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Moscow
Stanislavsky Ballet
'Giselle'
by Toba
Singer
June 14, 2003 --
Orpheum Theatre, San Francisco
In this “Giselle,”
some of the names have changed. “Hilarion” is “Hans”and “Albrecht” is
“Albert.” Right from the start, this production bears the Stanislavsky
imprimatur. In nearly all versions I’ve seen, Hilarion is danced as a
colorless, feckless loser, who one can easily imagine boring Giselle,
if I may be allowed to say so, to death. (A notable exception is Cuban-trained
Jorge Esquivel’s Hilarion.) Here, Hans is an earnest, somewhat rakish
fellow, whose heart, while worn on his sleeve, is at the same time present
in his dancing and characterization. He is in no way a cipher: You know
this guy; he probably grew up in your neighborhood, and worked at
the local Home Depot. He’s stuck with a set where there’s just a cottage,
bench, hunter’s shed and no backdrop. Rumor has it—can anyone confirm?—that
the backdrop didn’t meet the fire code in Southern California, and was
dropped from the set. So, we would not have “seen” the forest or
the trees in this production were it not for Anton Domashev’s alternately
woodsy, alternately “aw shucks” dancing of the role of Hans. In this version,
staged by Tatiana Legat, Hans deposits a big bunch of purple flowers in
a vase tacked to the cottage doorsill. He is modest and unassuming down
to the last detail. Even a novice audience thus gains enough perspective
to be certain that Hans and Giselle are way too supplementary to make
a go of it as a complementary pair.
On the other hand, Hans’ rival, Albert, danced ever so perfectly by Georgy
Smilevsky, takes the stage by storm, all in white, every inch of him polished
to a high sheen. When Giselle (Natalia Krapivina) steps forth from her
cottage, we learn to our delight that we will know her by the gossamer
inclination of the head and extension of the arm and hand. In the courtship
segment, we see exquisite technique, tempi and full dramatic dispatch
of any body part that can send a subtle message. For example, her shoulder
retreats and the pectoral muscle juts forward in a mixed message of “No,
no!” and “Come hither” that could set back the anti-date rape “‘No’ Means
‘No’!” campaign several millennia. Contrarily, the “he loves me, he loves
me not” petal-pluck on the bench presses the comic element forward way
beyond the usual “cute.” In this version, Albert’s athletic single petal
toss cum jêté tells us he’s rounding the bases to home plate. In the confrontation
between Hans and Albert, Hans makes an amazingly sudden and defining transition
from bumbling to angry and determined. In this scene, the dancers confirm
that the Russians are obsessively concerned with just about every detail
except the pointed toe.
Without the dogs and pageantry of a full-scale production, the ambience
of noblesse is conveyed by the corps dressed in the shiny white of Albert’s
costume with a black stripe or a red or green—depending, one divines,
on the heraldry. The grandeur of the hunt is somewhat diminished by the
tiny size and sound of the horn that announces the hunting party. Bathilde’s
entrance in red and white is a set all unto itself. She (either O. Popova
or E. Bortchenko—the casting sheet did not specify) assumes full command
of the toddlin’ town that this little clearing in the woods has now become.
Every glance is in the imperative. Giselle takes an extra dip in her curtsey
when she is sent off for something for Bathilde to quaff. When Giselle
reverently touches Bathilde’s hem and moves to kiss it, Bathilde abruptly
pulls her dress elsewhere, taking not the slightest notice of Giselle’s
tribute. The Peasant Pas de Deux, danced by Ekaterina Safonova and Vitaly
Breusenko, is a bit uneven—with unsteady moments in the adage, and somewhat
tipsy pirouettes.
At first Giselle seems too girlish to go mad when the truth about Bathilde
and Albert is revealed to her. The role of Berta is low profile, and so
there’s not a lot of foreshadowing going on, and truthfully, Giselle seems
like such a casual girl that she’d just as likely grin and bear the troubling
news as she might a bad hair day. To make matters more confusing (to me),
Ms. Krapivina’s uncanny resemblance to the actress Sally Field in her
youth, makes you believe for a split second that you’ve been momentarily
transported back to the future to a scene from something credibly titled,
“Gidget Goes Crazy.” So, Stanislavksy notwithstanding, it takes a moment
or two to trust the believability of the mad scene. The sword brandishing
is, in my book, a test of its dramatic artistry. These dancers are expert
sword deployers and thanks to that, this scene more than makes the grade.
By the time we are back from the lobby for Act II, Ms. Krapivina as Giselle,
has matured considerably. In the company of her sister “Vilises” (Wilis),
who are quintessentially serene and bride-like in costumes that flatter
their perfect line, she now seems wise beyond her years. Her earlier coltishness
is absent in the pas de deux with Albert, here costumed in purple tights
and a black tunic. In their grief, they dance a paradox: A partnership
in solitude. She offers us a heavenly battue changement sauté, and breathtaking
moments in the coda, as she switches back and forth in the fouettés en
l’aire. Legat’s staging is brilliant here, as are the saut de Basques
she gives Myrtha (Oksana Kusmenko—who, incidentally, also dances the role
of Berta).
Myrtha’s unveiled bourée entrance is simpler and less dramatic than in
most versions, as is the brief voyagé by the corps, but the pristine angel
brides and flawless dancing by the entire company drive the production
values up into a cresting wave that carries it all the way through to
the story’s powerful dénouement. The Moscow Stanislavsky will enthrall
you!
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