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And yet the show succeeds on pretty much every level—including the blood-alcohol level, inasmuch as you can order a carafe of Stolichnaya vodka to make the experience feel more authentically Russian. (Though, as NPR has pointed out, Stoli’s actually made in Latvia).
Less lethal accoutrements of the evening include heavy red, somehow czarist curtains; starburst chandeliers; and a full-length portrait of the man responsible for the “war” in War and Peace, Napoleon Bonaparte. The fellow who seated us wore a big fur hat and an earring. There was old-world-style lump sugar on the table—the kind my grandma used to grip between her teeth while she drank tea. We were served shots of very good borscht.
As directed by Rachel Chavkin, the cast have their duels, dances, and paroxysms of one kind or another while negotiating the narrow paths among tables. Occasionally they take a seat at one or bring an audience member, briefly, into the action. Don’t ask me why, but this is considered delightful. More mysteriously still, it is delightful. When I was a teenager I skipped prom and went with a bunch of friends to a Chicago restaurant called Riccardo’s that was famous for lots of things, but particularly for attracting the better class of artiste. Sure enough, some opera singers were eating there after a performance; they got up and gave us all a few minutes of casual astonishment. It’s one of my favorite memories, and it’s kept that status all this time at least in part because there’s something singular about standing so close to the radiant, slightly sweaty source of virtuosity.
