Yet It’s Still THE KIROV

Oleg Vinogradov wasn’t happy. An official representative warned us.

The all-powerful chief choreographer and boldly independent artistic director of the Kirov Ballet, which opens an exclusive nine-performance stand at the Orange County Performing Arts Center on Friday, apparently wasn’t having much fun in Fun City. Something was getting lost in exportation.

He had brought one of the most prestigious ensembles in the world--some still call it the greatest of its kind--from its cloistered home in Leningrad to the glamorous stage of the Metropolitan Opera House. Although his vaunted and revered company had toured other American cities--including Los Angeles--as recently as 1986, this was the first New York engagement ventured by the Kirov in a quarter century.

It was an important, symbolic return. Some things, alas, weren’t going well.

Tickets, to be sure, were gratifyingly scarce, even with a good orchestra seat costing $75. Audiences were enthusiastic--as they invariably are when snob appeal runs high, when the repertory is accessible and the object of instant affection happens to hail from a mysterious locale behind the perestroika curtain.

Still, recurring problems ruffled crucial composures. The reception by the New York press had been mixed at best, disenchanted at worst. Aficionados in and out of print were complaining that the repertory was stale, the tradition tarnished, the pervasive interpretive attitude old-fashioned and the dancing uneven. The women, for the most part, were garnering far more approval than the men.

Glasnost or not, the would-be festive mood in the house was dampened by stringent security precautions. All patrons were frisked--albeit half-heartedly--upon entering. If anyone chose to exit during intermission, there could be no return. The standing-room area downstairs, normally haven for the most sophisticated balletomanes, was closed. Plain-clothed guardians of social order and political virtue sat glumly at the front of each aisle, back to the stage and face to the crowd, throughout every performance.

There had been no defections from the Kirov ranks, although, as fate would have it, a single member of the auxiliary corps would seek asylum a few days later. Nevertheless, one sensed unrest in depth.

It was no secret that some of the dancers were suffering injuries. They were unaccustomed, we were told, to our unraked stages. Members of the company, on various levels, were also complaining indiscreetly of a classic Western malady that results from the insulting combination of overwork and underpay.

At least one comrade, a flamboyant would-be superstar named Farukh Ruzimatov, sent word that he would grant interviews only if properly remunerated for his extra-terpsichorean efforts. The evil capitalist system apparently corrupts quickly, and in surprising ways.

Regardless of advance announcements, Vinogradov had been altering repertory details and shuffling his roster right up to curtain time. Customers who had expected to see a specific senior ballerina in a central role often ended up, for better or worse, seeing a talented but obscure novice instead. One couldn’t invariably tell the players even with a program.

Then there was the vexing matter of a scratchy American orchestra in the pit. Urged onward if not upward by an indulgent pair of Kirov maestros, the local pick-up band often seemed to be sight-reading the complex scores at hand, and not very accurately at that.

Making diplomatic relations even more precarious, New York mustered no children for the lavish new production of “Sleeping Beauty.” A highly placed spokeswoman at the Met explained that Kirov authorities had simply forgotten to request the hippety-hopping kids. Vinogradov claimed that the host organization had refused to recruit them.

And so it went.

A model of cooperative bonhomie both in Vancouver and Los Angeles two years ago, Vinogradov was now dodging interviews. Igor Stupnikov, his trusty aide-de-camp and official (often superfluous) translator, cited no recrimination on the director’s part, just conflicting professional exigencies.

Backstage observers speculated, however, that he found the opportunity of doing some fancy shopping or taking in a Manhattan boat tour more appealing than the prospect of dealing with inquisitive American reporters. In a way, at least one inquisitive reporter couldn’t blame him.

Appointments, in any case, were habitually scheduled, postponed, canceled, forgotten, remembered and rescheduled. At one last-ditch encounter, the beleaguered boss found himself confronted by two rival interrogators at the same potentially awkward time.

He avoided what might have become an awkward contretemps by promising-- really promising--to talk to one journalist immediately and inviting the second, now understandably skeptical, to return for a private conversation the next night, same time, same place. All, for the moment, was well.

Well, almost all.

The Official Version

Vinogradov sits behind a makeshift desk in a large dressing room backstage at the Met. Dark, thin and chronically intense, he looks weary but younger than his 51 years. He also looks forbidding--at least for a while.

Glowering, just a little, he motions his intrepid visitor to a chair. The visitor obeys. The ubiquitous translator follows suit.

The table top is covered with cans of spray paint, bits of colored paper, assorted crayons and sticks of chalk. Vinogradov, who fidgets with his tools as he talks, likes to dabble in art. To these eyes, he dabbles deftly if a bit kitschily.

He has designed the decors for some of the items in the current repertory. His pretty drawings and sketches--usually of balletic subjects--have been exhibited, and sometimes sold, in theaters where the Kirov has appeared. A well-informed rumor monger speculates that relations with the Met sponsors began to become tense when the New Yorkers resisted an invitation to display Vinogradov’s illustrations.

When asked about the somber atmosphere surrounding the Lincoln Center engagement, Vinogradov denies the existence, even the possibility, of any trouble.

“Problems?” he repeats rhetorically. “We have absolutely no problems.” He has introduced his favorite adverb.

He pauses for qualification. “Of course, life with a company like ours cannot always be ideal. We are a big family. It is normal that some things occasionally go wrong. But there are no problems. Absolutely none.”

One suspects the gentleman protests too much. He squints into a distant invisible horizon.

“The public response,” he volunteers, “has been good. The press has been very good, very objective. Most of the remarks have been quite correct and to the point.”

He admits with a sigh that some Canadian interviewers had annoyed him. “They asked who Mr. Kirov was, and when he formed the company. Can you imagine? I had to explain to these newspaper people that they should read some books. But New York isn’t like that.”

So he isn’t unhappy about anything?

The frown turns into a soulful scowl. “Unhappy?” He repeats the word in staccato English. Then he reverts to mellifluous Russian. “Why should I be unhappy about anything?”

The subject is closed.

‘So Much Has Changed’

Vinogradov thaws. The dour facade fades as he talks about his charges. The proud paterfamilias emerges.

“So much has changed,” he says, “since we were last in America.

“We have danced Balanchine at last. We have had a dancer from American Ballet Theatre, your Susan Jaffe, as a guest in ‘Don Quixote.’ We have sent three dancers to American Ballet Theatre. (Two of them, Altynai Assylmuratova and her husband Konstantin Zaklinsky, appeared in “Swan Lake” at the Shrine earlier this season.)

“(Natalia) Makarova has been able to return to our stage. Baryshnikov has been invited. We always have been adventurous, I think, but we can be more openly adventurous now.

“We have a new generation of dancers. The younger ones dominate now. You will see some wonderful girls from the class of (Ninella) Kurgapkina.”

And what about the boys?

“What about the boys?”

Some experts, the interviewer nervously responds, have complained that the Kirov women, whether in the corps de ballet or in central roles, outdance their male counterparts.

“Absolutely,” Vinogradov agrees. “The men are weaker.” His frankness startles.

Then it is diluted as he paraphrases Balanchine. “The foundation of ballet is the woman. This is not a football team. The position is the same in all companies of the world.”

Ironically, perhaps, Vinogradov has brought to New York only one ballet of his own devising: “Battleship Potemkin.” It utilizes an ultra-athletic, virtually all-male cast.

It also turns out to be a quaintly dated demonstration of socialist-realism melodrama ornamented with grand group-grope gestures. After a series of cartoonish exercises alternating with sticky pas de deux involving the grim reaper and various victims, a horde of beef-caky sailors rip off their uniform tops, emit a lusty unison yell, and, at last savoring the exhilaration of mutiny, dash into the audience and up the aisle to the foyer.

Meanwhile, a swarm of toy sea gulls on strings descends from the lurid sky on a blood-red stage. The curtain falls to the thumps of a mock-romantic score by Alexander Tchaikovsky (no relation to you-know-who) that would dishonor 1930s movie-music.

None of this is exactly subtle. But it may tell us what revolutionary modernism looks and sounds like in contemporary Leningrad.

Why, one wonders, was “Potemkin” seen only in New York?

“It is too cumbersome,” Vinogradov explains, with obvious regret. “The set is rather complex, and the navy on the stage enlists 30 extra sailors who are not normally in our corps.”

This brings up the perennial double standard for touring companies in America. What is good enough for New York is often better than what the rest of the country gets.

Southern Californians were disappointed when it was learned that the Costa Mesa season would not include the epochal Balanchine ballets recently performed at the Kirov Theater and at the Met. Balanchine, it will be remembered, began his career in Leningrad and became an anathema at home while he achieved balletic sainthood in the United States.

At first Vinogradov seems surprised to be told that “Theme and Variations” and “Scotch Symphony” are not planned for the West Coast. He dutifully checks his own records, then nods gravely.

“We thought you were sick and tired of Balanchine,” he jests. “Anyhow, Orange County asked for the bigger productions.”

Who makes the final decisions regarding what goes on the road?

Vinogradov waves aside the stupid question before it can be translated. “I decide,” he says, pointing dramatically to his chest.

Then comes an enigmatic afterthought. “Perhaps I will surprise you.”

As we go to press, it appears that at least half a Balanchine surprise may come true. One performance of “Theme and Variations” will be added to the local schedule.

Playing to Americans

Vinogradov likes surprises, whether they involve repertory or casting. He also savors flexibility.

“When I decide who will perform,” he says, “I take into consideration the situation of the moment. We have five or six dancers for each role. We try to rotate opportunities.”

In the past, many of the most prominent opportunities fell to Galina Mezentseva, a rather brittle ballerina obviously more popular in the Soviet Union than here. Americans have been far more responsive to the lyrical expansion of Altynai Assylmuratova and the bravura grandeur of Tatiana Terekhova (who appeared fleetingly in Orange County last season with the Moscow Classical Ballet).

“ C’est la vie ,” says Vinogradov. “It is a matter of taste. Mezentseva is a very talented dancer. She may have some technical problems, but she can exert a great influence over the audience.”

At the final Kirov performance in Los Angeles two years ago, Vinogradov came before the Shrine Auditorium curtain to introduce a lavish series of unexpected encores. Mezentseva expired twice as the Dying Swan.

“The public liked all of this,” he recalls. “I could feel it in the air. Sometimes it is absolutely necessary to improvise.”

Since the added numbers required music on the stands in the pit, not to mention dancers in premeditated costumes, one had to wonder just how spontaneous Vinogradov’s last-minute decisions can be.

He grins mischievously as he recalls the occasion, and speaks in English.

“I say, ‘One more?’ They clap and say ‘yes.’ I say, ‘What you want?’ They say ‘modern.’ ”

He even harbors happy memories of the cavernous Shrine.

“I will never forget it,” he says. “It was one of the strongest impressions of my life. Six thousand people told us that they loved us. The big stage was nice. Our corps needs space. I don’t like small stages. The atmosphere was OK, and the audience was wonderful.”

And what about Segerstrom Hall, the incipient home away from home for the Kirov?

“It is splendid. Absolutely. I visited it some months ago, and was impressed. I only wish you used raked stages here. That would be better for everyone, the dancers and the public too.”

Several names that drew popular attention here in 1986 are missing from the current prospectus. It is explained that Olga Chenchikova, remembered as a marvelously heroic Odette/Odile, is on maternity leave. Evgeny Kolobov, the fiery conductor, has moved on to a new post in Moscow.

Vinogradov becomes pensive and evasive at the mention of young Alexander Lunev, who had seemed a likely successor to the tragically lamented Yuri Soloviev.

“Lunev is ailing. He has a serious disease. His career may be in jeopardy. We miss him.”

Requests for more specific information are rejected. “It is not appropriate to talk of this,” says Vinogradov. Backstage sources suggest, however, that Lunev may suffer from alcoholism.

Perestroika and Dance

Vinogradov emphatically welcomes the recent changes in the Soviet perspective.

“The tours are easier now because of the change. It has become easier to live and breathe within the company. We managed to present contemporary ballets, by Bejart and Roland Petit and many young Russians, long before it was fashionable. You might say that perestroika came to the Kirov before it came to the Kremlin.

“Nevertheless, we still have to deal with officialdom. The bureaucracy still can be difficult.”

The bureaucracy has not precluded open visits, even negotiations, with some illustrious Kirov defectors.

“Makarova’s return to us was very emotional for everyone. The tension was absolutely incredible. She spent all the time with us here in New York, until she left today for London. She was at all the performances. We hope she will come to Leningrad again.

“Nureyev came and watched for a whole day. It made us all happy. These things would have been unthinkable before.”

If all goes as is hoped, Mikhail Baryshnikov will bring his American Ballet Theatre to Leningrad in the fall.

“I have something to offer him,” Vinogradov says. “But he seems evasive.

“It would be a good joint venture. The company remembers him, likes him. There are good feelings. An exchange of some sort would be very useful.

“I hope we can meet. We have not discussed our plans in detail. I have the feeling Baryshnikov does not want very much to talk.

“There are no reasons for this. Perhaps this is a difficult time for him. He just had a child. He has resigned from his post. I am told that there were difficulties with his ‘Swan Lake.’

“He lives his life as he must. He would be welcome in Leningrad at any moment. I have also invited him to dance at a gala celebrating the 100th birthday of Nijinsky on Dec. 20, 1989. So far no answer.”

Baryshnikov is moody, a visitor volunteers.

“He is Russian,” confirms Vinogradov. He grins knowingly.

‘Our Door Is Open’

Vinogradov, like the moody Baryshnikov, is no stranger to criticism.

“In Russia, the critics form cliques,” he laments. “Very often, a critic expresses the ideas of a specific camp. There is one camp in Leningrad that likes me, another that thinks I am ruining the Kirov. For them I can do nothing right.

“Perhaps they do not like me because I do my own business my own way. I am subservient to no one. I pay no attention, and go on doing what I think is right. (Yuri) Grigorovich faces similar problems at the Bolshoi.

“Some of the critics in Leningrad are former dancers or, worst of all, dancers whom I have protested and fired. They write out of revenge. Others are merely dilettantes.”

Vinogradov recently caused a small stir at home when he censored the annotation prepared for Balanchine’s “Scotch Symphony.”

“The article was shown to me too late. I could ask for no changes, so I decided that having no program would be better than having this program. The critic who wrote the article was expressing his own thoughts as if they came from Balanchine. They were dubious thoughts, and this was a young critic. That made it worse.”

The Leningrad audience, he finds, is often more open to novelty than is the press. “Some critics want nothing to change, ever. I want many things to change, and I think much of the public is on my side.”

He is eager to have more of what he regards as experimental dance in Leningrad, even though there seem to be some gaps in his knowledge of the avant garde. He professes no knowledge of Mark Morris, but great interest in Martha Graham and Jerome Robbins.

“I don’t want the Kirov to be separated from the rest of the world any more,” he exclaims. “Our door is open. It is open to choreographers and to dancers. I am not sure, however, if the United States really wants to send them.”

The historic but hasty guest appearance by Susan Jaffe apparently did not run as smoothly as one might have wished.

“She had a success, even though there were difficult moments. She was a bit capricious. There were problems in her adapting to our production. She danced only one performance. Still, I want to try this sort of exchange regularly.”

By a similar token, he wouldn’t mind seeing more of his own work on foreign stages. His most recent effort was a daring and distinctly individual version of “Petrushka” staged for the Scottish Ballet in Glasgow.

“I used an all-new libretto, different personages. I departed from tradition in every way, although of course I retained the Stravinsky score. There was no trace of Fokine. I made it a ballet about glasnost and perestroika .”

This revisionist “Petrushka” may lack a straw-clown hero, but the choreographer insists that it retains its theatricality.

“Everything I do,” says Oleg Vinogradov, is very theatrical. Absolutely.”

FO Altynai Assylmuratova (Aurora), Andrei Bosov as a suitor in “Sleeping Beauty.”