| The Rite of Spring was staged at the Russian Seasons Theater Five years ago, at the Russian Seasons Theater, “The Rite of Spring” was staged by butoh dance preacher Min Tanaka. “Russian Seasons” had existed for six years by that time; their permanent leader, former dancer of the Moiseev ensemble Nikolai Androsov, firmly led the dancing people along a proven commercial path: pop dances were crossed with folk dances and sold in Asian markets. I don’t know who in this business group came up with the idea to invite the Japanese anarchist intellectual Tanaka to the production. I only know that five years ago, the artists, accustomed to Cossack dances, began to move among the cobblestones laid out on the stage with concentration and heaviness, following the butoh ideology, which states that any movement grows from the ground. And I know that fellow critics have included the theater with the pretentious name “Russian Seasons” on the list of troupes whose premieres should not be missed. Now Nikolai Androsov has staged The Rite of Spring again. Everything, my friends, theater can be taken from that very list.
This is again a commercial product of the “Arbat” level. Well, on the tray there are not earflaps and balalaikas, but Diaghilev’s myth, still popular in ballet countries. On the program of Androsov's "Spring" there is a dedication to Vaslav Nijinsky's "Spring", made 90 years ago. From our table to your table. And please don’t flinch, Vaclav Fomich, we are loving.
The Meyerhold Center allows you to change the traditional layout of the hall, and here the director used its capabilities. The audience sits on four sides, in the center there is a square of space given to the dancers. This square is highlighted by a low fence (thick branches are poorly secured to low holders - sometimes they fell on spectators in the first row). In one of the corners there is attached... perhaps a mop, a straw wig is placed on it and some kind of rag is thrown over it. A scarecrow, in general. A square table is pressed against the opposite corner. When the audience enters the hall, a man in a canvas shirt, matching pants and a disheveled gray wig is sitting on the table. This is a guest artist - Bolshoi Theater soloist Vladimir Moiseev. In “Pictures of Pagan Rus'” he is the main shaman. The rest of the troupe, also in canvas (only the women have shirts down to their toes), lie crouched on the floor.
A creature in flesh-colored tights with half-face eyes approaches the man, plasters himself, and wraps himself around him. This will be our Chosen One, whom the ancient Russians will sacrifice in the spring (Oksana Mironova, who graduated from not just anything, but the Vaganova School - although that was ten years ago). The shaman must fulfill his duty - give the girl to the crowd. And he feels sorry for her.
Actually, Androsov staged a play about the mental tossing of a shaman - and Vladimir Moiseev furiously fussed with his face, threw himself on his knees in front of a mop, ran around the stage at the feet of the audience and stretched his hands over the girl’s head. At the same time, the crowd walked in a line (turning in profile, reminiscent of the original performance, but periodically forgot about keeping their legs wrapped and returned to a slender ballet step), collected something from the floor with their fingers and put it in their mouth and naturally danced the twist - as in “Prisoner of the Caucasus.” But all the dancers felt happy and free only when all the lyrical round dances were over and the opportunity arose to jump to their heart’s content. How the men jumped through the middle! At the same time, you remember, the platform is in the center of the hall, and it’s quite small. When one of the men took off, remembering the hopak or zhok, it seemed that he would land in the middle of the third row. And still I wanted to immediately forgive the senseless ugliness of the choreography - it was clear that people were doing something that they knew how to do. Even the Chosen One's solo on the table did not completely erase this impression - although the girl, spinning around her axis, for some reason threw her legs like a soldier of the Kremlin guard. But when in the second part they played the one-act “Angel” to the music of Astor Piazzola and a dancer on pointe joined the gloomy tangueros and sultry ladies (she was an angel), it became clear that in an effort to cover up their previous experience, their black bread with all sorts of shiny Androsov will go far with nonsense. And he will stop at nothing. Anna GORDEEVA |
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