Instead I chose a triple bill that packed the Coliseum on St. Martin’s Lane, the massive pseudo-Rococo cavern that is the home of the English National Opera. Twittering balletomanes on either side of me couldn’t stop praising the Giselle. I cursed quietly as one burbled, “I’ll never need to see Giselle again after that.” So, of course, the setup was perfect for a letdown. The first item on the program was pitched from left field -- a sort of village pantomime about country lasses being wooed by a troupe of visiting soldiers, the same situation as in G & S’s Patience., only witless. For anyone who assumes that ballet means high art in Russia, this mongrel of vaudeville and Bournonville would be an eye-opener. The broad lampooning by double-jointed hussars was sub-Stooges, but the girls in dirndls kept their poise, at least, and were lovely. The title of this clownish escapade was The Cavalry Comes to a Halt, roughly. The halt needed to come much sooner.

The middle of the program offered gala-style Divertissements, i.e., bits and pieces of ballet’s greatest hits. But the greatness was scanty. I can only imagine that the first cast, which appeared in Spartacus and Giselle, was resting in the Slug and Lettuce or some other pub while goodish substitutes did their best for us. Technically, nothing seemed amiss, but the spirit was cautious, correct, and dull. This is what happens to Russian ballet students who can’t make the big show. Fortunately, there was a temporary reprieve. Perhaps feeling sorry for us, two pairs of excellent dancers leapt on stage to wow the audience with Spring Waters (a brief but astounding acrobatic act in which the man flings the woman around as recklessly as in Cirque du Soleil) and the famous pas de deux from Le Corsaire, danced with such abandon that I could now believe why the balletomanes had been raving.

The program ended with a refined snooze en pointe, a perfectly poised but rather inert Paquita. Originally a narrative ballet about the doomed love between a Spanish girl and a French boy, Paquita lost its story and now exists as episodes of choreography done by various hands at various times. We saw a courtly scene in which the main couple, dancing to Spanish Muzak of the kind that mediocre ballet composers generate in their sleep, gave us Petipa-flavored classicism backed by a skilled corps. My enthusiasm for generic Russian ballet has never been strong – for one thing, the banal music aims no higher than circus polkas ad gallops After Tchaikovsky, this dreary stuff is too much for three hours on end. The Mikhailovsky no doubt does many good deeds by giving work to scores of talented young dancers, yet only a few flash with charisma. 

In any event, the obliging audience loved everything, including the cavalry horseplay, and the balletomanes, although less manic, seemed okay. The larger point, I think, is this: the West has benefited enormously since the fall of Communism from a flood of traditionally trained artists. Singers, violinists, and pianists emerged as if from a pre-war time capsule, preserving the old ways of romantic virtuosity. But Russia has paid a price, because without fresh choreographers, ballet in particular will ossify. The bones will sparkle and shine, but it’s a tragedy when great dancers who imbibed Petipa at birth know little or nothing about Balanchine, Robbins, Mark Morris, and Paul Taylor. On the faces of the Mikhailovsky dancers I saw the thrill of receiving London bravos. Maybe I don’t need to see Giselle ever again, but for a different reason.