In the gloaming of a frosty Richmond night, the jewel of its eponymous theatre played host to the Russian Classical Ballet Theatre's Swan Lake. Show-cased by dynamo-producer Ellen Kent (celebrating ten years' commitment to the dissemination of Eastern European ballet) Tchaikovsky's work may have had its wings clipped by the relative diminuition of an adoptive stage, but its exposition expressed doughty enthusiasm and esprit de corps, as more than fifty dancers took to the floor. In this they were ambitious, for proceedings were a trifle helter-skelter as the comely confines of the venue's boards struggled to contain a whiteness of feathered gesture and bird-like bodies. Despite a certain stiffness on his part, conductor Yuriy Yakovenko's orchestra interpreted the score's intricacies and swan theme leitmotif with assurance. Notably, the outstanding lady harpist wrought pain and pathos from her gilded instrument in moving measure.
Husband and wife, Alexei and Kristina Terentiev, headlined a roll-call straight from central casting. Prince Siegfried smouldered and emoted like a young Franco Nero: this stud-muffin pose involving much chest-beating but a paucity of dancing. When he did break a sweat, things looked up - alas, he preferred his lovely wife's Odette to prance, pout and preen (shades of Victoria Beckham) and a pretty good job she did of it too. Together, they danced up a star-struck storm, but the balance of power was never entirely satisfactory. If the audience wanted more of shapely Alexei's athletic pyrothechnics, they were disappointed.
      The etiolated form of Romano Taranenko's evil genius, Baron von Rothbart was textbook Svengali in his spiderly menace. More disturbing still, one was reminded of television rocker Jimmy Nail, not known for his balletic skills. However, Taranenko's insect grace (accentuated by spandex strides, breast-plate and crimped wings) helped overcome this identity crisis. The courtier-clown was another memorable character. Anton Udalov imbued him with terrific camp humour and outlandish exagerration. In leaps and bounds he dazzled with agile, airborn splits. Siegfried’s stately mother was initially a paragon of regal bearing, although latterly a little unsteady on her feet.
     The performance was by no means pitch perfect: in a bevy, one or two swans were apt to lose their balance, and even our loved birds had difficulties. Dervish-like, Odette pirouetted herself into a brief tail-spin; while her swain almost flew off into the wings in a moment of madness. Such hiccups were forgiven when one allowed that cramped conditions facilitated clumsiness. Purists might sniff, but this was heart-warming stuff.
Caroline Kellett Fraysse