So bad it’s good?
The critics sink their teeth into the Mikhailovsky Theater’s London debut with ‘Spartacus.’
The St. Petersburg Times
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Alexander Belenky / The St. Petersburg Times
Live tigers are used in ‘Spartak’ (‘Spartacus’) when it is performed by the Mikhailovsky Theater ballet troupe at its home theater in St. Petersburg.
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The multi-million dollar revamp of the Mikhailovsky Theater during the past year has included a cascade of new productions, eye-catching appointments to key artistic posts in both its opera and ballet companies, as well a spectacular facelift of its building on Ploshchad Iskusstv (Arts Square) in central St. Petersburg. Now the ballet company of the theater has followed the well-worn path to the west for a summer tour of two of its productions — “Giselle,” being performed this weekend — and “Spartacus,” which was presented on Tuesday and Wednesday. On Thursday, after the notoriously harsh London critics weighed in, the Mikhailovsky could be forgiven for wishing it had stayed at home. The Daily Telegraph These days more than ever, if you’re a first-rate dancer and you’re Russian, you’ll probably set your sights on Mariinsky or the Bolshoi, or else hop on a plane towards the great companies of the West. Which makes the position of St. Petersburg’s Mikhailovsky ballet (despite its distinguished age and rich history — the theatre was founded 175 years ago) an unenviable one, even though the company is now under the directorship of former Kirov firecracker Farukh Ruzimatov. Hopes, then, were not high for the Mikhailovsky’s first visit to London, or for choreographer George Kovtun’s new reworking of Grigorovich’s 1968 Soviet warhorse, Spartacus, with which the troupe opened its stay at the Coliseum. The Bolshoi has so often staged the story spectacularly, essentially using it as a showcase for the virile athleticism of its male leads. But, without Grigorovich’s muscular steps and such 24-carat talent on stage, what would there be to enjoy about this well-worn tale of the famous rebel slave? The answer is: a barrage of camp so brazen that (only partly deliberately, one heavily suspects) it’s one of the funniest things you’re likely to see on a major dance stage this year. From sets to costumes to performances, the entire production radiates a gold-plated, more-is-more, Caesar’s Palace razzmatazz, as well as a very Russian, unselfconscious melodrama. And once you realize that this is what you’re getting, resistance is oddly useless. Valeria (Irina Perren) rubs herself against Spartacus (Denis Matvienko) like a hungry pussycat against a sofa-leg. Spartacus, for his part, frugs against his cage bars like Brigitte Bardot in those hilarious late-Sixties movies. The soldiers keep doing ridiculous little can-can-esque knee kicks to one side, and, rather than smelling of blood and dust, the arena fights have a flouncy ooh-I’ll-scratch-your-eyes-out flavor. It’s all a long way from Gladiator. One of the chief flouncers is Matvienko. A rather skinny Spartacus, he has a certain feral energy to him and whipped up some decent fire with his celebratory tours at the end of Act 1. Yet his elevation was often disappointing, and his combination of leonine locks, silent-movie emoting and amusing wardrobe of little skirtlets (one in tiger print, no less) was endlessly entertaining, but perhaps not entirely in the way he would have liked. As for the other leads, Perren was a so-so Valeria, Nikita Dolgushin a slightly lumbering and constantly grinning Pompeius, Anastasia Matvienko a sexy Sabina, her legs shooting easily up to six o’clock, though let down by poor feet. The corps did their stuff gamely if unevenly. In general, Kovtun’s steps aren’t great. Beside the preposterous moves for the legions, the many solos and pas de deux may be jam-packed with superficially impressive groin-stretching leaps and high-kicks, and complex lifts too, but the latter in particular tend to add little in terms of character development or psychological impact and tend simply to look effortful. One must lay some of the blame at the dancers’ door, though. Stick (say) Carlos Acosta and Tamara Rojo in the leads, and how different the effect might have been. Great ballet this isn’t. But great fun? Certainly. What the Mikhailovsky will make of Giselle and its mixed bill later this week, of course, remains to be seen. —Mark Monahan The Evening Standard Ballet fans faced a bleak summer without the usual visit from the Bolshoi or Kirov, and struggled to accept that the Mikhailovsky Ballet would be anything like a replacement. St. Petersburg’s second troupe, formerly known as the Maly, is not in the same league as Russia’s two biggies but at last night’s opening performance it proved an unexpected and spectacular alternative. For its UK premiere the company, now directed by Farukh Ruzimatov whom you may remember from his Kirov days (he was a regular on its London visits), danced a new production of Spartacus. To call this ballet lurid, gaudy and flamboyant doesn’t begin to convey its over-the-top hilarity. It’s like Shirley Bassey, The Battle of Britain and Carry on Caligula rolled into one, with cartoon baddies, Bacchanites, and what look suspiciously like mullet hair-dos. It obviously bears only passing resemblance to the story of the Spartan slave revolt, and people of taste will rightly tear their hair at its vulgarity, bombast and melodrama. It is, truly, beyond bonkers. But who cares? It is one of the best worst things I’ve seen for years, and you will laugh out loud at its flashy, trashy good fun. Khachaturian’s music is pure Vegas, the singers move lumpenly, and the acting - let’s just say it makes Sid James look like a man of restraint. There have even been rumors of live tigers at its recent Russian premier, a story so good you don’t want to check and find it’s untrue. Add to that the kipper feet in the corps de ballet, and you probably think I’ve lost my head. Saving it all are the leading four dancers, who are both committed and sensational. How Marat Shemiunov (Crassus) can wear a loincloth and a straight face I do not know, while Spartacus (Denis Matvienko) manages to dance in a tasseled codpiece. Both are cracking movers and the duets with their respective leading ladies, Sabina (Anastasia Matvienko) and Valeria (Irina Perren), will have you wide-eyed. The choreography is by George Kovtun, a Russian you won’t have heard of, and the clever flexi sets, albeit improbable props, are by Vyacheslav Okunev, another Russian you probably won’t know. The whole shebang cost a bone-crunching $3.5million, and many will think it wasteful hoke. I, however, think it’s worth every sidesplitting penny. — Sarah Frater The Times The Mikhailovsky Theatre (formerly the Maly) is St Petersburg’s other great ballet and opera institution, with roots going back to 1833 and a history of artists that includes Prokofiev, Shostakovich and Balanchine. These days it enjoys the patronage of the Russian businessman Vladimir Kekhman, who not only paid to renovate the theatre (more than ?12 million) but also to produce its splashy new Spartacus. Actually, to call this epic gladiator ballet splashy is to sell it well short. It’s overwhelming. With a price tag of ?1.8 million and a cast of 200 (150 dancers and a 50-strong chorus), this is Spartacus as a massive Bollywood extravaganza. George Kovtun, who choreographed it, has clearly been influenced by Yuri Grigorovich’s beefy Soviet staging (for years the Bolshoi’s calling card abroad), but Kovtun’s clamorous remake offers even more blunt force trauma. His favorite motif is testosterone on the move (gladiators and centurions, swords and shields flying); his favorite vocabulary is brazenly acrobatic (the lifts are scary!) and low on inspiration – vulgarity meets Viagra. As for the storytelling, it’s wildly unbalanced, with too much attention paid to Crassus, our villain, and not enough to Spartacus, our hero. And the plot is more or less abandoned in a dreary and overlong second act that seems to think it’s a series of lurid divertissements rather than a dramatic ballet. But Act I is an astonishing theatrical steamroller, its finale of rebellious slaves crashing into the interval like a herd of marauding rugby players. The sets are dark and looming, the tacky costumes evocative of a bad Ancient Roman costume party. The Mikhailovsky’s 80-strong orchestra, under Karen Durgarian’s zealous conducting, plays Khachaturian with staggering loudness. Denis Matvienko is terrific as Spartacus, a fearless freedom fighter with a true heart and a bold heroic sweep to his dancing that energizes the entire evening and makes sense of the nonsense. As Crassus, Marat Shemiunov exudes patrician vanity, though his acting is hopelessly melodramatic. Irina Perren is given short shrift as Spartacus’s beloved Valeria but still shines tenderly. And Anastasia Matvienko has the most fun as Crassus’s courtesan girlfriend, shooting her legs into the air in a fabulous display of hussy extensions. The production may display more money than sense, but if it’s spectacle you want it can’t be beat. — Debra Craine
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