DANCE REVIEW : American Ballet Theatre Brings a Bland ‘Bayadere’ to Orange County

“La Bayadere,” which American Ballet Theatre introduced to Orange County at the Performing Arts Center on Tuesday, made a huge impression on St. Petersburg when it was new in 1877.

The grand ballet, a.k.a. “Bayaderka,” had everything: modish mock-Indian exoticism, rinky-dink music by one Ludwig Minkus, slinky temple rituals, a convoluted melodramatic plot involving undying love and terminal hate and exquisite ghosts and poisonous snakes and vindictive gods and twirling idols and innocently picturesque opium dreams. It had all this pizazz, and pristine Petipa classicism too.

For some reason, “Bayadere” did not travel well. Companies outside Russia finally caught up with the geometric, white-tutu glories of the Kingdom of the Shades episode only in 1961. That isolated orgy of arabesques eventually became the focal point of a celebrated Hollywood soap opera. But the rest of the extravaganza remained a sleeping beauty in the West until Natalia Makarova kissed it back to life on behalf of American Ballet Theatre in 1980.

No expense, as they like to say, was spared in her staging. PierLuigi Samaritani designed lavish, literal decors that would have looked terrific in any Cecil B. DeMille spectacular. Theoni V. Aldredge wrapped the company in miles of feathers, tassels, beads and gauze.

John Lanchbery recrafted the glitzy tunes that happen to accompany fatal intrigues bonding squiggly fakirs, sleek temple virgins, a fatally jealous princess, a noble warrior and a pop-eyed Brahmin villain, not to mention assorted slaves and priests. Did we hear a waltz?

Most important, Makarova--an authentic veteran of many Kirov wars--pieced together a choreographic collage that fused the finest tippy-toe exercises with enlightened caractere kitsch. This “Bayadere” had to be hopelessly, outrageously, unabashedly silly. Still, it was fun.

The fun was mitigated, perhaps, by a superabundance of narrative padding and decorative posing. In context, no one minded. It was good at last to see a reasonable facsimile of this historic milestone, and it was rewarding to watch a parade of appreciative extroverts chew the canvas scenery.

Makarova and Martine van Hamel, among others, lent sympathetic flesh and blood to the quaint titular victim. Anthony Dowell, Alexander Godunov and Fernando Bujones took illustrative turns leaping to the hero’s dope pipe. Cynthia Gregory gobbled up the stage, and any innocent bystanders, in the evil broodings of the Other Woman.

These artists took the silliness seriously. In the process, they forced the viewer to do the same.

The current cast doesn’t seem to command that sort of conviction.

Susan Jaffe, who has inherited the central duties of Nikiya, looked determinedly seductive in her bejeweled harem pants on Tuesday, brought supple insinuation to the dubious rites of religious purity, and, post balletic mortem, floated pleasantly through the haze of tutus and veils. Unfortunately, she seemed to be doing all this by rote.

Leslie Browne played mean Amneris to this ethereal Aida. On this occasion, she seemed to lack the technical security to glitter in Gamzatti’s bravura indulgences, and, despite her usual histrionic skill, ended up projecting petty petulance when we needed deadly hauteur.

Ricardo Bustamante, moving up fast (too fast?) in the danseur-noble ranks, showed a fine command of Solor’s fearsome pyrotechnics. He danced with ease, clarity, even elegance. He partnered both ballerinas with nonchalant strength. He told us nothing, however, about the character, his desperate ardor or his hopeless predicament.

The supporting cast of thousands was reasonably well populated. Victor Barbee displayed his muscular arms and glowered formidably as the top Brahmin. Michael Owen oozed quiet menace as the not-so-jolly rajah. Keith Roberts crept and crawled nicely as the creepy-crawly chief fakir. Replacing the injured Johan Renvall, Gil Boggs flew about the temple with frantic, imposing abandon as the golden idol.

Even with the reassuring presense of the fabled Irina Kolpakova among the coaches, a rather shaky corps turned the realm of the shades into a wild, wild kingdom. The three solo visions--Amy Rose, Shawn Black and Gabrielle Brown--cast needlessly pale shadows.

Charles Barker conducted an excellent pit orchestra, culled from the Pacific Symphony, neatly and attentively. Given the quality of the pastiche score, it may be unreasonable to wish for more than that.

This was a good night for cliches. It was a bad night for inspiration.