We recently took a flight to Yerevan for the express purpose of visiting the Opera Theatre, specifically to witness one of Aram Khachaturian’s true masterpieces: Spartacus.
Whilst we are no strangers to Yerevan, this was our inaugural visit to the theatre itself. From the exterior, it struck me as fairly quintessentially Stalinist—not unlike the opera houses in Minsk or Novosibirsk. Yet, after extensive travels through the Armenian highlands—across Van and Kars—the stone ornamentation crafted by Alexander Tamanian is perceived in an entirely different light. The hue of the plaster without and the marble within, combined with the intricately carved friezes and capitals, elevate this theatre far above the ranks of the otherwise faceless, if opulent, monuments of the Soviet Empire.
Burdensome Heritage
Alas, that pervasive ‘Sovietness’ appears to be a rather formidable legacy. Indeed, I suspect it has become something of a ‘suitcase without a handle’ for the theatre: it is arduous to carry, yet one feels a sentimental reluctance to discard it. At the very least, this was certainly the impression left by the production of Spartacus we were treated to.
The Yerevan stage is currently hosting Yuri Grigorovich’s celebrated 1968 production. Together with other luminaries—the artist Simon Virsaladze, the conductor Gennady Rozhdestvensky, and the original leads Vladimir Vasiliev, Ekaterina Maximova, and Māris Liepa—they managed not only to secure a Lenin Prize but to craft a genuinely beautiful spectacle. For its time, that is.
Living Blood in Dusty Décor
The Armenian ballet company has painstakingly preserved this sixty-year-old masterpiece of the Moscow Bolshoi, transplanting it to the homeland of the composer himself. The local performers may not possess the legendary pedigree of their Soviet predecessors, but they amply compensate for this with their youthful vigour, vitality, and flair. Were it not for their presence, this dusty, mothball-scented mummy of Grigorovich’s Spartacus would have been an entirely dismal affair.
Wikipedia, citing the memoirs of a Mariinsky ballet master, notes that in the ballet’s first iteration, Leonid Yakobson (following in the footsteps of Igor Moiseyev) employed the Fokine-esque key of Egyptian Nights. And one can certainly perceive it! These Romans, clutching their SPQR standards, evoke the Orientalist infatuation of the turn of the 20th century—as if they were brandishing ostrich-feather fans rather than martial emblems.
Ballet or Logging?
On one hand, one must laud the Yerevan ballet for preserving this monument to a bygone era. On the other, one must ask: was it truly necessary? With such exquisite material at their disposal, why bother cosplaying Soviet detritus? Why transform a scene of romantic intimacy into an act of Lenin-esque log-carrying? I am well aware that Vasiliev hoisted Maximova in that manner over half a century ago; perhaps it was merely Grigorovich’s private joke. But why, pray, must we be subjected to it now? I shall say nothing against the music—it is among my favourite of Khachaturian’s themes—yet rather than revelling in it, I spent the duration of the scene suppressing uncharitable laughter as Spartacus hauled his Phrygia across the stage like a piece of lumber, appearing palpably bewildered as to where he might deposit such an unwieldy load.
In sum: the building is magnificent and recently restored, the music remains as glorious as ever, the artists are vibrant and spirited, and the production… well, the production is classical. I believe I shall leave it at that.
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