NOW here’s a curious evening. The Royal Ballet’s tribute to Rudolf Nureyev, on the tenth anniversary of his death, is supposed to remind us of what an extraordinary, dangerous and charismatic performer he was. But what we get is an art-house film and an evening of ballets associated with Nureyev that don’t quite add up to a happy celebration of a great artist.

Still, you can’t argue with the revival of Apollo — any excuse to see that again — or with the roster of exciting men the Royal fielded on opening night (most of them, alas, guest artists). Irek Mukhamedov, Carlos Acosta, Laurent Hilaire, Tetsuya Kumakawa and Johan Kobborg: proof that the art of male dancing, so enriched by Nureyev’s blazing presence, is alive and well.

Mukhamedov sets the party in motion with his own solo, Memory, an anguished, histrionic little number that makes obvious reference to Nureyev’s gloomy Soviet roots and his famous leap for freedom in 1961, when he defected in Paris.

Then comes the meat, Balanchine’s Apollo, first danced by Nureyev at the Royal Opera House in 1971. The title role is now taken by Acosta, who brings a rawness of spirit to Balanchine’s young god, a physical power that shapes the choreography in strong, emotive ways, not unlike Nureyev. But Acosta wasn’t helped by Paul Murphy’s sluggish conducting of Stravinsky on opening night; it seemed to ground the Cuban rather than inspire him. Neither were there sparks between him and Darcey Bussell, although with her spectacular legs, tremendous assurance and elastic, voluptuous classicism, she was born to dance Terpsichore.

Nureyev himself stars in what comes next, a selection of divertissements set against a giant film and photomontage showing the Russian superstar in performance (in tantalising slow-motion) or caught in candid moments off stage. The sight of Nureyev’s magnificent face on screen (not to mention his impassioned dancing) may excite the memories of many in the Covent Garden audience, but it’s also horribly intrusive, unspooling relentlessly while the dancers do their best to compete with the jumbo, grainy images looming behind them.

It didn’t matter so much when Sylvie Guillem and Hilaire performed the pretzel-like pas de deux from William Forsythe’s In the middle, somewhat elevated (Nureyev commissioned it when he was director of the Paris Opera Ballet and Guillem was his protégée), but it certainly took the edge off Alina Cojocaru and Kobborg’s glorious duet from La Sylphide — sheer heaven. Kumakawa didn’t have to worry — there was no film during his sensational sunburst solo from Le Corsaire (one of Nureyev’s favourite roles) — but Tamara Rojo, Ivan Putrov and Edward Watson were seriously disadvantaged by it in Images of Love, Kenneth MacMillan’s creepy threesome for Nureyev, Gable and Seymour made in 1964. Still, the film takes our minds off the final divertissement, Surge, a vacuous, stressed, overlong solo (by Pierre Darde) performed by the elegant Hilaire, wasted in this party-pooper.

We finish with Nureyev’s flamboyant staging of Act III of Raymonda, a shameless display of classical kitsch led by a triumphant Guillem. No other ballerina in the world could produce the kind of imperious glamour she brings to the choreography. Nureyev would have been proud.

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