCOW BALLET MAKES LOCAL DEBUT

The brand names may be Bolshoi and Kirov. But the Soviets also seem to be exporting their lesser-known lines these days.

Enter the Moscow Ballet. Thirty-one members strong (down one, owing to a defection last week in Dallas) and a mere eight years old, the company made its local debut Thursday at Pasadena Civic Auditorium.

But there’s nothing new here--at least not on this first of several tour programs. In fact, the repertory harks back to the glory days of the pre-Grigorovich Bolshoi: nuggets of glitter-schlock choreography begging old-fashioned bravura and rolled out to rinky-dink circus music. To make sure the audience sampled a good measure (the show lasted nearly three hours), full acts of Petipa’s “Paquita” and “Sleeping Beauty” were also included.

What director Vyacheslav Gordeyev ostensibly has in mind for himself and his entourage is preservation. Never mind that his dancers--some culled from the Bolshoi and Kirov--do not consistently boast the long, noble musculature and perfect proportions of the brand-name exemplars. Or that some of them, exposed in the “Paquita” variations, do not bear up to technical scrutiny.

Where it counts, the Muscovites deliver. Svetlana Smyrnova, in the pas de deux from “La Sylphide,” actually looked at her partner from under her lashes, the way an ephemerally enticing Bournonville heroine would, thus disclosing the whole characterization. And Svetlana Kuznitzova, as Aurora, provided an object lesson in delirious radiance to all the cool Amanda McKerrows of the world: Each supple step was luxuriantly open and full of character.

So, too, did the men earn their rounds of shouts and whistles. The

young Vadim Pisarev, in his tiger-skin Tarzan toga, exulted in scissors air-turns, a la Mukhamedov (“Diana and Acteon”) and flung himself through great barrel turns in red satin pantaloons (“Gopak”).

Gordeyev, remembered from his Bolshoi appearances here in 1979, no longer commands the smooth elegance of that earlier time. At 39, he has lost his spongy legato, but is still a presence and still manages soft landings in deep plie as well as spirals in his a la seconde turns (“Le Corsair”).

As choreographer, he falls into the category of simplistic, backwards modernism suffered by fellow Soviets. His “Melody of Love,” an embarrassingly tawdry duet set to what sounds like elevator music played by Zamfir and Chet Atkins, relies on the seemingly jointless dancers, a tangle of limbs in their shiny, white unitards.

Matters were not helped by the loud, tinny, canned sound (to which the local musicians union protested outside). It deprived the dancers of spontaneity. Nor was this a tasteful night--what with the whole glitzy catalogue of Taffy’s-style trashy dance wear being modeled on stage.