BALLET REVIEW : ABT Recycles ‘Don Quixote’
COSTA MESA — Nobody, not even the most deliriously myopic balletomane, ever claimed that “Don Quixote†was a masterpiece.
Marius Petipa’s creaky old showpiece trivializes Cervantes, demotes the title character to a walk-on, forces a marriage between Russian classicism and mock-Spanish ritual, and drafts a rinky-dink score by Ludwig Minkus to decorate a silly succession of bravura displays that habitually give way to character diversions.
Still, every Don has his day. If a company manages to take the work seriously on its own quaint terms, and if--a bigger if --that company can find high-powered, charismatic virtuosos for the central roles, the ballet still exerts considerable charm.
The Bolshoi proved the point in the 1960s, when Maya Plisetskaya and Ekaterina Maximova gave vastly dissimilar, utterly compelling performances in the central role of Kitri, the Innkeeper’s flirtatious daughter. Plisetskaya gobbled up the stage by herself in those distant days, blankly partnered by one Vladimir Tikhonov as Basil, the scheming barber of La Mancha. Maximova enjoyed the advantage of a dazzling playmate: the chronically cheeky, terminally debonair Vladimir Vasiliev.
American Ballet Theatre mounted a domestic “Don Q†back in 1978, by and for Mikhail Baryshnikov (the Kitris included such diverse paragons as Gelsey Kirkland, Natalia Makarova and Cynthia Gregory). Mass audiences almost always loved it. Aficionados at least liked it--on those lucky nights when the right dancers happened to illuminate the right roles.
When Baryshnikov left ABT in a cloud of acrimony a few years ago, he took his staging with him--leaving behind only the fancy sets and empty costumes. Not wanting to waste a profitable product, the management invited none other than Vladimir Vasiliev to fulfill the impossible dream of a new “Don Q.â€
Did I say new ? Well, everything is relative.
Vasiliev’s production, which opened a seven-performance stand Tuesday at the Orange County Performing Arts Center, is predicated rather loosely on a complex combination of Russian traditions. It offers a vast hodgepodge of choreographic inventions amid a strange mishmash of musical impulses.
The familiar maneuvers are attributed to Petipa and his immediate successor, Alexander Gorsky. Additional choreography comes from Kasyan Goleizovsky and, of course, Vasiliev himself, not to mention some uncredited ghosts.
Minkus’ relentlessly cheery tunes are augmented by contributions from Valery Zhelobinsky, Anton Simon, Cesare Pugni, Riccardo Drigo, Rheinhold Gliere, Yuly Gerberg and Eduard Napravnik.
Santo Loquasto’s fading decors have been augmented, moreover, by contributions from Lyn Carroll and Michael Miller. Someone has decided to scrap the tavern scene backdrop in favor of black curtains.
Too many cooks?
Probably.
The surface-pretty result is an incoherent conglomeration of tired routines and vapid cliches. Still, Vasiliev’s carnival could be fun, if only it were populated with inspired and authoritative extroverts.
No such luck. The modest opening-night cast worked hard. Everyone looked conscientious. Still, it wasn’t enough. The scattered sparks refused to ignite.
Cynthia Harvey introduced a sophisticated, prim and pallid Kitri. That must be something of an oxymoron.
She plunged into knowing arabesques. She knocked off reasonable fouettes. She literally threw herself into her partner’s arms, sideways, in the tavern scene. She floated bravely in the infamous one-arm lifts. She did all this, however, with muted energy and neutral characterization. One waited in vain for passion, for flashes of mischief, for erotic allure.
It isn’t exactly a compliment to say that she was suitably partnered by the cool and bland Basil of Wes Chapman. Despite some moments of strain, he danced with proper speed, with welcome security and clarity. If the observer squinted at the stage, however, this hero tended to blend with the corps de ballet.
Vasiliev has enlarged the secondary duties of Mercedes, the street dancer, and Espada, the matador. The willowy Christine Dunham made much of her opportunity, whether in delicate toe shoes or gypsy-pipsy heels. Guillaume Graffin swaggered so nicely as the bullfighter that one almost didn’t notice his technical limitations.
Deirdre Carberry and Christina Fagundes flitted neatly as ubiquitous flower girls. Claudia Alfieri traipsed sweetly as Cupid in the muddled dream sequence. Veronica Lynn--daughter of the fondly remembered ballerina Lupe Serrano--revealed welcome amplitude as the Dryad Queen.
The mime roles were unevenly cast. Mark Grothman wandered through the proceedings as a patently immature knight with a mournful countenance painted on. Terrence Orr bumbled appreciatively as an underemployed Sancho Panza. Victor Barbee--sole holdover from the Baryshnikov premiere--once again made Gamache an agreeably fatuous fop.
The corps looked ragged. Still, it didn’t look as ragged as the Pacific Symphony sounded. Emil de Cou was the accommodating conductor.
Santo Loquasto’s window-dressing sets and chi-chi costumes have seen better days. So, for that matter, has American Ballet Theatre.
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