The Russians are famous for their Bayadére and the Kirov undoubtedly set the benchmark in this regard. As the lights went down I was conscious that any opportunity for judicious appraisal may dissolve in the face of something so exquisite, so enrapturing, that it defied criticism or, at the very least, deceived this swooning reviewer of her critical faculties, resulting in a hopelessly rose-tinted critique.
      From the High Brahmin down to the lowliest slave, the Kirov were on spectacular form: clean, tight technique blessed with that sublime artistry which is both their fortÈ and their inheritance. The fact that the company can give the lead role of the eponymous temple dancer to a young member of the corps de ballet (the stunning Viktoria Tereshkina) and that she can perform it with the flawless technique and breathtaking expressiveness of an experienced principal, speaks volumes about the calibre of the Kirov dancers. With its emphasis on the openness of the upper body and the movement of the whole as a harmonious musculature, the strict Vaganova training method continues to produce Russian dancers who leave their European and American counterparts in the shade.
      Which brings us to the celebrated third act of La Bayadére. The Kingdom of the Shades is one of the choreographic marvels of the modern world, a mythical scene which opens with a long train of 32 dancers criss-crossing the stage in an apparently never-ending succession of synchronised arabesques. In the hands of most companies, the entrance is effective; in the beautiful hands of The Kirov Ballet, it is spell-binding. The stylistic uniformity and strong technique of the Kirov's corps de ballet is one of their greatest strengths as a company and is nowhere more dazzlingly displayed than in the technically demanding passages of this famous scene.
      In its entirety, La Bayadére has all the hallmarks of Marius Petipa's intensely lyrical choreographic style with its neo-classical majesty and its achingly beautiful pas de deux. It is often considered Petipa's most successful ballet and, in many ways, is a sub-continental variation on Swan Lake with its spectral maidens and jilted lovers. The version performed by the Kirov this season is not the reconstituted 1900 Mariinsky production that they performed in London in 2003, but the Soviet version of 1941 which excludes the fourth act (in which the gods avenge the murder of Nikiya by destroying the temple). This production also includes more dancing, a welcome relief in a ballet almost too thick with narrative and sometimes weighed down by long spells of story-driven gesture, particularly in the opening act.
      Viktoria Tereshkina approached the lead role of Nikiya with a purity and fragility that was utterly beguiling. Nikiya's solos are among the most difficult in Petipa's repertoire and they were made to look effortless, so fluid and accomplished was Tereshkina's dancing (with the singular exception of an exit in which she unfortunately collided with a curtain). Tereshkina's carriage of herself is supremely elegant, with a long neck guiding an expansive breadth of movement of the upper body and ending in impressive extensions. The grand pas de deux between Nikiya and her beloved Solor showcased Tereshkina's suppleness and preternaturally beautiful arms to stunning effect in a series of complicated jumps, turns and lifts, and a superb adage in the Kingdom of the Shades.
      If Anton Korsakov as Solor was a sympathetic partner, he was also an outstanding soloist, as at ease with the dramatic Hindu gestures, all broken wrists and cocked heads, as he was with the sweeping classical statements. He is a dancer in the tradition of Nureyev and Baryshnikov, marrying tremendous strength with great artistic sensibility; his jetÈs are light as air, his turns assured and finished with finesse. I don't know what the Russians put in their potatoes but they consistently produce male dancers who are capable of combining virility and delicacy in a single movement.
      It is easy to see why Solor's head was turned by Irina Golub's Gamzatti. Alluring and sensual in his company, she only reveals her more sinister streak when faced with her competition. She too enjoyed a beautiful pas de deux with the indecisive warrior, carrying off a number of challenging promenades and lifts with great skill and expression; and, in a virtuoso display of subjugation, executing 24 fouettÈs perfectly before having her rival Nikiya put to death.
      Of the supporting character roles, the most striking and memorable were Vladimir Ponomarev's merciless High Brahmin, who carried a great deal of the narrative along with his dramatic gesturing; Nikolai Zubkovsky's almost feral fakir; and Grigory Popov as the Golden Idol, offering the requisite fireworks by performing a dazzling display of high leaps at the court of the Rajah Dugmanta.
      Despite the across-the-board faultlessness of much of the dancing, the Kirov's La Bayadére could not possibly have been as ravishing as it was without the vivid evocation of the sun-baked Indian setting provided by the set, costume and lighting design. The opening act was a vision of bare-chested and bare-bellied beauties languishing among the lush vegetation, intricate Moghul architecture and towering Himalayas of the sub-continent.
      The second act, set in the Rajah's court, was redolent of a sensuous Alma Tadema scene with lavish furnishings and some brilliant trompe l'oeil architectural effects. This extravagant design teetered close to parody, however, with the typically 19th-century use of a menagerie of stuffed tropical animals to suggest the exotic: a boxy elephant with a nodding head, some rigid green parrots sitting obediently on the dancers' fingers, and a tiger who looked poorly enough that he could conceivably have been revived from the original 1900 production. Although beautiful, Minkus's score with its imperial Viennese melodies seemed likewise ill-suited to the Indian temple setting. But with such a feast for the eyes, how could the ears complain?
Nina Miall