TROUBLES AT THE JOFFREY : DANCE REVIEW : A Glitzy Premiere Masks Woes

On the surface, it looked like another op’nin’, another show for the Joffrey Ballet.

Wednesday night at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, the typical triple bill began with some old neo-classical kitsch and ended with a spangly new ode to the faded glories of vaudeville. Both instant crowd-pleasers were choreographed by the official keeper of the Joffrey flame, Gerald Arpino.

In between came a knowing nod in the direction of dainty romanticism. Eclecticism remains a Joffrey speciality.

The dancing, throughout, reflected the customary high spirits complemented by reasonably high finesse. Although the faces in the company change, the gutsy attitudes do not.

Still, it couldn’t have been business as usual on this occasion. Few in the dressy, unruly, non-capacity audience for this non-gala gala may have known it, but the show went on while the company confronted chronic, possibly fatal, turmoil behind the scenes.

Financial crises clouded the horizon. The trustees and administrators were engaged in savage internal warfare. Loyalties were polarized.

Resignations and defections had begun to pile up. Accusations and counter-accusations echoed from coast to coast. Arpino’s continuing role as artistic director languished in doubt. So, for that matter, did the immediate survival of the Arpino-Joffrey oeuvre as we have long known and sometimes loved it.

Ironically, the inaugural festivities at the Music Center accentuated the negative in matters of repertory. Arpino’s “Italian Suite,” first seen in 1983, is little more than a collection of amiable cliches. The frantic cheer is filtered through cloying rosy lights, and propelled by speedy steps and athletic contortions that contradict the impulses of Wolf-Ferrari gurgling in the pit.

Nothing offensive can happen here. Nothing memorable can happen, either. It is all too pat, too predictable, too eager to attract at the most obvious level.

At least “Italian Suite” isn’t pretentious. That cannot be said of “The Pantages and the Palace Present ‘TWO-A-DAY.’ ”

Arpino’s latest show-biz extravaganza is a splashy, glitzy, costly, witless production number. Also a massive bore.

It looks nice, in its defiantly tasteless and nostalgic way. It lacks focus, however. It lacks purpose. It lacks balletic interest. It lacks point, not to mention a point of view.

It pretends to revere the traditions of the all-American variety show, as sandwiched between sagas of the Silver Screen. The idea isn’t original, but there may be some life in it yet.

Not here.

Arpino can’t seem to decide if he wants to glorify the past or to satirize it. He doesn’t seem sure if he wants his eager cast to dance or just to mug. He ends up falling between most of the stylistic chairs for 40 ponderous minutes.

The first damaging clues come from the pit. The choreographer--who is also credited with the “conception”--could have exhumed some great period ditties. On the other hand, he could have commissioned a new score predicated on illuminating parody. Instead, he engaged Elliot Kaplan to rework some limp platitudes written by none other than Rebekah Harkness, a patron of the arts who was blessed with more money than talent. Some of her money, not incidentally, underwrote this dubious venture.

The proceedings begin irrelevantly with the final teary snippets of “A Star Is Born,” the 1937 version featuring Janet Gaynor. The printed program then promises “The Voice” of “The Incomparable Mr. Tony Randall.” It eluded these ears.

The parade of impersonations begins as Jodie Gates invokes Sally Rand’s fans but not her bare skin. Elizabeth Parker and six attending swells do an ersatz tap routine. Time dips back to Mack Sennett for a fatuous bathing-beauty number in which Peter Narbutas flexes his biceps while flirting with a bump and grind.

Julie Janus and Tom Mossbrucker indulge in a would-be exotic harem duet in which the hero suggests more of Valentino than Nijinsky. Beatriz Rodriguez, eternally typecast as the sizzling Latina, leads a sort-of-Spanish divertissement. Carole Valleskey undulates filmy butterfly wings in the manner of Loie Fuller. Tina LeBlanc, petite and eternally innocent, descends from the flies on a wired crescent moon in a fruitless fabrication of the sexy Marilyn Miller mystique.

Finally, and not a moment too soon, everyone comes back for a valedictory Charleston climax. It was choreographed not by Arpino but by Louis Johnson.

The participants give their all for their boss in the various thankless charades. There is a lot of talent here, most of it smothered in gook. For better and worse, Gerald Arpino may just be the Andrew Lloyd Webber of dance.

For at least one ungrateful viewer, the greatest satisfactions of the evening involved the ancient lightweight charms of Arthur Saint-Leon’s “La Vivandiere.” In the pas de six , the exquisite Tina LeBlanc and the mercurial Edward Stierle were fleetly seconded by Cameron Baden, Jodie Gates, Cynthia Giannini and Kim Sagani.

Here one could savor ballet without padding, without puffery, without false sentiment and without gimmickry. It was reassuring.