Swan Lake, Bolshoi Ballet at the Royal Opera House, review The Bolshoi's Swan Lake is dazzling in many ways, disappointing in others, and immensely rewarding overall. Certainly, any dance lovers out there who've been fretting that the company's morale might have been broken by the events of this year can rest assured: it is, in fact, looking spirited indeed. The cast-iron proof of this is the corps. The 30-plus swan maidens in the second scenes of Acts I and II (what British productions would have as Acts II and IV) are a model of grace, serenity and above all unity, and are, give or take, perfect. There's a giddy amount of talent among the soloists, too. All five international princesses on first night at Covent Garden were superb, from Anna Tikhomirova's missile-like entrance on stage to Daria Khokhlova's exquisite ballon. But more enchanting still - which is saying something - was Anastasia Stashkevich's "friend" at the opening, one of those relatively fleeting turns that you know will stay with you. Dominating the proceedings yesterday evening was the Bolshoi's supermodel-among-principals, Svetlana Zakharova. A world-class technician with line, lyricism and lightness (and even, if you'll forgive a fourth "l," looks), but also astoundingly fast when she needs to be, she served up a ravishingly poetic Odette, though failed to find the polar opposite in her Odile. The latter looked like a good-time gal having a ball, not a nasty piece of work on a romantic search-and-destroy mission: a starker, more internally felt and externally realised contrast is needed here. Still, Zakharova is never less than impressive to watch, which I struggle to say about her first-night prince. In fact, as the Evil Genius, Vladislav Lantratov displayed a spring-loaded virility throughout that Alexander Volchkov's fey Siegfried lacked. His prince seemed to be punching way above his weight with this particular Odette, while Denis Medvedev, as the Fool, made an only so-so fist of an admittedly thankless role. Grigorovich's production itself is no looker; the costumes drab and the backdrops painted in what you might call Rolf Harris Gothic. It could do with an overhaul. But ah, those swans and those princesses. And, for that matter, hurrah for the unmistakably Slavic thunder that constantly erupts from the pit thanks to the Bolshoi's orchestra, even if the downbeat climax denies it Tchaikovsky's most rapturous passage of all. The Bolshoi is at Covent Garden until Aug 17.