Moscow Classical Ballet Spindles Scripture With Its Sickle

Last week the Orange County Performing Arts Center played host to six days of performances by the Moscow Classical Ballet, most of whose members had never before appeared in the West.

The company offered local balletomanes a fresh batch of talent from the motherland of high-flying, gymnastic ballet. I found the visit more intriguing, though, for the slant on Scripture and Christianity that figured heavily into two of the featured works.

Audiences here have to know that any touring group of Soviet artists carries with it the government’s tacit seal of approval, certainly far more than your stock U.S. ballet company does or dance groups do from other Free World nations.

And in this case, approval comes from a government that is, by charter, atheist.

So what were these Muscovites doing presenting the Genesis-inspired “Adam and Eve” sequence from “The Creation of the World,” by artistic directors Natalia Kasatkina and Vladimir Vasiliov?

And what was behind the subtle but significant departures from Shakespeare in “Romeo and Juliet”?

Superficially, the seeming openness toward religion appeared to parallel the social, political and economic changes sweeping the Soviet Union under Mikhail S. Gorbachev.

The quasicomic “Adam and Eve” makes no effort to hide its biblical source in its version of the “Ascent of Man”: A hirsute God creates Man and deposits him in Eden, where a red-leotarded Devil promptly enlists a shapely female assistant to supply a crash course in Temptation. God responds by giving Adam the world’s first rib-ectomy, from which springs-- voila !--Eve.

But just when you’re beginning to wonder if Soviet officials have gone soft on the Bible, the story changes. Although they are expelled from Paradise for craving apples, Adam and Eve fall in love and seem relatively happy at the end of the act. They go forth into the world, and God creates neighbors for them. Presumably, the back-yard barbecue and Tupperware parties aren’t far behind.

Then comes a coda full of goofy solo spots for Adam, Eve, God, the Devil and the She-Devil--sentencing the audience, at least, to Ballet Hell.

Now, when God takes a solo, you would expect an absolutely dazzling turn--after all, this is supposed to be The Guy who wrote the instruction manual for Balanchine and Baryshnikov.

Instead, it was downright silly, making God and the Devil equally laughable characters. Marx would have been proud--Karl and Groucho.

In retrospect, it is difficult not to interpret the whole segment as ridiculing Scripture rather than embracing it. The underlying message? Only when man (and woman) can break out of the bonds of religious servitude is he truly free and, thus, happy. In other words, workers of the world unite--you have nothing to lose but your fresh produce.

In “Romeo and Juliet,” the character of Friar Laurence is promoted from the supporting role he plays in Shakespeare to a central figure. A huge cross figures prominently in several scenes. If that wasn’t enough, the creators of this version threw in lots of extra monks in white robes.

Again, on the surface it might look as if religion is experiencing its own form of perestroika .

But the way that religion figures into the classic tragedy tells another story. In Shakespeare, when Friar Laurence devises the scheme for Juliet to drink a potion that will make her appear dead--and thus less attractive to Paris as a mate--he enlists a messenger to tell Romeo of the plan and to meet her in the Capulet family crypt and wait for her to awake.

Naturally (it is a tragedy) the messenger doesn’t reach him in time, so Romeo presumes her dead and takes his own life, prompting Juliet to do the same when she wakes up and finds Romeo’s corpse.

In the Moscow Classical Ballet’s version, Laurence himself is the messenger. His failure to catch up with Romeo places a far greater onus of responsibility for the tragedy with the church. I get it: Priests can only create problems, not solve them.

In the final crypt scene, Romeo and Juliet are inexplicably surrounded by monks, who initially seem oblivious to the couple’s plight, even removed from the action. But the moment Juliet’s body lies lifeless over Romeo’s, the monks gather ‘round and offer up prayers.

That is not a scene I would suspect the national church groups would jump on for those TV commercials that urge people to reap the rewards of worship.

What does it all add up to?

Perhaps it could be dismissed as just one more artistic interpretation of familiar themes. Or maybe it’s proof that, glasnost and good intentions aside, some party lines won’t change overnight.