Rights, rules, and regulations can matter little in Russia, and personal connections, or animosities, can make all the difference. Dmitrichenko harbored a grudge against Filin less because he coveted Filin’s position (as Tsiskaridze did) than because he resented the obvious conflicts of interest within the profsoyuzï, the artists’ unions. These were supposed to represent the artists and their concerns to the Bolshoi administration. Yet the unions were headed not by performers but by members of the administration. Thus those running the theater conscripted the artists’ unions to their own cause, a problematic state of affairs harkening back to the Soviet era, when Communist minders and KGB operatives headed the unions to keep the artists in check. Dmitrichenko protested Filin’s position as head of the dancers’ union. Moreover, as journalist Ismene Brown has revealed, Dmitrichenko challenged the system that offered lucrative bonuses to Filin’s favored dancers. The “quarterly ‘grants’ committee,” which Filin chaired, “traditionally deferred to his wishes,” Brown explains. “It awarded bonuses to dancers for performance, according to a time-honored ranking of what a solo was worth. But dancers not chosen to perform did not qualify. Dmitrichenko, petitioned by the timorous corps de ballet to represent their interests, unceremoniously commanded that all dancers, whether chosen to perform or not, were doing their work as required, and therefore should be entitled to some of the quarterly bonus pot.” But Filin “was dissatisfied with the slack attitude of many dancers, who would drift off to do other things or claim sick leave without any notice,” Brown reports, and so rejected Dmitrichenko’s demands for a proportional distribution of bonuses.8
In July 2013, Svetlana Zakharova, the Bolshoi’s prima ballerina assoluta and a former cultural representative in the Russian parliament, objected when she learned that she had been assigned to the second cast of John Cranko’s Onegin. She quit the production, turned off her mobile phone, and left town. The government had had enough of the chaos. Iksanov was asked to step down, with Vladimir Urin, the respected general director of the Stanislavsky and Nemirovich-Danchenko Theaters, becoming his replacement. The Stanislavsky had come to the creative and administrative rescue of the Bolshoi in the past: a case in point being Filin’s appointment in 2011. Urin expressed little patience for intrigue and even less for Tsiskaridze and his witches’ brew of reactionary invective. According to the journalist, socialite, and former dancer Kseniya Sobchak, Urin replied to the suggestion that Tsiskaridze might return to the Bolshoi with the Russian equivalent of “over my dead body.”9
As the new general director of the Bolshoi, Urin initiated reforms. Early in 2014, he unveiled a new collective agreement that erased some of the inequities and set out in legal prose what had once been merely understood. The superstar Zakharova, who boasts an international career, heads a charity in her name, and enjoys a driver taking her to and from the studio, exempted herself from the agreement. The haggling over quarterly bonuses was the business of the corps de ballet, no concern of hers. While calm was restored at the Bolshoi Ballet, class conflict remained: between stars and soloists, soloists and members of the corps, those in favor and those who had fallen out. Dancers are defined by their roles—not only in terms of rank, but also by the characters they represent. Before anyone was arrested for the assault on Filin, Bolshoi Theater administrators hazarded that it must have been committed by one of the dancers who took the role of a villain. Filin had performed dashing heroes; the ethnically Georgian, impressively coiffed Tsiskaridze gravitated toward sorcerers. Dmitrichenko appeared in tragic ballets, but also took the role of a gangster in Yuriy Grigorovich’s satiric The Golden Age. Onstage and off, as it turned out, Dmitrichenko played the part of Tybalt to Filin’s Romeo.
Within a year of the crime, Judge Elena Maksimova of the Meshansky District Court in Moscow sentenced Zarutsky to a decade in prison, Dmitrichenko to six years, and the driver Lipatov to four. The three together were also ordered to pay Filin 3.5 million rubles, or $105,000, in damages. (Later, their sentences were trimmed by a year, six months, and two years respectively; and in June of 2016, Dmitrichenko was paroled.) The sight of a popular Bolshoi soloist and two common criminals caged in court, as Russian defendants usually are, recalled earlier, seedier periods in the history of ballet—the lowly state it sometimes fell into in France, Italy, and Russia during the nineteenth century. Then, as suddenly now, the exquisite art seemed compromised by the desperation, exploitation, pain, and toxic rivalries suffered by its artists. Dmitrichenko seemed to embody a pernicious stereotype of the hotheaded, out-of-control artist rebel: He was forced as a child into ballet, he claimed, and had acted “the hooligan,” in school, “throwing firecrackers at the teachers.”10 He had riled his peers and railed against the Bolshoi administration. But he did not commit the crime in service of some cliché. Instead, behind the distorted reporting, personal agendas, institutional priorities, and tabloid scandals, lies a basic truth about how business is conducted at the Bolshoi—as in Russia.
ONCE THE RUSSIAN news cycle turned, shuffling the crime off the front pages in favor of the conflict in eastern Ukraine, this terrible episode seemed soon to be forgotten as but a momentary crisis corrected by installing the unexcitable Urin at the helm. Yet the recent violence surrounding the Bolshoi echoes events dating back to the very founding of the theater in the late eighteenth century. Gripping tales—some lurid, others inspiring—are told in thousands of documents stored in Russian archives, museums, and libraries kept under bureaucratic lock and key; in the recollections of active and retired dancers; and in the distinguished scholarship of Russian ballet experts. The records make for strange reading. However fantastic the imaginings of ballets on the Bolshoi stage, fiction cannot measure up to the truth.
Truth did not exist backstage, declared one of the greatest dancers of the Soviet period, Maya Plisetskaya. An eccentric, explosive performer who moved in and out of official favor, Plisetskaya believed in the Bolshoi, where she danced Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake countless times, rhapsodically for some, too showily for others, while also committing to the dark night of the soul known as the agitprop repertoire. Critics were baffled by her iconoclasm. She could be reckless on stage but also mesmerizing, possessing a physical vocabulary that ranged from toreador moving in for a kill to fashion model on the catwalk. In her twenties and thirties Plisetskaya gravitated toward the bad girls of the repertoire, the troublemakers, but also the free spirits. The arrest and disappearance of her parents during the Stalinist purges had left her bereft, defiant, and rude to the KGB officers who trailed her to and from the theater, owing to her romance with a British embassy staffer. Cynicism fueled sedition, but she never defected and largely confined her protests to unorthodox performances. The Soviet regime, desperate for celebrities, needed her both at home and abroad. Still, she was treated coarsely, and remembered recoiling as Leonid Brezhnev drunkenly pawed her in his limousine after a performance. “The one time I did go to the Kremlin,” she fumed, “I had to walk home across Moscow all alone.”11 In semiretirement, she looked back on her life in the theater with fondness, describing the Bolshoi stage as her guardian. “It was a familiar creature, a relative, an animate partner. I spoke to it, thanked it. Every board, every crack I had mastered and danced on. The stage of the Bolshoi made me feel protected; it was a domestic hearth.”12 She recorded those words in her memoirs, an international bestseller by ballet standards, and one that resonates with the recent drama in the Bolshoi. The dispossessed dancers of 2013, of today, speak from a script that Plisetskaya provided.
The Soviet period still haunts the theater, but the oligarchs of the twenty-first century have taken a vested interest in the Bolshoi, now that the grime has become glitz. In his efforts to restore prestige to the new Russia, President Dmitri Medvedev approved a complete overhaul of the Bolshoi, opening up the coffers of the state-controlled oil-and-petroleum giant Gazprom. The theater closed on July 1, 2005, after the final performance of two Russian classics: Swan Lake and the tragic historical opera Boris Godunov. Six years later, the gala celebration of the $680-million-plus restoration was a political