Mikhailovsky Ballet: Spartacus

A production that channels Cecil B DeMille, Caesar’s Palace and Springtime for Hitler


There is only one practical response to such a humongous pile of overblown camp tosh: surrender. With its sensationalist plot and booming score, Spartacus will never be a subtle ballet, but George Kovtun’s production seems to be channelling Cecil B DeMille, Caesar’s Palace, Springtime for Hitler and historical erotica all at once. The gladiators bring to mind the TV trash of Xena: Warrior Princess (studded harnesses, lots of thigh) and Hercules (mullet hair), with extra glitter. The courtesans and slave girls sport fringed skirts (more thigh), and instead of swords and spears, their weapons of choice are pointy shoes.

The ballet is strangely anachronistic, playing out like an epic silent film on a studio lot, complete with gigantic movable scenery, melodramatic lighting and above all, crowds. Apart from a couple of solos and a few duets – lusty, contortionist couplings on the whole – every episode seems to throng with hundreds of swarming people, swarming, fighting, jeering and carousing.

Denis Matvyenko is Spartacus, a rebel slave who spends his short life leaping vigorously, and the equally energetic patrician Crassus, played by Marat Shemiunov, is more spoilt brat than villain. The acting style for all roles – athletic dancing topped with declamatory gesticulations – is not so much “in character” as “in costume”. The exception is Pompeius, played by Nikita Dolgushin, whose shuddering frame betoken hysterical emotions barely contained by his shiny outfit.

The relentless pace become exhausting, but eventually it slows down as the violence and debauchery are transfigured into a quasi-religious apotheosis. Yeah, a likely story.