Fatal vision
The Bolshoi Ballet's Swan Lake is a brash spectacle.

By Rita Felciano

SWAN LAKE IS a sturdy ballet. It has survived innumerable rebirths since its second incarnation, in 1895, when Marius Petipa and Lev Ivanov rearranged the score Tchaikovsky had written almost 20 years earlier for a production that had been declared a failure. So Yuri Grigorovich's stripped-down version for the Bolshoi Ballet – showcased Nov. 6 through 10 at UC Berkeley's Zellerbach Hall – is in good company.

Grigorovich keeps the general outline of Swan Lake's story about a wedding-resistant prince, Siegfried (Andrey Uvarov), who falls in love with a mythic half-woman, half-swan, Odette (Nadezhda Gracheva), only to betray her when she appears to him in disguise as Odile. In the original tale the swans are young girls transformed by a sorcerer named Rothbart. In Grigorovich's version Rothbart is the Evil Genius (Dmitry Belogolovtsev), an extension of the prince's darker self, of forces within and outside him from which he cannot escape. This alteration makes the prince a classic victim of circumstance. From the moment the Evil Genius appears and physically pulls Siegfried into his aura, he becomes a partner in the prince's encounters with Odette/Odile. The idea works, even though it diminishes the prince's stature; by eliminating Siegfried's guilt, Grigorovich's Swan Lake turns tragedy into psychological drama. Significantly, at the end Siegfried doesn't die but is condemned to keep living.

Grigorovich's second major change is less successful. He eliminates everything that is not pure dance. There are no storytelling elements, there is no mime to fill us in about who is who and why people are acting the way they are. He assumes, probably correctly, that the audience knows the story. But the richness of characterization and dramatic interaction is diminished because, for instance, Siegfried and his mother – or Odette and Siegfried – never "talk" with each other. The court also looks monochromatic without the villagers in the first act or the national dances in the third act.

Outfitting the dancers in the noisiest point shoes in the world, which make the ensemble sound like a clogging contest at times, this Swan Lake also suffers from some dreadful production values. The castle looks like an overgrown log cabin with gothic windows and chandeliers; the shadowy lakeside is dominated by a bald mountain rock that is never used, and some costumes look like they have been tailored from leftover curtains.

But Swan Lake is about dancing, and here the Bolshoi – despite a surprising number of glitches and near misses on opening night – shines. The Bolshoi style, with its blatant "Here I am! Admire me!" theatricality, takes some getting used to. Subtle it isn't. The preparations practically prompt you for applause. The gestures are large and expansive. It's all very superficial, yet there is exuberance, great technique, and stylistic cohesion.

Though at this point the Bolshoi does not have great individual dancers, the ensemble work can be breathtaking. The first act's impressive court dances – particularly the waltz and the polacca – may have looked cramped on the Zellerbach stage, but they are spirited and dramatic. Balancing these large group dances are two pas de trois, a lovely intimate one for Siegfried and two yellow-skirted "friends" (Elena Andrienko and Marianna Ryzhkina) and a rather amusing, somewhat tottering one for the tutor (Andrey Sitnikov) and two unnamed women.

The Bolshoi's women shine in the second act's lake scene, where the formations of the swan maidens – serpentines, circles, and small groups – shifted as naturally as lapping waves. However, I would vote for the permanent banning of the end-of-act cygnet number. The four bobbing swanlets always look like they've dropped in by mistake from central casting.

Blessed with a beautifully articulate upper body, Gracheva was their queen. Fragile and trembling with intensity, she danced Odette almost fatalistically, wanting to believe in Siegfried yet knowing that this love was not going to last. As Odile she showed tremendous self-assurance, to the point of willfully teasing him with suggestions of the Odette character. She was so sure of his desire that she used her legs – either in six o'clock extension or in arabesques – like exclamation points underlining her victory.

Uvarov – long limbed, tall, and refined – looked every inch the prince. However, he impressed more with his gallantry – to the prospective brides, to his mother and the tutor – than with his ardor in wooing Odette/Odile. Technically elegant, with good elevation and often fine finishes to his phrases, Uvarov is a worthy, but not great, Siegfried.