[pending receipt of performance photographs]

Tabula Rasa Dance Theater
Gibney Theater at 280 Broadway
New York, New York

August 9, 2018
Animula, vagula, blandula; Ex Umbra in Solem (world premiere)

Jerry Hochman

Tabula Rasa Dance Theater, a fledgling company presented through Gibney’s Performance Opportunity Project (“POP”), opened a brief three-performance run last Thursday at Gibney’s new space, the Agnes Varis Performing Arts Center at 280 Broadway in Lower Manhattan. The program featured a repeat performance of Artistic Director Felipe Escalante’s Animula, vagula, blandula, which premiered last December, and the world premiere of Escalante’s Ex Umbra in Solem.

The Gibney (formerly Gibney Dance Center) space, which supplements its “regular” home at 890 Broadway, is an oasis. Like most buildings in the area, 280 Broadway is undergoing renovation and is currently surrounded by a cocoon of scaffolding. Finding the entrance is a chore, but once inside the performing / rehearsing area is welcoming and adequate. The Theater (apparently as yet unnamed) is a step above other black boxes, but it had to sacrifice wings for stage space, and the seating could have been raked better to provide all audience members with a full view of the stage without having to find space between the necks of people in the rows in front of them. Aside from that, it’s a fine little black box (actually grey) theater, more modern than many such spaces in New York.

To me, both pieces on the Tabula Rasa Dance Theater program were nearly overwhelmed by self-importance, self-indulgence and incoherence. But being filled with an abundance of creative ideas of cosmic significance and the inability, or unwillingness, to control artistic impulses, coupled with the conviction that audiences will “get” what seems obvious to a dance’s creator, is not at all unusual for a nascent choreographer (although imputing added significance by titling pieces in Latin may be). What is unusual, in a positive way, is Escalante’s distinctive movement quality. The intensity and hyper-activity is overbearing in both dances, and the visual symbolism repeated too frequently, but there’s some good stuff here, particularly in Ex Umbra in Solem.

Animla, vagula, blandula is a duet that provided my introduction to Escalante’s choreography. What I found was very much like what I saw in the subsequent dance: feverish, passionate movement that can’t be pigeonholed into one style or another.

Felipe Escalante in
“Animula, vagula, blandula”
Photo by Russell Haydn

The dance’s title is taken from the first line of Roman Emperor Hadrian’s last poem, completed just before his death. The title does not mean “animal, vegetable, mineral” as I’d initially thought (my Latin is just a little unsophisticated). Rather, it’s a wistful poem that isn’t easily translatable, but the consensus seems to be that it’s Hadrian’s paean to his soon to be released wandering soul, and has nothing to do with animals (or vegetables, or minerals). Nevertheless, Escalante here focuses on the animalistic and on death, and gives the piece a foreboding, forbidding quality of discord that seems incompatible with translations of the poem that I’ve seen.

According to the program note, the dance embraces both the noble and the animalistic natures of the human body, with movement derived from observing birds, crocodiles, and primates. I got the bird part, and maybe what I saw as screams were simply the visualization of a predatory crocodile’s preparing for dinner, and the soon-to-be dinner’s awareness of its fate. Also according to the program note, the dance “explores the futility of communication, the physicality of emotion, the reality of death, and the self-destruction of civilization.”

Tabula Rasa Dance Theater dancer
in Felipe Escalante’s
Animula, vagula, blandula:
Photo by Russell Haydn

Ok.

I saw a lot of communication by scream and physicality of emotion, but not much more. The movement quality was interesting and more fluid than I expected, but it amounted to a lot of very well-danced (by a vicious-looking Escalante and by his vibrant, perhaps “immortal soul” companion, Shannon Maynor) sound and fury.

It’s tempting to be similarly dismissive of Ex Umbra in Solem. A lot of it is just as self-indulgent and relatively incoherent. But the piece, which means “From the Shadow into the Light,” shouldn’t be judged so quickly. Escalante infuses Ex Umbra in Solem with some very interesting choreography, the dancers are both highly experienced and highly competent (one doesn’t necessarily follow the other), and the piece has moments of artistry that, in the end, overcame what to me was an initial lack of cohesiveness.

Escalante provides a lengthy program note to explain what Ex Umbra in Solem is about: religious divisiveness and intolerance as sources of violence, resulting in forced migration of vulnerable people; together with societal indifference to their plight, a consequence of the numbing and desensitizing impact of being force-fed a constant account of others’ suffering. Ultimately I saw much of that in Escalante’s piece, but lengthy parts of it were ineffective examples of what he was trying to demonstrate, and others were so disconnected from anything specific that they lost significance.

For example, the opening sequence of some religious figure / shaman (a commanding Jose Carlos Losada, a former dancer with the National Ballet of Cuba, where he was a principal, and with the Cincinnati Ballet) dominating his four obedient female supplicants came across more as a commentary on cult leadership than on any aspect of religious intolerance as a source of violence. Many of the individual subsidiary dances that were woven into the scene were quite effective in displaying the “victim’s” sense of helplessness and inability to escape, and, later in the dance, the recurring images of what may have been religious disciples replicating the ritualism that they’d been taught was clearly transmitted, but neither seemed to have any connection to the dance’s perceived purpose.

And the initial scenes of group dances didn’t, to me, correspond to anything relating to migration or suffering. Maybe they weren’t supposed to – maybe they were just setting the stage for what was to come, and the stage wasn’t set clearly enough.

But through it all, even before the dance started to click, there was something about Escalante’s choreography that not only maintained visual interest, but that was often compelling. Escalante’s work isn’t movement for movement’s sake, or, in the other direction, posing. What it is is fast-moving choreography, with a ferocity that’s startling. There was too much of it thrown at a viewer too quickly, but when a dancer isn’t thrusting or flailing limbs madly or exaggerating terror-filled open-mouthed facial expressions that seemed derived from that crocodile’s preparation for dinner, it’s also strangely lyrical and balletic. Many of the TRDT dancers have extensive ballet backgrounds, and it shows in their crystalline execution of Escalante’s feverish choreography. Ex Umbra in Solem isn’t just anger, and isn’t just violence, and isn’t just terror – there’s grace here amidst the human carnage, and a variety of expression and movement within what appears on the surface to be one-dimensional.

And when Escalante, an emigrant from Mexico with the demeanor of a stick of dynamite about to explode, finally begins to focus on what he says he’s trying to communicate and the many disparate scenes finally show a traceable meaning pattern, the dance becomes alive and real.

It’s unfortunate that the theater’s sight lines didn’t allow me to notice sooner, but apparently throughout the dance one company member was seated downstage left staring into a cell phone, being fed information via social media and maybe pushed news sources. Suddenly, that “viewer” began to get agitated, would occasionally rise up from the chair and look stunned, and then sit back down. Roughly concurrent with this, the “score” (an amalgam of music from a variety of sources) was modified to “broadcast” a momentary cacophony of snippets of television or radio reporting relating to attacks on civilians and refugee migration fused together such that it all became almost incomprehensible – which is the point. And roughly concurrent with that, most of the dancers changed costume and reemerged wearing stylish red dresses (I don’t recall the costumes for the men), each carrying his or her own cell phone, which was illuminated by frames of flashing lights as if to emphasize the egocentricity of it all. The dancers preened, texted, selfied (is that even a word?), and essentially ignored what they seemingly were being told about events in the world around them – including what I took to be an understated but hilarious pseudo-sophisticated take on “see no evil; hear no evil; speak no evil.” [Scenes moved and changed quickly in Ex Umbra in Solem, so if I’m relating scenes somewhat out of order, my apologies.]

This sort of thing has been done before, and with less of a heavy hand, but here the scene fit the dance and its purpose well – and it also contributed a measure of dark humor to a dance that needed a brief respite from intensity.

The next scene segued from cell phones to gas masks. Too obvious, but startling nonetheless. I didn’t know who these people were supposed to be, but the scene portrayed them, to me, as aggressors rather than victims (the costume and attitude displayed indicated they might have been knowledgeable and were protecting themselves from what they knew was coming).

This scene eventually led to the most focused, and moving, scene in the dance. With the sound of bombs landing nearby, the victims of an air assault cowered (again, not specified, but in my mind’s eye I saw Syrian civilians). One woman, costumed like a grade-school student, knelt motionless, as if dead or expecting to be. Another danced in agony. Notwithstanding its transparency, this scene was so well put together and executed that it made everything else that I found deficient in the dance evaporate.

Ex Umbra in Solem is very much an ensemble dance, but most of the dancers were given opportunities to be the center of focus in solos (actually or effectively) which, for me, were the highpoints of the dance because the execution at all times was first rate. The entire cast [Anica Bottom, Morgan Stinnett, Yuritzi Govea (who spent the dance in, or jumping out of, that chair), Maynor, Losada and Escalante] deserve significant performance praise, but to me Noriko Naraoka and Sevin Ceviker stood out. Most of these dances, including the solos, don’t require acting prowess: the choreography moves so quickly that there isn’t much room for character development. But Ceviker, who had a classical career in Turkey before emigrating to the U.S. and was a member of Martha Graham Company from 2006-2012, added a quality of animation beyond the execution of Escalante’s choreography that made her solos particularly biting. And Naraoka was a revelation. A scholarship student both at the San Francisco Ballet School and at New York City Ballet’s School of American Ballet, her ballet training is evident. But she provided the acting nuances that gave that scene of civilian devastation, and other solos that she danced, special meaning.

A final note about the costumes and production values. With emerging companies, costumes are often, and necessarily, an after-thought, and production values may be non-existent. Not so here. I don’t know how they were able to pull it off, but Escalante and Amy Fine Collins, the company’s Executive Producer and Creative Consultant, assembled an extraordinarily rich assortment of costumes (“painted garments” by Yelaine Rodriguez, as well as “additional costumes” by Geoffrey Beene, Adolfo, Christian Lacroix, and … Escalante) into which the dancers spent almost as much time getting into and out of as they did on stage, that added immeasurably to the qualitative impact of the piece. Even the lighting, uncredited, was impressive.

Ex Umbra in Solem has the potential to be a powerful dance – it just needs some polish and self-control. Based on what I saw at this performance, Tabula Rasa Dance Theater is worth keeping an eye on in the future.

The post Tabula Rasa Dance Theater: From Shadow into Light appeared first on CriticalDance.

Dance Place
Washington, DC

August 11, 2018

Carmel Morgan

I took a break from my summer dance viewing vacation to see Analog 2 by S. J. Ewing & Dancers led by Australian born Director/Choreographer Sarah J. Ewing.  I didn’t see Ewing’s Analog, so I can’t say if her new work Analog 2 resembles it or is an improvement upon it. I suspect, however, that because she calls Analog 2 a sequel, there must be a close connection between the two pieces. Certainly they both deal with the topic of technology. If you can imagine combining contemporary dance with thumping techno club beats and swirling black and white projections that look like artsy screensavers, then you can probably imagine Analog 2. Is it a winning combination? As a whole maybe not, but parts are intriguing.

First, the music. I wanted desperately to stop the heavy repetitive bass booms (there was a lot of this). I know Ewing isn’t choreographing for my specific taste, but to make it enjoyable for me, I’d cut that “music” out. On the other hand, there were sections of Analog 2 that were accompanied by strings. Ah, strings! This served as a striking contrast, and those strings were a welcome relief. I could actually concentrate on the choreography more when the strings emerged. The dancing seemed to slow down then, and I felt less distracted.  

Speaking of distractions, the projection design by Jonathan Hsu and Dylan Uremovich was brilliant. The cool, cutting-edge projections could easily constitute an art museum installation. I could sit for hours and simply watch circles widen, wavy lines pulse, grids bubble and blur, and star-like constellations scatter. But I’d frankly prefer to watch in silence, without the dancing.

S. J. Ewing & Dancers, photo by Kaylee Wong

The projections combined with the music and dance made for a sometimes frustrating experience, often visually striking but aurally punishing. As a dance critic, my eye is drawn to movement, but with the spinning and growing projections, my eyes had too many places to go. A lot of the dancing was lost to me amidst the wrapping paper of the projections. I’m sure Ewing intended some amount of disorientation on the part of the viewer. In one section, dancers were almost completely camouflaged, their skin seemingly tattooed in zig-zags like zebras. It’s hard to discern movement in that context. I don’t mind a few sight gags — the effect of dancers fading into the background was clever and fun. The problem, for me, was that the dancers consistently had to compete for my attention with the patterns hovering around them.

The costumes were appropriately plain and spare. If the dancers had been clothed in all black, with long sleeves and tights, their shapes would have stood out more forcefully. Some dancers, though, wore light colored tops or were without sleeves or covered legs, and the pale surfaces became additional screens for the projections. Under these circumstances, I frequently strained to see the nuances of the choreography. I did make out an abundance of leg lifts and kicks, straight lines and pointed toes extending away from the body. Much of the dancing seemed to share the same tempo, moderately languorous stretches and steep leans backward and forward. I didn’t sense any focus or oomph in the mainly lyrical and introverted movement. I think there may have been some truly nice moments of dancing that I missed because I was either mesmerized by the projections and wasn’t attentive to the dancing, and/or because the projections actually obscured the dancing.

S. J. Ewing & Dancers, photo by jhumedia

By far the most successful moments of Analog 2 were the solos and duets. I was likely able to appreciate the solos and duets more as there were fewer bodies in the space to comprehend. When the music offered was the smoother sound of strings and the projections were smaller and simpler and isolated to the stage floor, I could finally really see the dancing. In particular, a solo by dancer Abby Farina stole the show. Finally, I felt the power of dance. Finally, a dancer’s personality broke through and caught fire. Someone in the audience murmured, “Wow.” Yes, wow! Bathed in red light, Farina kept her back to the audience. She was riveting. Her arms reached backward, stretching awkwardly yet beautifully like a baby bird’s unfurling wings. Here Analog 2 captured me. Here was the human in an inhuman world.   

The other three dancers, Columbian born Juliana Pongutá Forero, Nicole Liebeler, and Kyoko Ruch, did a fine job, too. Overall, I’m not sure Ewing’s choreography and artistic direction showed them off at their best. The dancers generally seemed distant, cold, alienated. I suppose this was intentional to some degree. Technology has a way of magnifying loneliness, and it’s possible Ewing aimed to convey that emotion. Yet it’s challenging to watch an evening length work full of dancers who seem so remote. My heart lifted when I noticed a pair of dancers touch. I hoped Analog 2 was going to take a turn. But the touching, unfortunately, was fleeting. I also especially liked when the dancing coincided with the projections, when the geometric figures seemed to be guided by the dancers, when the sweep of a foot appeared to result in the blossoming of light. Ultimately, however, Analog 2 didn’t build toward anything. Instead, the ending was surprisingly abrupt and disappointing.  

I do applaud Ewing’s selection of collaborators. The projection designers, as I’ve mentioned, were outstanding, and the dancers were lovely as well. And in the few solos and duets, Ewing’s choreography surged. I think if Ewing steps back a bit with her choices and produces something a little less heavily adorned, Analog 3, if there’s a trilogy afoot, might be a bigger hit.

The post S. J. Ewing & Dancers: Analog 2 appeared first on CriticalDance.

inQUAD
Dixon Place
New York, New York

August 17, 2018
Neville Dance Theatre: Eclipse; Geodes (excerpt)
LL Moves: The Distance Between Two Points; Attachments
kamrDANCE: Defining Characteristics (adapted version)
Inclined Dance Project: Sometimes I Can’t Find My Good Habits

Jerry Hochman

This year’s edition of inQUAD, presented by Inclined Dance Project (IDP) at Dixon Place on the border of Soho and the Lower East Side, featured a quartet of emerging dance companies at varying accomplishment levels. What distinguished this group from others in the series is my familiarity with most of the participating companies: with one exception, I’ve seen examples of each choreographer’s work previously. The program included two dances each by Neville Dance Theatre and LL Moves, and one each by kamrDANCE and the host company.

For me, the most interesting dance on the program was the final piece, IDP’s Sometimes I Can’t Find My Good Habits. It’s unorthodox, which for Artistic Director and choreographer Kristen Klein is not unusual, but this dance is lighter than others from this company, with an almost indescribable humor permeating the movement. I’ll discuss it further after addressing the pieces that preceded it on the program.

Neville Dance Theatre
dancers Tanya Twombly
and John Durbin
in Brenda Neville’s
“Eclipse”
Photo by
Andrew J. Mauney

I’ve seen Neville Dance Theatre on several prior occasions, and have found Artistic Director Brenda Neville’s choreography to be intelligently uncluttered, and dominated by a sense of lyricism that, while not cutting edge or overly complex, is pleasing to the eye. The two dances that NDT presented at this inQUAD engagement provided more of the same.

To music by popular British composer and pianist Helen Jane Long, the program’s opening dance, Eclipse, is intended (according to the program note) to show the effect of objects eclipsing and obscuring one another. To me, that description is far too limiting. Sure there are points in which one (or more) dancers obscure others, but in Neville’s piece that seems at best an insignificant obscuring framework. Much more important is the unfussy sequencing as the four dancers (Michelle Siegel, Amanda Summers, Tanya Trombly, and John Durbin), often spread one behind the other in a vertical line that sets up the “eclipse” connection (like aligned planets, I suppose), then separate out in various combinations, and then return. It’s a nice, unpretentious, serene little ballet.

Neville Dance Theatre dancers
(l-r) John Durbin, Kaylee Tang,
Michelle Siegel and Amanda Summers
in Brenda Neville’s “Geodes”
Photo by Andrew J. Mauney

Later in the program, the company returned with Geodes, which as the program note indicates, is the “Earth” segment of an evening-length Neville piece, Elements. As a visualization of qualities of various minerals (Labradorite, Agate, Amethyst and Rhodocrosite), and abetted by projections of the geodes themselves (in their natural state) and colorful costumes (by Yuliya Lobach and the company) that mimic the geodes’ respective blue / amber / purple / burgundy colors, the piece works. And in this piece the partnering, at times problematic in other NDT pieces I’ve seen, was executed smoothly and without any evident lack of confidence. These geodes may not be as brilliant as jewels, but they glow in their own way. Kaylee Tang and Durbin, Summers and Siegel, and Trombly and Quinn Jaxon brought the respective crystals to life.

Lindsey Miller’s company LL Moves appeared in last year’s inQUAD program, and although the dances on Friday were different both from each other and from what was presented last year, the end result remains somewhat of a mixed bag. The group’s initial piece was a pas de deux of sorts between Miller and Natayu Mildenberger: by that I meant that The Distance Between Two Points was a duet between Miller and sequential projected images of Mildenberger either dancing by himself or with Miller in the same projected image.

LL Moves dancers Lindsey Miller
and Natayu Mildenberger (in projection)
in Miller’s
“The Distance Between Two Points”
Photo by Andrew J. Mauney

Although it may look novel, the idea of dancing in tandem with projected images isn’t anything new, and this piece lacked the polish necessary to make the reality leaps (what the audience sees, or thinks it’s seeing) real. There were occasional moments when the interplay between the live and the projected meshed well, but there were too many other moments when it didn’t, and it all looked like a creative exercise with little significance. For example, if there was a purpose behind the initial and concluding projected scenes of the couple walking through a park, which bracketed the solo and duet live / projected and projected / projected scenes in various locales, I didn’t get it.  Maybe it’s intended to be a comment on the real / virtual scenes that enhanced the projected virtual reality – somewhat like a daydream within a daydream – but regardless, the connection between the real and projected, and among the projected scenes themselves, beyond matching real and projected steps, needs to be clarified.

But later in the evening, the company presented Attachments, which is, in a convoluted sense, a far more successful version of The Distance Between Two Points. The earlier piece displayed a kind of attachment: the “real” with the “projected.” In Attachments, the connection between the dancers is accomplished by attaching and detaching pieces of costume from one dancer to another.

LL Moves dancers
(l-r) Erin Arbuckle
and Michelle Siegel
in Lindsey Miller’s
“Attachments”
Photo by
Andrew J. Mauney

To clarify, the dancers are costumed (by Zachary Alexander) in nondescript outfits but for swatches of fabric of varying sizes that look vaguely African or Island themed – wavy lines in black and white that appeared to change color depending on the light source. These identically-themed costume components might appear as a skirt, a shirt, shorts, or parts thereof. As the dance progresses, at certain points certain dancers would connect with each other by contact, but also by costume as the fabric worn by one dancer is attached to another (presumably by some Velcro-like substance). The pattern continues throughout the dance, with contact prompting adhesion of a “new” costume part, and the dancers then briefly moving like Siamese twins joined at the arms or hips, with the fabric swatches subsequently being removed from the original wearer (or in some cases the attachment precedes an immediate transfer from one dancer to another).

Through it all, the movement (beyond the effort taken to attach and detach) looks primarily slinky and undulating (as opposed to angular and frenetic), reflecting the music, by Anthony Carrera, that sounds vaguely Spanish or Indian (or, somehow, both combined). Some of it didn’t make much sense (the opening, striking scene in which the four dancers are aligned upstage against a rear wall alit in red was dramatic, but didn’t appear to me to carry over into the dance in any meaningful way), but that didn’t really impact the dance as a whole.

The four dancers [Erin Arbuckle, Zachary Tracz, Siegel (from Neville’s company) and Miller] did commendable work, particularly with the difficult task of attaching and removing fabric from an adjacent dancer (the Velcro wasn’t always cooperative), but I’m not sure what Miller was trying to accomplish with this, if anything. At times the effort to attach and detach looked funny (I caught several audience members unsuccessfully attempting to stifle reflexive giggles), but I don’t think humor was the point. Whatever Miller’s intent may have been, Attachments is an interesting idea.

kamrDANCE’s Defining Characteristics, at least based on what I saw, isn’t such an interesting idea. That’s not to say that there isn’t potential here – but the piece as a whole lacks a sense of cohesiveness. I can’t fault choreographer and Artistic Director Alexis Robbins for that: the program note makes clear that the piece as presented is an adaptation (maybe 15 – 20 minutes long) from the full 35 minute dance.

Members of kamrDANCE in
Alexis Robbins’s
“Defining Characteristics”
Photo by Andrew J. Mauney

What concerns me most about what I did see is that Defining Characteristics, as presented, doesn’t have defining characteristics. In the dance’s opening, which begins in silence, four women cast members (Aryanna Aronson, Alice Halter, Karli Scott, and Allison Ward, each of whom somehow had their own dance personalities even though there was little characterization in the dance) appear, do their own thing in terms of movement, strike poses, and then as I recall disappear, but there seemed to be no reason for it (not that there has to be). It’s possible that these movement qualities are repeated by each dancer as the piece progresses – that is, that maybe there was something distinctive about each dancer’s movement at the dance’s outset that carried throughout the piece – but I didn’t see that, and the way the piece evolved makes that unlikely. [The program note indicates another prong to the dance’s subject matter beyond “defining characteristics”: an exploration of varying female friendships and relationships. I saw none of that beyond what might be present in most any dance situation involving multiple female dancers (or multiple dancers of any gender).]

Following the dance’s opening segment, matching square-shaped wood platforms are brought out from the wings and positioned on the stage floor, and two more dancers, Robbins and Shaina Schwartz, began tapping. Initially the two seemed to be challenging and mimicking each other, then tapping in tandem, and later one joined the other on the same platform. At some point one or more of the other dancers would dance to the “music” created by the tapping sounds.

Although some of the “competition” between Robbins and Schwartz was cute to watch, none of it was particularly novel (and “non-tap” dancers dancing to tapping sounds isn’t new either), nor did the tapping itself rise above what I suspect both of these women are capable of (they both have extensive tap pedigrees).

That’s not to say that the movement quality of the overall dance, apart from the tapping, is uninteresting or unpleasant to watch – some of it is episodically quite thrilling. But there seemed no rhyme or reason to it. The sequential solos (one dancer enters, dances, leaves as another enters, dances, leaves…), for example, though consisting of complex little dances, didn’t appear to fit into any larger framework. There doesn’t have to be some “larger framework” – movement to sound (or not) is fine; but here it seemed clear from the program note that there was supposed to be one. And if there was any point to having the dancers appear to shield themselves from some unseen light source, I missed it.

There may be a coherent dance here, and the dancers certainly are capable and committed to Robbins’s choreography, so I’ll reserve judgment until I see the complete piece.

I did see coherence in the evening’s final dance, Klein’s Sometimes I Can’t Find My Good Habits.

Leighann Curd (foreground)
and Inclined Dance Project dancers
in Kristen Klein’s
“Sometimes I Can’t Find My Good Habits”
Photo by Andrew J. Mauney

To date, Klein’s choreography has been difficult to describe, but it’s contemporary, angular, at times even lyrical, but almost always geared toward some characteristic of human nature or human relationships that she wanted to explore. Even when I found the dances, overall, less than successful, her motivation was always apparent. And with few exceptions, her choreography is serious – maybe overly so – with movement and sound accompaniment that emphasizes the angst-driven everyday reality of it all.

With Sometimes I Can’t Find My Good Habits, Klein takes a different tack. It’s funny. Not belly-laugh funny, and the characters aren’t necessarily funny, but her choreography looks at situations in which her characters seem to have lost their sense of purpose or direction, are aware of it, and it makes them just a little crazy. It’s akin to the angst-ridden visualization of efforts to cope with living in a contemporary urban environment that Klein has shown previously, but from a different perspective, allowing a viewer to find humor in the very thing that the dancers in her piece find exasperating. As I watched, I thought of the song lyric “Wouldn’t I be the late great me if I knew how” (from the Lerner/Lane song What Did I Have That I Don’t Have). Ultimately it’s still a sad tale – just, like the song, cleverly camouflaged.

The music that Klein selected to choreograph to is a match for the controlled zaniness – not so much for the music/sound quality itself, which was relatively unobtrusive and mild, but because of the group’s name. Animal Collective (whose music has been described at various times as experimental, psychedelic, art rock, and freak folk, among many other descriptions, including having a musical kinship of sorts with the Beach Boys) implies a group that acts in concert but that’s comprised of individuals – animals (or people who act like animals) who are relatively incapable of acting in concert. So… in Sometimes I Can’t Find My Good Habits we have dancers acting together but concurrently doing their own thing.

Inclined Dance Project dancers
(l-r) Shannon McGee, Jillian Pager,
Amy Campbell, and Leighann Curd
in Kristen Klein’s
“Sometimes I Can’t Find My Good Habits”
Photo by Andrew J. Mauney

The choreography, particularly as the dance begins, looks occasionally, and intentionally, stiff, even spastic, with the dancers moving like mannequins or dolls (I saw allusions to parts of Jerome Robbins’s The Concert – though this may not have been Klein’s intent), and with overemphasized grins that show the desolation of loss (now where did I put that … ?) rather than vacuity. At one point the dancers’ hands become positioned on their heads like rabbit ears, though I couldn’t determine the purpose for that (listening for guidance from … somewhere?; maybe representative of rabbits / habits?). As the dance progressed, the movement from each of the dancers became more frenetic, and more tragi-comic, as the four women looked, at times, as if they were being pulled by some invisible string or stalking that elusive personality trait that they lost. At times Klein even has them climbing the walls. Literally. Sort of.

The four dancers – Amy Campbell, Leighann Curd, Shannon McGee, and Jillian Pajer – did a super job making the dance, which sounds like it’s a collection of disparate images, look like a coherent whole in which each component fortified the desperately zany but chaotically helpless message. And ultimately, maybe Sometimes I Can’t Find My Good Habits is just another of Klein’s cityscapes, but from a different point of view.

This incarnation of inQUAD may have been less audacious than some others I’ve seen, but its choreographic variety and the quality of the dancers in each company made it a quite successful evening.

The post inQUAD 2018: From Serene to Zany appeared first on CriticalDance.

Atlas Performing Arts Center
The Paul Sprenger Theatre
Washington, DC

September 14, 2018

Carmel Morgan

I’ve been living in Washington, DC, for over a decade, and I’ve enjoyed watching choreographers and dancers grow here in the nation’s capital. Believe it or not, DC is a city in which artists can thrive. Amidst Congressional chaos and political party bickering, the arts hold strong and hold DC’s residents together. This country will never agree on everything, but I think there’s plenty of agreement that the arts matter. I remain thankful for the gifts that artists give. Particularly in tumultuous times, a night out at the theater can provide a welcome respite. PrioreDance’s Cirque De Nuit successfully delivered such an escape.

The program notes indicate that Cirque De Nuit (“Circus of the Night”), created and choreographed by Robert J. Priore, features a roaming band of traveling entertainers who bond both inside and outside of the circus tent. Authors, along with artists and audiences, have long been attracted to the magic and community of societal outcasts in the world of the circus. As a reader, I’ve been drawn to circus/sideshow-themed novels, including Erin Morgenstern’s similarly named “The Night Circus,” and Katherine Dunn’s breathtaking “Geek Love.” And DC certainly has seen its share of circuses lately!

It’s natural that circus life might spark Priore’s choreographic imagination. After all, the subject matter offers mystery, romance, quirkiness, and creepiness. What does Priore bring to this well-covered territory? A lot of what one would expect.

I’m not sure who to heap praise upon for the costumes and makeup (no credit is given in the program), but the dancers looked endearingly odd. Their pale faces, powdered and painted, conjured otherworldliness. A pair of female dancers twisted and tossed straggly ankle-length hair. Gypsy-inspired corsets with curtain fabric skirts, and the music, too, often French ballads, set the wandering troupe in a fantasy Europe of yesteryear. Maybe because I don’t speak French, however, I felt the music sometimes overwhelmed the dancing. The lighting design by Paul Callahan kept things fairly dark and somewhat mottled.

Priore adeptly maneuvered ten dancers (Jamal Abrams, Diana Amalfitano, Philip Baraoidan, Ryan Carlough, Abby Leithart, Taylor Pasquale, Kelsey Rohr, Sherman Wood, Robert Woofter, and Magali Zato) in various groupings, and every dancer had a chance to take the spotlight now and then. The choreography at times brought to mind Butoh. Dancers silently screamed with mouths agape, misshapen hands grotesquely extended. At other points, I was reminded of Michael Jackson’s iconic Thriller music video. Dancers grouped together gestured in unison and moved in zombie-like lumbering steps.

Cirque De Nuit, however, for me, didn’t illuminate the subject it tackles. Although the dancing was impeccable, the choreography, overall, came across as rather bland, especially given the focus of the work. I wanted more risk, more danger, more emotion, but this circus was strangely uneventful. A few times dancers, invisible in the wings, whooped and clapped, but the movement on the stage didn’t burst with enough excitement to merit the wild applause.  

PrioreDance’s Ryan Carlough in Cirque De Nuit, photo by haus of bambi

I longed to have more insight into the individual characters and for the role of each dancer to be more distinct. Only the ringmaster, the wonderfully lithe Abrams, stood out as being relatively well-defined. I puzzled over the motivations and identities of rest of the superb cast.  Weirdness could have been pushed further. Carlough, as a clown with a spooky red-smeared smile, laughed maniacally. Confusingly, after a solo toward the beginning of Cirque De Nuit in which he spasmed with loud guffaws, his unsettling giggles were no more. Baraoidan once acted like a pet, crouching and following along like a monkey, which was amusing, but then he straightened up. Maybe the extreme behaviors were simply part of their acts?    

Surprises were few. I loved it when subsequent to a section with all of the dancers on stage, a male and female dancer were left alone together. A duet between them didn’t commence, though. Instead, the male dancer turned and walked off, and another female dancer entered the stage, ending eventually in an amorous quintet among the women. That small surprise was clever, and I wish there had been more of them.

In addition to Abrams as the domineering and revered leader, among the dancers who caught my eye were Robert Woofter and Magali Zato. Woofter is both incredibly graceful and powerful, as is Zato. An early duet between Zato and the also excellent Wood sang with beauty and feeling. And Woofter, in a solo, dramatically stretched and propelled himself in a storm of elegance. I appreciated how Priore let the women be strong, and the men be tender, and also vice versa.

At the conclusion, a dancer rolled up the red tape that had formed a square demarcating the performance space. Abrams looked defeated and exited the stage behind his troupe with his head bowed. My companion for the evening asked me after the performance if taking up tape from the stage is “a thing.”  Yes, apparently so, because he and I have seen this a few times in the last year — tape carefully placed and then ripped up and bunched into a ball. Watch out for the tape trend?

The post PrioreDance: Cirque De Nuit appeared first on CriticalDance.

Fall for Dance 2018
New York City Center
New York, New York

October 1,4, and 5, 2017
Program 1: Bach Cello Suites (Boston Ballet), Dances of Isadora – a Solo Tribute (Sara Mearns), Bzzz (Caleb Teicher & Company), The Barbarian Nights, or the First Dawns of the World (excerpts) (Cie Hervé Koubi)
Program 2: New Work for Goldberg Variations (Pam Tanowitz Dance), Sleep Well Beast (Justin Peck and Patricia Delgado), Inner Voices (Gemma Bond Dance), Promethean Fire (Paul Taylor Dance Company)
Program 3 (first half): Reclamation Map (Tayeh Dance with Heather Christian), Balamouk (Dance Theatre of Harlem)

Jerry Hochman

With the first two programs of both its 75th Anniversary Celebration and the 15th Anniversary of its Fall for Dance Festival, New York City Center presented its usual potpourri of different forms of dance before sold out houses of enthusiastic audiences. But this year, at least so far, the caliber of programming has exceeded expectations. Indeed, in my view there was only one disappointment – and that one improved as it progressed, so perhaps I’ll change my mind on subsequent views. As for the rest, every one of the pieces in Program 1 left a positive and indelible impression; and in Program 2, Gemma Bond’s new ballet, Inner Voices, though not without flaws, is quite good, Sleep Well Beast, Justin Peck’s pas de deux for himself and Patricia Delgado, is superb, and Paul Taylor’s Promethean Fire is an unqualified masterpiece.

Members of Paul Taylor Dance Company
in “Promethean Fire”
Photo by Paula Lobo

The best way, and the only way, to make sense out of this quality dance performance mélange is to discuss the programs, and the dances within them, seriatim – necessarily focusing on certain pieces and giving relatively short shrift to others. But sometimes one must dispense with logic, and having now seen Program 3 as well as Programs 1 and 2, I must begin with highlights from that program. More detail will follow in a subsequent review, but I couldn’t let my thoughts about the initial two dances in Program 3, both City Center commissions in their world premiere performances, ricochet silently between my ears until then.

Members of Dance Theatre of Harlem
in Annabelle Lopez Ochoa’s “Balamouk”
Photo by Paula Lobo

Simply put. Annabelle Lopez Ochoa’s Balamouk is the finest new work, as choreographed and executed, that I’ve seen from Dance Theatre of Harlem in a very long time. It’s not a monumental ballet, nor is it “cutting edge,” but it doesn’t try to be. Rather, Balamouk, which to my understanding is Romanian for “house of the insane” and is the title of a multicultural album by Les Yeux Noirs (The Black Eyes), one of the dance’s three musical sources, is a sparkling, joyous ballet that melds its disparate musical cultural sounds – I heard Klezmer and Greek, among other folkish references – into a coherent whole, and that showcases the individual and group talents of the company’s ten participating dancers. It’s a fitting tribute to Arthur Mitchell, New York City Ballet Principal Dancer and DTH’s co-founder, who passed away a couple of weeks ago, to whom the program was dedicated.

And the evening’s opening dance was a stunning surprise. I had not previously heard of Tayeh Dance or recalled that I’d previously seen one of Artistic Director and choreographer Sonya Tayeh’s dances (Face the Torrent, performed by Cuba’s Malpaso Dance Company at the Joyce Theater last January), nor had I heard of singer / songwriter / musician Heather Christian and the two vocal artists who accompanied her live on stage, but that demonstrates yet again that I need to get out more often.

Perhaps in part because it was such a pleasant revelation, I found Reclamation Map (I haven’t a clue – yet – as to the title’s significance, but I suspect there is one) to be a mesmerizing, haunting, multi-textured piece of complexity and dramatic tension, generating in the process an atmosphere to get lost in. Like a novel by William Faulkner – you may not “get” it on a word-by-word, page by page, note-by-note, step-by-step basis, but you certainly “feel” it as the ambience these artists create opens the door to a strange but somehow not unfamiliar world. In its moments of passionate despair, parts of it vaguely bring to mind Christopher Wheeldon’s brilliant This Bitter Earth pas de deux, but Reclamation Map is more structurally diverse and cohesive than my recollection of Five Movements, Three Repeats, the full piece from which Wheeldon’s pas de deux was culled (and which coincidentally had its New York premiere at the 2012 FFD Festival).

Members of Tayeh Dance,
with Heather Christian and vocalists,
in Sonya Tayeh’s “Reclamation Map”
Photo by Paula Lobo

The trio of singers provided an awesome display of passion and harmony, and by focusing on one I don’t mean to ignore the musical contributions of the others. But to my admittedly unsophisticated musical ear, Christian, who wrote, played, and sang lead for the suite of songs which inspired and was reflected in Tayeh’s choreography and the performances by the four compelling company dancers, is a composer / chanteuse who presents an unusual, and potent, combination of delicacy and power, crystalline clarity coupled with earthy expressiveness, emotional depth, and most of all, soul. Even before the dance’s movement structure began to develop, her introductory sounds cast a spell from which escape was impossible. In her words (or sounds, when I couldn’t decipher the words due to my location in the house) I heard the intelligence and sadness of Jacques Brel (think “Amsterdam” more than “Ne Me Quitte Pas”), Adele’s sometimes bleak mystery and pain, and Edith Piaf’s despairing heart. Add a little LeAnn Rimes, a little Lady Antebellum and a lot of deep south gospel, and maybe you get a rough idea of the magic her music, her voice, and her delivery (she doesn’t just sit there) create.

In case it’s not yet clear, the piece blew me away.

Program 1: It was the best of times, it was the … best of times

With Program 1, City Center presented a seeming tale of two forms of dance entertainment, and two types of dance audiences. That it all worked splendidly is a tribute to dance excellence of any form or era.

On the surface, the difference between the first and second halves of the program is about control vs. abandon – for both the performances and the audience. Of course, at least with respect to the pieces danced, it’s more the appearance of abandon than any absence of control. Indeed, all four pieces in Program 1 exhibited remarkable control. The difference and the resulting audience response, was the sense of energy and abandon that the second two pieces demonstrated.

Let me try to explain.

Boston Ballet dancers
in Jorma Elo’s “Bach Cello Suites”
Sergey Antonov on Cello
Photo by Stephanie Berger.

All four dances in Program 1 were excellent examples of their art, both in choreography and execution. The first two, Jorma Elo’s Bach Cello Suites, performed by members of Boston Ballet, and Sara Mearns dancing in Lori Belilove’s (after Isadora Duncan) Dances of Isadora, a Solo Tribute, were models of inventive rigor. Elo’s piece is contemporary ballet that doesn’t push the envelope, but does what it does with invention and grace. Dances of Isadora accomplishes the same for Duncan’s form of modern (or pre-modern) dance. But both are as good as they are because of the control reflected in the choreography and the dancers’ execution. Duncan might have been appalled at the thought that her dances could be seen as indicative of “control” rather than the “spontaneous abandon” and “natural movement” for which she was famous, but times change – and when the dance is performed by Mearns, a Principal Dancer with New York City Ballet, a sense of consummate control goes with the territory. But within eyeshot of my position, many members of the audience began to fidget, as if waiting for something beyond technical brilliance to happen.

Cie Herve Koubi dancers
in “The Barbarian Nights,
or the First Dawns of the World” (excerpt)
Photo by Stephanie Berger

The second two, Caleb Teicher & Company’s Bzzz (another City Center commission having its world premiere), which Teicher choreographed “with improvisation by dancers,” and The Barbarian Nights, or the First Dawns of the World (“Barbarian”) danced by Cie Hervé Koubi in an excerpted form, had the appearance of wild abandon, spontaneity, and irreverence – an absence of control – that the other two pieces did not. Through both pieces, the audience was noisy and ecstatic.

Of course, the audience reaction was likely a product of people being attracted to programs that feature forms of entertainment that appeal to them, but that begs a set of questions for which there are no easy, or satisfying, answers.

Boston Ballet dancers
in Jorma Elo’s “Bach Cello Suites”
Photo by Stephanie Berger.

I’ve seen only a limited number of Elo dances, but Bach Cello Suites is the best of them. The program would lead one to believe that the ballet essentially consists of five couples dancing sequentially, but the piece is far more visually inventive than that. There’s nothing “cutting edge” here, but that’s not necessary. The element of pleasant surprise as the initial introduction of couples yields not to a duet by the first couple, but to an extended sequence involving the men alone, is the first hint that Bach Cello Suites is not your standard multi-couple ballet, and the visual variety continues unabated throughout, within which the five duets are skillfully, and seamlessly, interwoven. Sergey Antonov, the highly competent cello soloist, was pasted stage left center as the dancers responded around him.

As much as I enjoyed Elo’s choreography, I was even more impressed by the overall quality of the Boston Ballet dancers: Maria Baranova, Lia Cirio, Kathleen Breen Combes, Misa Kuranaga, Addie Tapp, Paulo Arrais, Derek Dunn, Lasha Khozashvili, John Lam, and Irlan Silva. All excelled, including particularly Kuranaga’s elegant, pristine execution. But two men I’d not previously seen, and two women I’d not previously heard of, dictated my response to the piece.

Khozashvili’s role involved not only execution of Elo’s steps, but also a measure of emotional depth, and he carried both off brilliantly, with a riveting intensity and quiet sincerity that are rare combined assets. He makes you “feel” what he appears to feel on stage, whether connecting with his partner or making angular arm movement meaningful. Originally from Georgia (the country), Khozashvili, who has danced with BB since 2010, drew attention to himself because he stood out.

Derek Dunn (center)
and Boston Ballet dancers
in Jorma Elo’s “Bach Cello Suite”
Photo by Stephanie Berger

Also standing out was Dunn, who lateralled to BB after four years with Houston Ballet. When I saw Dunn execute, I saw a young Daniel Ulbricht (Principal Dancer with New York City Ballet). Like Ulbricht, Dunn is ceaselessly exciting to watch. He explodes with energy no matter what he does on stage, has pristine bearing and technique, and takes whatever he’s doing – particularly solos – to another, higher, level of intensity. In the unlikely event that either NYCB or American Ballet Theatre run low on smallish power-packed dancers (or even if they don’t), they should give him a look. [My colleague, Carla DeFord, who reviews performances in the Boston area, recently highlighted both Khozashvili and Dunn in a retrospective of certain male dancer performances during BB’s 2017-2018 season. She was right.]

Both Dunn and Khozashvili are company principals. Baranova and Tapp are, respectively, a company soloist and second soloist. Baranova, in her initial pairing with Silva, is the ballerina next door. A Finnish expatriate who danced with John Neumeier’s Hamburg Ballet for several years before joining BB in 2015, Baranova conveys a youthful warmth and vulnerability – along with inner strength – that’s endearing (and looking a little like Alina Cojocaru doesn’t hurt). According to the BB site, she’s already assayed many major roles, including Juliet (in John Cranko’s version of Romeo and Juliet) and Nikiya in La Bayadere. Figures. Tapp looks like a stereotypical Balanchine ballerina top to bottom – not surprising since she’s a graduate of NYCB’s affiliated School of American Ballet. She too stands out – not just because she’s tall and thin and blonde with legs from here to forever (and, in this piece, relatively emotionless), but because someone as inexperienced as she is shouldn’t be able to look as supremely confident as she appears. When she’s on stage, you can’t avoid her. It remains to be seen whether acting is within her talent range, but I look forward to seeing her and all these dancers again the next time BB comes to New York.

Sara Mearns in Lori Belilove’s
“Dances of Isadora, A Solo Tribute”
Cameron Grant on piano
Photo by Stephanie Berger.

I’ve reviewed Mearns’s performance in Dances of Isadora previously (as part of Paul Taylor American Modern Dance’s “Icon” series last year), and won’t elaborate on that here. Suffice it to say that she’s marvelous in it – and a natural as a Duncan representative. It may come across as a backhanded compliment, although I don’t intend it to be, but this is one of her finest roles. And NYCB Orchestra’s Cameron Grant, who has become a star in his own right and seems to be everywhere at once, delivered the piano solos to Chopin, Brahms, and Liszt compositions as compellingly as he always does.

I dislike music that’s essentially a collection of sounds made by human body organs. And when Chris Celiz stepped in front of the curtain prior to the beginning of the third piece on the program and started creating sounds with his fingers in or around his mouth that sounded like bodily functions or just plain silly (called “beatbox vocals”), I wanted to run out of the theater. But cognoscenti knew that this performance before the performance would segue into, and become the musical background for, Caleb Teicher’s dance, and as it progressed the sounds Celiz produced to accompany Caleb Teicher & Company’s Bzzz seemed less Cage-like than cagey.

Caleb Teicher and members
of Caleb Teicher & Company in “Bzzz”
Photo by Stephanie Berger

The last (and first) time I saw Teicher was nearly a year ago as a member of the Chase Brock Experience, which presented pieces that, with one exception, I dubbed “dances of joy.” I had heard that Teicher had his own company, and now that I’ve seen an example of the work he does for himself and his own company, it seems as if joy is Teicher’s stock and trade. The program note indicates that Caleb Teicher & Company presents a wide-range of dance styles that include signature elements of musicality, humor and warmth; here, the dance form presented by CT&Co was tap – and tap with musicality, humor and warmth.

Members of Caleb Teicher & Company
in “Bzzz”
Photo by Stephanie Berger

It’s not my place to compare this company with the group led by Michelle Dorrance, the reigning queen of tap. But, based on what I’ve seen, while Dorrance takes tap into new dimensions, Bzzz elevates “traditional” tap to rare heights without altering its character or trying to make a statement. The result, for a dancing art form that’s far older in the U.S. than ballet, looks like tap not so much changed as on steroids, and ultra-contemporary. The energy level never ebbed, but it was the visual richness that I found most impressive.

Koubi’s Barbarian is another dance entirely. The program note informs that the full piece is the choreographer’s “reimagining of the origins of Mediterranean culture,” in the process examining “an ancestral fear of strangers” and “the hidden refinement of ‘barbarian’ societies.” Nothing like having a limited thematic palette.

Culture clash has been done, and I suppose culture absorption and transformation has as well, though off the top of my head I’m not aware of examples. But I doubt if any are like this. Since the dance performed in Program 1 is represented as being excerpts from the complete piece, I can’t comment on its overall quality. But what I saw, though somewhat confusing (perhaps because of the cutting and pasting that was done), was not only ambitious, but impressive.

Cie Herve Koubi dancers in
“The Barbarian Nights, or
the First Dawns of the World” (excerpt)
Photo by Stephanie Berger

Koubi and his company of male Northern African male dancers are based in France. Koubi emigrated from Algeria to France – I don’t know whether the others are emigrants as well, but that’s irrelevant. The company specializes in what’s called Northern African street dance, which describes what I saw when the company appeared at FFD a few years ago. Although my affinities don’t usually include street dance, African or otherwise, what Koubi’s company presented was dancing of undeniable quality and uncommon skill.

Slow forward, and Koubi’s company is even more impressive now. Although it’s still a form of street dancing, what’s presented here has a sort of tribal elegance to it, with nonstop motion and the dancers spinning like whirling dervishes. Upside down. On their hands. Often on one hand. At times it looks more like random athleticism than programmed movement, but that appearance is deceptive; there’s undeniable structure to the piece. And the simple costumes (designed by Koubi) of plain-looking but billowy “shorts / pantaloons” cleverly amplifies the sense of constant motion.

I don’t understand all the imagery, and ideas seem to overlap, but the visual presentation, even in this excerpt, is extraordinary. The curtain opens on two groups of people, one group “native,” the other wearing silver “helmets.” Exactly which group are the barbarians is unclear – it depends on your point of view. But that’s the point. To the constant, loud sounds of staccato tribal drumbeats, the group wearing the helmets removes them, and they gradually merge into and become (from what I saw) indistinguishable from the native group. [This seemed incomprehensible considering Koubi’s stated intent – but, as probably is too often the case, I have a theory.]

After awhile the initial incessant drumbeating yields to Mozart (an unspecified composition) and the struggle takes a different turn: a mighty battle as the tribe first resists, and then absorbs, the radically unfamiliar culture. And as the dance ends, we see the natives transformed – forever altered by the globalism that had invaded it, and facing a new, different, and uncertain future visualized by one of the tribe’s members being hoisted toward the sky by the others, presumably to peer into the sunrise of the tribe’s uncertain future and identity (aka The First Dawns of the World, the dance’s subtitle).

My theory: the primitive tribal civilization could fight against armor-clad warriors, but it could not shield itself from ideas that were dominating and beautiful. I have no idea whether that theory is what Koubi intended, and it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that the visual presentation is ceaselessly exciting, but also a product of intelligence, with a point to display even if I’m not certain what that point is. And the thirteen-man company danced with a level of seeming abandon – but undeniable skill – that drove the audience crazy. One day, Koubi and his company should present Barbarians – the complete piece – to New York barbarians.

Program 2: Bach to Bach

Pam Tanowitz Dance opened FFD’s second program with a “new” take on Bach’s The Goldberg Variations. Titled simply New Work for Goldberg Variations (“New Work”) – either intentionally or because the piece’s formal name hasn’t yet been determined, the dance bears no resemblance to Jerome Robbins’s masterpiece The Goldberg Variations(and seems about 1/3 its length). On the contrary, it seems to be the anti-Robbins – and maybe the anti-Bach.

Members of Pam Tanowitz Dance
in “New Work for Goldberg Variations”
Photo by Paula Lobo

While a pianist plays center-stage, members of Tanowitz’s company, six women and one man, slowly emerge one by one and move to the music. Initially, the simple movement looks strange and purposeless beyond largely mirroring the music. Arms were thrust out, bodies slightly shimmied, steps were endlessly repeated. It seemed that Tanowitz was playing off the playfulness and repetitiveness in the piece and injecting comical movement for no apparent reason – but what came across was inane rather than comic. Sure Bach’s piece sounds repetitious and structured by phrase variations from which there appears to be little change from one to the other. [It’s not called The Goldberg Variations for nothing.]  But Bach’s music isn’t funny and is never boring. This dance is. And where Robbins took the music to levels of significance not previously considered, Tanowitz’s piece minimizes and trivializes it.

Members of Pam Tanowitz Dance
in “New Work for Goldberg Variations”
Photo by Paula Lobo

New Work did get better as the dance devolved into solo sequences with a sense of purpose even if one couldn’t discern what that purpose was, and it ended with a measure of respect for the score, but by then the damage was done.

Peck’s piece, according to the program note, is an expansion of a previous piece set to music by The National. I’m not familiar with it, but regardless, Sleep Well Beast, another in a string of sneaker ballets, stands on its own as one of his best duets. Peck is well known for his ability to move groups of dancers in endlessly interesting and inventive ways, but his pairs efforts have been lackluster. Not this time – maybe because his heart was in this one.

Patricia Delgado and Justin Peck
in “Sleep Well Beast”
Photo by Paula Lobo

To two unidentified songs, Peck and his partner (offstage as well as on) Patricia Delgado, first explore a relationship being torn apart, and then another relationship (maybe the same one; maybe not) kept together by love – although perhaps I was not seeing it accurately, since when the dance ended the two inexplicably went their separate ways. (I suppose that breaking up is hard to do, but staying together may be harder.) As perplexing as this ending was, it doesn’t diminish the quality of the choreography or execution.

One tends to forget that Peck is a fine dancer (a NYCB soloist) as well as a renowned choreographer, but his recent effort in Robbins’s West Side Story Suite (as Bernardo) rekindled memories of his powerful movement qualities. Sleep Well Beast (the title of one of The National songs?; a reference to the persistence of doubt?) displayed his raw power as well.

Patricia Delgado and Justin Peck
in “Sleep Well Beast”
Photo by Paula Lobo

Delgado was his match in inner strength, but coupled with vulnerability her portrayal was irresistible. A former Principal Dancer with Miami City Ballet, it would be very nice to get to see her dance more frequently.

An ABT member of the corps, Bond has been knocking on the door of choreographic success for a long time, but if there were still any lingering doubt as to her choreographic ability, with Inner Voices those doubts should now be put to rest.

James Whiteside (center) and
members of Gemma Bond Dance
in “Inner Voices”
Photo by Paula Lobo

To unidentified Prokofiev music, Bond here creates an interwoven series of scenes within which the members of her company, all but one are current ABT dancers (and a sizeable number of company dancers not performing populated the audience) are utilized in a variety of visual forms that maintain viewer interest throughout. No one scene or dancer dominated, although I was drawn most frequently to Catherine Hurlin, Zimmi Coker, Stephanie Williams, and Erez Milatin (previously a standout with Gelsey Kirkland’s company, then New York Theatre Ballet, and to my knowledge the one in the cast not currently an ABT member).

James Whiteside and Cassandra Trenary
in Gemma Bond’s “Inner Voices”
Photo by Paula Lobo

Within these opening and closing segments is embedded a complex pas de deux laden with definite, albeit non-specific, emotional gloss. Cassandra Trenary and James Whiteside were outstanding as the couple. Trenary looked more confident, and executed more cleanly, than during ABT’s Met season last spring (perhaps there had been a minor injury), and it was the most impassioned and selfless performance I’ve seen from Whiteside in a very long time.

But as good as my overall impression was, Inner Voices is not without concerns. There are few images beyond the pas de deux that linger in my mind, to me indicating a diffusion of focus that might limit an audience desire to see the piece again. And the ballet’s ending is far too abrupt, creating a visual void that demands to be resolved, but isn’t.

Members of Paul Taylor Dance Company
in “Promethean Fire”
Photo by Paula Lobo

Having opened with a piece to Bach, Program 2 closed with a piece to Bach – but the two compositions and choreographic presentations could not have been more different. In its first appearance since its visionary founder’s death a few weeks ago, the Paul Taylor Dance Company looks as finely tuned as it ever did. And Promethean Fire, Taylor’s unacknowledged but undeniable reflection on the events of 9/11 and the triumph of the human spirit, is a masterpiece that, like his Esplanade (but totally different in every conceivable way except choreographic competence and execution), will remain a monumental work of art for generations to come.

More on Program 3, and on other programs of Fall for Dance 2018 that I’m able to see, in a subsequent review.

The post Fall for Dance 2018: First Two (and a Half) Programs appeared first on CriticalDance.

[pending receipt of Program 5 performance photos]

Fall for Dance 2018
New York City Center
New York, New York

October 5, 10, and 13, 2017
Program 3: Reclamation Map (Tayeh Dance with Heather Christian), Balamouk (Dance Theatre of Harlem), Midnight Raga (Nederlands Dans Theater 2), The Crane Calling (excerpt)

Program 4: Rhapsody (excerpts) (Alina Cojocaru and Herman Cornejo), Canto Ostinato (Introdans), Petrushka (Tiler Peck, Lil Buck, and Brooklyn Mack), Rennie Harris Funkedified (excerpt) (Rennie Harris Puremovement – American Street Dance Theater) 

Program 5: Con Brazos Abiertos (Ballet Hispanico), Tangos (Junior Cervila & Guadalupe Garcia), El cruce sobre el Niágara (Acosta Danza), Stack-Up (Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater)

Jerry Hochman

After the overall excellence of the first three programs (actually the first two and a half), which were the subject of a previous review, with a few noteworthy exceptions the overall quality level of the 2018 Fall for Dance programming diminished during its second week. Most of these dances (except for the piece danced by Ballet Hispanico, which I’ve previously seen and reviewed) were well done, though not exceptional or particularly noteworthy. But there were a few that were either unsatisfying introductions to the appearing company, collections of unconnected scenes that preached to the converted but not much more, or bereft of any reason for being.

I’ll here consider the dances seriatim, initially expanding on my review of Program 3, and then consider programs 4 and 5. In sum, aside from the first two pieces in Program 3 (which I was so excited about I included a brief discussion of them together with my observations of Programs 1 and 2), the remaining programs’ highlights were, in program 4, seeing Alina Cojocaru once again grace a New York stage, and a new interpretation of Petrushka choreographed by Jennifer Weber and featuring Tiler Peck, Lil Buck, and Brooklyn Mack; and in Program 5, a series of tangos danced by Junior Cervila and Guadalupe Garcia, and a sterling performance by two male dancers from Cuba’s Acosta Danza in El cruce sobre el Niágara.

The first piece on Program 3 (a City Center commission receiving its world premiere) was shockingly good – perhaps to an extent because it was totally unexpected, but more than that because of the quality of the music by Heather Christian (performed by her and vocalist colleagues Jo Lampert and Onyie Nwachukwu), Sonya Tayeh’s choreography, and the execution by Tayeh Dance’s four dancers. These three components (as well as the lighting, by Davison Scandrett) feed off each other to create a deep and pervasive ambiance. And although the notion of overcoming darkness and despair through inner strength, perseverance, and a measure of faith is nothing new, Christian’s intense music and Tayeh’s intense choreography illuminate the inner (and outer) bleakness in a different and intellectually challenging way.

Members of Tayeh Dance
in Sonya Tayeh’s “Reclamation Map”
Photo by Paula Lobo

Although I did not recognize Tayeh’s name, I realized afterward that I’d seen a prior piece of hers earlier this year: Face the Torrent performed by Cuba’s Malpaso Dance Company. I didn’t enjoy it – not because it was poorly crafted (on the contrary, I found it well-crafted, creating a pervasive mood), but because that mood, that sense of the piece, was non-specific anger about everything, presumably inspiring revolutionary action. Reclamation Map is also as singularly focused, but here the need for some explanation for the atmospheric sense is unnecessary. Emotional disturbance is what it is, regardless of how it got there.

Members of Tayeh Dance,
with Heather Christian and vocalists,
in Sonya Tayeh’s “Reclamation Map”
Photo by Paula Lobo

The piece begins largely in darkness, with light eventually focusing solely on the vocalists (and with one performer, who soon will join the other dancers, sprawled on the stage floor downstage from them, sealing the connection between the dance and the vocal performances), as Christian’s rich, deep voice and animated delivery of the first of four songs – more accurately, poetic atmospheres – “Right Here,” signals the torturous but ultimately redemptive road ahead: “Darkness I know your name / I have somehow remained in your cages / Down here, a storm so small / Do you see it at all while it rages?,” which leads a stanza later to alert the audience to where the piece is going: “Here with the final word / I’ve been sitting til stirred or ignited / But I’m not a match to strike / I’m a pilot light // And here / Right here / Right here / I will draw a map with my finger / and will dare to begin.”

Gradually the lit stage area then spreads to include Tayeh’s dancers (Peiju Chien-Pott, Ida Saki, Austin Goodwin, and Reed Luplau), who visualize the emotional gravity that Christian and her colleagues create and deliver with the urgency of deep south gospel crossed with soulful country. To the second song, “My Legs The Prophets,” the choreography begins with the four dancers divided into couples, dancing emotionally painful duets that are as intense and dark as Christian’s music. Tayeh has her dancers seemingly soaring and crashing at the same time – as if trying to escape but being dragged down. And the partnering, notwithstanding the dance’s dark theme, is complex and moving. I was particularly impressed with the downstage couple – to the best of my powers of observation Chien-Pott (a principal dancer with Martha Graham Company) and Goodwin – who infused their dance with almost unbearable dramatic tension. As I wrote previously, this part of the dance was somewhat remindful of Christopher Wheeldon’s This Bitter Earth.

Members of Tayeh Dance,
with Heather Christian and vocalists,
in Sonya Tayeh’s “Reclamation Map”
Photo by Paula Lobo

With the third song, “Psalm 54: (who is gonna make me like the bird),” and while Christian and her vocal colleagues bear witness (in the gospel sense), Goodwin climbs atop the electronic piano that Christian plays while swinging and swaying and recounting. The Psalm itself speaks of abandonment and the desire to be saved, and Christian’s lyrics expand on that with the focus on escape (being saved) from the inner shackles of doubt. With the pulsing vocals and the rhythm provided by the other dancers aligned alongside him acting like a deep south, percussive version of a Greek chorus, Goodwin writhes atop the piano trying to escape, as if, like a bird, to be freed. Finally, to “The Center will Hold,” the image is of the dancers finding the strength within, as the opening introductory prelude indicated. And with the closing lyrics: “I fumble in the dark / I find my hand / I find my hand and hold it / with my other hand” the piece, and the audience along with it, finds its way out of the darkness.

Annabelle Lopez Ochoa’s Balamouk is as good as it is not because it’s dramatically different from anything else the way Reclamation Map is, but because it perfectly utilizes the score that Ochoa curated to create a dance that looks and sounds more different than it is.

Members of Dance Theatre of Harlem
in Annabelle Lopez Ochoa’s “Balamouk”
Photo by Paula Lobo

Balamouk is a contemporary ballet that looks like a ballet but also doesn’t, and which creates an atmosphere that the Dance Theatre of Harlem dancers fit into without appearing either unnecessarily constrained by formal limitations or stridently asserting identity. Augmented by the colorful costumes by Mark Zappone, it’s just good choreography, good dancing, and a good time to watch. Daphne Lee, Crystal Serrano, Ingrid Silva, Amanda Smith, Lindsey Croop, Da’Von Doane, Christopher McDaniel, Anthony Santos, Dylan Santos, and Choong Hoon Lee comprised the cast, and although there was no clear individual lead dancer (there were “leads” in each dancing “scene”), to me Silva and Anthony Santos stood out. The ten DTH dancers fly through Ochoa’s seamless changes of focus as if unleashed, with the multiculturalism of the music (by Paris-based Les Yeux Noirs – one of whose songs is titled Balamouk), French composer Rene Aubry, and Australian singer / songwriter / instrumentalist Lisa Gerrard) reflecting the multiculturalism of the dancers and expanding the horizons of the presentation in the process. It’s an exuberant, vibrant, life-affirming piece that was a joy to watch. And it was perfectly set in the program – after Reclamation Map, it was good to see a piece where the souls of the characters were unburdened.

And then there was the second part of Program 3.

Midnight Raga, choreographed by Marco Goecke and performed by two men from Nederlands Dans Theater 2, is an imposition seemingly designed to irritate, with no apparent reason for being beyond torturing its dancers and its audience.

Nederlands Dans Theater 2 dancers
Surimi Fukushi and Adam Russell-Jones
in Marco Goecke’s “Midnight Raga”
Photo by Paula Lobo

When I first read the piece’s title, I saw it as “Midnight Rage.” That might have been a more apt title. Despite superb execution by Surimu Fukushi and Adam Russell-Jones, the piece is a bizarre exercise in upper body movement (there’s relatively little leg movement) that brings to mind hyperactive turbo-charged pugilistic insects caught in some sort of unsatisfying non-relationship. The music – two pieces by Ravi Shankar and one by Etta James – has nothing whatsoever to do with the movement except to provide a broad rhythmic context; the piece might have worked – or failed – just as well had it been choreographed to “Jai Ho” (from Slumdog Millionaire) and “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.” The only thing the piece accomplishes is to show two dancers pushed to the edge of endurance by pumping and pushing and twisting at a rapid pace and in sync. Sound and fury signifying nothing.

I was not present at its creation, but the word “Eurotrash” has come to mean dances, primarily originating in Europe, that see the world in shades of black with no point to the movement quality beyond angularity, intensity, and nihilism, expressing machine-like rage, which doesn’t travel well across the pond. Midnight Raga gives Eurotrash a bad name.

National Ballet of China dancers
in Ma Cong and Zhang Zhenxin’s
“The Crane Calling” (excerpt)
Photo by Paula Lobo

In a totally different direction, The National Ballet of China closed out the program with an excerpt from The Crane Calling. The engaging cast of 29 (including the unidentified four lead dancers) filled the City Center stage with vibrant color and equally vibrant, lilting beauty, but aside from having the opportunity to see all these Chinese ballet dancers on a stage at one time, there’s nothing to recommend the piece as presented. A story seemed buried somewhere that bore a faint resemblance to The Firebird (perhaps analogous folk sources), but the choreography is pedestrian. The best I can say is that the decision to bring a specially created for FFD excerpt of this ballet was not the best of choices, and perhaps the dance, seen in full, would make for a better presentation. However, if this is a valid example of what ballet now is in China, they have a lot of catching up to do.

Program 4

Sir Frederick Ashton’s Rhapsody (to Sergei Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini), created ten years after his formal retirement in 1980 to honor the Queen Mother on her birthday, was originally choreographed for Mikhail Baryshnikov, who was guesting with the Royal Ballet that summer. The full ballet included Lesley Collier (whose New York performances with the Royal are a cherished memory) as Baryshnikov’s pas de deux partner (although I’ve seen some sources that credit Bryony Brind) and a small corps. I’ve not seen it.

Alina Cojocaru and Herman Cornejo
in Sir Frederick Ashton’s
“Rhapsody” (excerpts)
Photo by Stephanie Berger

Program 4’s opening offering consisted of excerpts from that piece, and perhaps that was why I found it disappointing. It may be heresy, but what was presented appeared to be a relatively standard pas de deux with an introductory solo by the male dancer that included a series of royal bows, that, out of context, made little sense. Parts of it are undeniably lovely, but what I saw was more form than substance, and fancy footwork that was equally meaningless. No doubt, however, that the Rachmaninoff score soars, and when it does, so does the piece. I’ve seen American Ballet Theatre’s Herman Cornejo look somewhat more energetic, although I had no quibbles about his excellent partnering. But the highlight of the piece, and the night, was seeing Alina Cojocaru once again. She clearly dances with more indicia of experience than she did when I last saw her (guesting with ABT, and performing less than optimally due apparently to a lingering injury), but she still dances with the sweetness of personality and abundance of technique that has endeared her to a legion of fans.

I don’t recall seeing the Dutch company Introdans previously, but judged by the performances of four of its dancers in Lucinda Childs’s Canto Ostinato, I’d like to see the full company.

Childs is known for her minimalist choreography and use of repetitive movement. But of those dances of hers that I’ve seen, particularly those within, say, the past 20 years, “minimalist” may be something of a misnomer. Her dances present not minimalism per se, but a variety of limited movement sequences repeated in various permutations during the course of the piece, and consequently I’ve found her dances to be far more intellectually stimulating and visually interesting than those of other minimalist choreographers.

Members of Introdans
in Lucinda Childs’s “Canto Ostinato”
Photo by Stephanie Berger

In Canto Ostinato, the four company dancers (Verine Bouwman, Salvatore Castelli, Kim Van Der Put, and Pascal Schut), move back and forth and forth and back and up and down and sideways across the stage to Simeon Ten Holt’s score, but Childs works a great deal of variety into the movement – increasing and decreasing speed, adding and deleting moves, and changing angles and directions of movement, and even multiple occasions when the dancers actually touch each other) that the result is not just hypnotic, but instructive in terms of the impact of minimal change on visual content. I wouldn’t want a steady diet of it, but it was very well done.

(l-r) Brooklyn Mack,Tiler Peck,
and Lil Buck
in Jennifer Weber’s “Petrushka”
Photo by Stephanie Berger.

The evening’s most intriguing piece, however, was hip-hop choreographer Jennifer Weber’s take on Petrushka. While not nearly as compelling as the original version by Michel Fokine for the Ballets Russes, and not as successful as it might have been, I give Weber credit for attempting to preserve the overall story while stripping the story to its core, a la Balanchine, and modifying the choreography but not making the result some hip-hop version of the original.

The Stravinsky score (or much of it) is retained, but there is no longer a set. Instead, the three characters – unidentified, but the puppets Petrushka, the Ballerina, and the Moor from the original are the characters (there is no Charlatan, and no Shrovetide Fair in St. Petersburg). The three initially share the stage in their own small open spaces spread horizontally downstage, and it quickly becomes clear what the plot is about.

Lil Buck and Tiler Peck
in Jennifer Weber’s “Petrushka”
Photo by Stephanie Berger

The dance loses the original’s zip and overtones of magical manipulation as puppets are brought to life: here it just happens. And, except for the ballerina, the other two characters have been modified: the character who was The Moor is now respectable and strong rather than an overstuffed bad boy bully. And Petrushka is portrayed not as a downtrodden puppet suffering from low self-esteem and self-despair that doom him, but more like a loser clown.

But somehow the Balanchine-esque stripping the story down to its essentials, the not uninteresting but not radically in-your-face-different choreography, and the power of the three dancers made this version reasonably compelling. Tiler Peck danced impeccably as the Ballerina, Washington Ballet’s Brooklyn Mack was magnetic and powerful as rock (or hip-hop) star puppet that the Ballerina finds irresistible, and Lil Buck’s sad clown version of Petrushka was surprisingly unaffected (no attempt that I saw was made to imbue his character with his “Memphis Jookin’” style, for example), but this character needed to be the most complex and tortured, and Lil Buck was just a sad loser of a clown, with a gait and presentation – aside from the clown face – that seemed uncomfortably remindful of stepin fetchit. I don’t fault Lil Buck for that – I assume that’s the way the role was to be played, but the characterization as presented lacked the complexity the role – at least as in the original – requires, and there was none of Nijinksy’s suffering or tragedy.

But it seemed as if many in the audience had no idea that there was an “original” Petrushka at all, and to its discredit, the program fails to mention it. Substantially modifying and distilling the story and changing the choreography is not a problem for me, but ignoring the piece’s roots is.

The evening concluded with Rennie Harris Pure Movement – American Street Dance Theater’s Rennie Harris Funkedified (“Funkedified”). It’s fine for what it is – a compilation of street dance – but the piece thinks it’s more than a review, and it’s not.

Members of Rennie Harris Puremovement –
American Street Dance Theater
in “Funkedified”
Photo by Stephanie Berger

The program note describes it as a multi-media work set against the landscape of African-American culture and political turmoil in the 1970s. Well, if by multi-media the reference is to snippets of film briefly projected against the upstage wall, the multi-media aspect was perfunctory, non-specific, and without clear connection to anything happening on stage. The thirteen dancer cast performed well, but with exceptions, the emphasis was on styles that relied more on general impression and personal expression than technical rigor. That’s not to say that there was no talent involved – on the contrary, that was abundant, and I found the performances by a few of the dancers particularly well-executed. But it was the appearance of high-energy informality and spontaneity that galvanized the audience. Beyond exhibiting various examples of street dance, the piece doesn’t go anywhere and takes too long to get to wherever it is that it isn’t going, and I doubt that the complete version would remedy that, although in its original form perhaps Funkedified might come across as a purposeful and coherent dance.

Program 5

Ballet Hispanico kicked off program 5 with Michelle Manzanales’s Con Brazos Abiertos, which I’ve extensively reviewed twice previously and need not elaborate upon here. Although I wish the introductory piping of Marty Robbins’s “El Paso” through the theater’s speakers, which occurred at the piece’s premiere at the Joyce Theater two years ago, would be restored because it enhances the dance by placing it in a broader context, Con Brazos Abiertos (With Open Arms) works sufficiently well as it is. The Ballet Hispanico dancers are an excellent and compelling group, and I find things in the piece on multiple views that make me appreciate the choreographic intricacies even more each time.

The program’s next presentation, Tangos, presented by Junior Cervila and Guadalupe Garcia, was a pleasant surprise. The couple (accompanied by a lively nine-person band led by Musical Director Daniel Binelli), took the standard operating Argentine Tango to a different dimension.

Beyond being thoroughly competent tango dancers exhibiting superb technique, Cervila and Garcia placed their tangos in vaguely narrative scenarios and provided characterizations that added context and texture to a dance that I often find rigidly passionate in form, but with no passion in substance. Purists will probably disagree, and the second “Drunken Tango” (my invention; it’s not titled) is certainly politically incorrect, but it appeared to me that with no diminution in tango quality, the dancers here gave it life, and the varied presentation sufficiently toned down the inherent machismo.

Cervila is a large, barrel-chested man who tossed Garcia, a petite woman who appears completely natural (as opposed to the often stiff tango performers) around like a toothpick. My only quibble with the program was a musical interlude (no dancing) that, while well-performed (and obviously inserted to give the dancers time to change costume and breathe), seemed superfluous. But I suppose it’s better than a lengthy pause.

But the program’s third piece was by far the highlight of the evening, and certainly one of the highlights of FFD 2018. El cruce sobre el Niágara, choreographed by Marianela Boán, is inspired by the 1969 play of the same name by Peruvian playwright Alonso Alegria. The dance premiered in 1987 in Havana, but it managed to escape my attention until now. Thanks to Carlos Acosta’s Acosta Danza and its two fascinating dancers, Carlos Luis Blanco and Alejandro Silva, it is now embedded in my memory.

Alegria’s play tells the story of Jean François Gravelet (1824 – 97), a/k/a ‘Blondin’, the most famous tightrope walker of the nineteenth century, who crossed Niagara Falls on many occasions – including while (among many other outrageously impossible exploits) blindfolded, on stilts, stopping midway to crack eggs make an omelet and eat it, and carrying his manager on his back – and his relationship with a fictional sceptic / disciple named Carlos who challenges him, but then agrees to allow himself to be carried across the Falls on Blondin’s back. If the story were that straightforward, it would certainly be interesting, but not much more. I haven’t read or seen the play, but necessarily there’s more to it than that – issues relating to mutual trust at least, and Boán’s choreography addresses that and more.

As presented, the dance is as much about developing an interpersonal relationship, self-reliance and mutual- reliance, overcoming fear, and conquering some seemingly insurmountable divide, as it is about a death-defying stunt. And there are overtones of religious spiritualism (it’s not accidental that the aerialist pose struck by the Blondin character has his arms extended sideways – appropriate for a tightrope walker but also suggesting a cross, giving the story a dual meaning (and maybe a triple meaning if that pose is also considered as a preparation for flight) as well as sexual arousal (exacerbated by the costumes, which consist of the skimpiest of male thongs) that cannot be ignored. Indeed, before I learned the play’s underlying story (which is not referenced in the program) I thought that this pas de deux visualized a complex religio-sexual journey and relationship.

Regardless of the depth and breadth of dance’s thematic considerations, El cruce sobre el Niágara is a riveting and intense work of dance art. And Blanco and Silva are astonishing. I suppose that some might find the dances’ slow pace to be tedious, but watching these two dancers move in slow motion, controlling every muscle of their body seemingly beyond physical endurance while navigating this emotional tightrope, was mesmerizing. Everything had to be executed to perfection, and it was.

The closing piece on FFD’s closing program, however, was considerably less successful notwithstanding its movement variety and staging and doing exactly what it said it would do.

Talley Beatty’s Stack-Up premiered in 1982, and was recently refurbished with a new production. According to the brief program note, the piece was “inspired by the lives of Los Angeles’s disparate inhabitants,” and “depicts emotional ‘traffic’ in a community that is stacked on top of each other.” Fair enough. The program also indicates that the scenery design was adapted from a painting. Also fair enough – many dances are inspired by other immobile works of art or inanimate objects that have an innate movement quality. But little happens here beyond the different character stereotypes parading in and out of scenes – no character or choreographic evolution in a piece where that might be expected.

This is a vibrant, colorful dance, but to me it was all show and little substance. Even the audience didn’t appear particularly excited about it – although several in the audience were having a difficult time restraining themselves from jumping out of their seats to dance to the music (by “Various Artists”) as the piece evolved. Snapshots in time are fine, and many are classics despite being bound to a time or place. But there’s nothing transcendent about this, and although the dancers were top notch, more than energy and vitality are needed for a dance to be memorable. and timeless. Stack-up isn’t.

In future years, and as I’ve mentioned previously, I hope FFD will reconsider its emphasis on presenting excerpts from larger pieces. Doing so allows for more programming variety, but doesn’t always give an accurate flavor of the dance being excerpted or of the dancers performing it. That being said, all in all, Fall for Dance 2018 was a huge success, even if it has evolved into a cheap way to get audiences to see dance styles they already want to see, and an energizing way to begin City Center’s 75th Anniversary Year.

The post Fall for Dance 2018: Second Week appeared first on CriticalDance.

The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts
Eisenhower Theater
Washington, DC

October 18, 2018

Carmel Morgan

Brazil’s Companhia de Dança Deborah Colker accentuates the beauty and versatility of the human body like no other dance company I know. Colker’s highly athletic choreography, seen widely in Cirque De Soleil’s Ovo and the opening ceremony of the Rio Olympics, is demanding. Thanks to the company’s strong dancers, the challenging choreography appears effortless. I’ve rarely seen dancers so in tune with the music and each other. Colker’s uncompromising artistic vision must fuel their perfection. You cannot leave a performance of this company unimpressed.

In Cão Sem Plumas (Dog Without Feathers), an evening length work based on a poem by João Cabral, fourteen dancers take on the Capibaribe River and its environment. On a scrim at the back of the stage, film directed by Cláudio Assis and Colker plays, although these images are not always present. Stark black and white footage from a voyage down the Capibaribe River sets the stage for the complex movement in the foreground. Musical direction by Jorge Dü Peixe and Berna Ceppas contributes an intriguing mixed soundtrack, full of drumbeats and electronics.

Companhia de Dança Deborah Colker, Dog-Without Feathers, photo courtesy of the Company

In the beginning, a single dancer dodges and scrambles, kicking up dust, while on the screen there are close-up shots of a cracked, dry riverbed. Music pounds as more dancers enter the stage. They move snappily in a sort of ritual. Hips and shoulders swivel, feel stomp. The dancers wear nude textured unitards, giving the impression that they are caked in mud (costumes by Claudia Kopke). The lighting design by Jorginho De Carvalho keeps the stage rather dark, obscuring the dancers’ faces but highlighting the shapes their bodies make. Large rusted metal boxes represent not only the dilapidated landscape at the river’s edge, but also cages that enclose the dancers and serve as surfaces on which to climb (art direction and set design by Gringo Cardia).

Early in the work, dancers flat on the ground roll like waves to verses read aloud, and this liquid rolling later returns. In between, dancers rise and fall with startling ease and frequency, or leap and turn in the air like martial artists. Wrapped in long fabric strips hanging from the ceiling in one section, they sway like sugar cane stalks, their supple bodies stretching. Dancers with devices like crutches or ski poles become active roots of mangrove trees.

Companhia de Dança Deborah Colker, Dog-Without Feathers, photo courtesy of the Company

Entrancing lyrical dancing happens, too. In a duet, a pair of dancers so seamlessly partner that it’s nearly impossible to tell where one body ends and the other begins. Close to the floor and entwined, they propel forward like a slow-moving insect. In a section titled “Herons,” three women en pointe represent elegant birds, but the program notes also describe them as the elite who turn their backs on the poor.

Cão Sem Plumas meanders, but so do rivers. I didn’t mind that my attention was sometimes drawn away from the dancing to the film and vice versa. The overall journey, while a bit long, is rewarding. Like a National Geographic article come to life, this detailed and intimate portrait of Brazil’s northeastern Pernambuco region is affecting.

The post Companhia de Dança Deborah Colker: Dog Without Feathers appeared first on CriticalDance.

Owen/Cox Dance Group
Johnson County Community College
Polsky Theatre
Overland Park, Kansas

October 20, 2018
Morena

Steve Sucato

In keeping with its mission statement “to create new music and dance collaborations,” Kansas City, Missouri-based Owen/Cox Dance Group’s artistic director Jennifer Owen said in a curtain speech prior to the company’s performance of Morena that when she attended Victoria Botero’s music concert of the same name, she instantly knew she had to make a dance work around it. The resulting music and dance program performed Saturday, October 20 at Johnson County Community College’s Polsky Theatre proved a wonderful symbiotic collaboration that allowed each artistic element to shine.

Members of Owen/Cox Dance Group
in Jennifer Owen’s “Morena”
Photo by Elizabeth Stehling

Performed by OCDG’s seven member troupe and an ensemble of folk instruments and voices led by soprano Botero, Morena was delivered in a series of vignettes set to songs curated by Botero that are traditionally sung by Jewish, Muslim and Christian women. The songs, sung in their native languages, told of betrayal, desire and the secret hopes of mothers which Owen interpreted in a mix of folk dance-infused modern/contemporary dance choreography. Broken up into three sections, the program began with a collection of Sephardic songs the lyrics of which Owen and her dancers didn’t so much try to interpret as to capture the emotional content.

The section led off with the full ensemble in “Scalerica de oro,” a lively number that set the tone for the kind of high-armed, side-sweeping movement that would come to define the program’s first half.  The dancing had a communal feel with the performers holding hands in a circle and when a featured male/female pair broke off to perform a duet, encircling them.

Demetrius McClendon
and Marlayna Locklear
of Owen/Cox Dance Group
in Jennifer Owen’s “Morena”
Photo by Elizabeth Stehling

Next, dancing to the song “Nani, nani” (Lullaby, lullaby), dancers Megan Buckley, Demetrius McClendon and Marlayna Locklear presented a vignette where Buckley in spotlight on the opposite side of the stage to the others worriedly danced about and appeared to cradle an imaginary infant. Opposing that scene, McClendon and Locklear looked like two people in love. The pair clutched each other in tight embraces and moved through various partnered lifts that spoke of their desire for one another. As the vignette progressed and McClendon drew closer to Buckley, it became clear that there was a broken relationship between them and that Buckley was a woman in deep emotional turmoil over it. Her heartfelt, passionate dancing and that of the others was a highlight of the Sephardic section which overall lacked variety in both the music and in the choreography which tended to repeat itself.

The Arabic section that came next included five songs from the 11th through 13th centuries. In it, the music and the dancing took on new tonal dimensions and interest. The second selection in it, “Lama bada yatathanna,” told in the song’s lyrics of the joy a woman felt in seeing her love sway, his beauty amazing her. Owen’s choreography for the group dance evoked a village festival feel with chain dances, twisting and turning movement and vibrant dances for the women and men as groups.

(l-r) Yazzmeen Laidler, Terra Liu
and Marlayna Locklear
of Owens/Cox Dance Group
in Jennifer Owen’s “Morena”
Photo by Elizabeth Stehling

While much of the choreography for the Arabic section contained movement used earlier in the program, Owen’s choreography appeared to connect better with this music than that of the first section. Nowhere was that more evident than in “Man li hä’im” (He who loves me), a wonderfully-crafted and engaging duet danced by Buckley and partner Christopher Page-Sanders.

The unmistakable highlight of the evening was Morena’s closing Armenian section for which Botero and the Zulal Trio, an a cappella trio of Armenian-American women, developed a song cycle that began with a girl imploring her parents to marry her to a man for love and not money and ends with songs written after the 1915 Armenian genocide when the girl is now a widow and mother.

(l-r) Megan Buckley, Yazzmeen Laidler,
Marlayna Locklear, and (center) Terra Liu
of Owen/Cox Dance Group
in Jennifer Owen’s “Morena”
Photo by Elizabeth Stehling

Showcasing the singing of Botero and mezzo-soprano Kristee Haney, the section brought the marriage of music and dance to its peak beginning with the gleeful women’s quartet “Gago mare, garke zis” (Father, Mother, Have Me Married). Dancers Locklear, Buckley, Terra Liu and Yazzmeen Laidler cavorted as if young women dreaming of love and marriage and celebrated the bond they held between each other as friends.

The most moving and poignant moment in the program came in the extended solo “Sareri hovin mernem” (I Would Die for the Mountain Wind) performed by Laidler.  Heartfelt and adroitly danced, Laidler seemed to pour everything she had into the solo that portrayed a woman seeking resilience in the face of a devastating loss.  Owen’s outstretched and often emotionally wrenching choreography and Laidler’s performance of it were outstanding as was the ethereal singing of Botero and Haney.

Members of Owen/Cox Dance Group
in Jennifer Owen’s “Morena”
Photo by Elizabeth Stehling

For the chameleon-like Owen/Cox Dance Group that works with a rotating cast of dancers and in varying movement styles depending on each project, Morena may have been a bit of an outlier in terms of past projects. Nonetheless, the production, despite its rather one note opening section, had a lot to offer in its blending of cultures, choreography and music and received a standing ovation from the audience at program’s end.

The post Owen/Cox Dance Group: Morena appeared first on CriticalDance.

[pending receipt of performance photographs]

The Tenant
The Joyce Theater
New York, New York

November 6, 2018 (opening night)

Jerry Hochman

When I attend a dance performance that relates a story, the only pertinent baggage I bring with me is what I may already know about that story, or what the program tells me. In other words, I attend the performance as most members of the audience would.

I say this because having seen the new production of The Tenant at the Joyce Theater starring James Whiteside, Cassandra Trenary, and Kibrea Carmichael, all I know I know from what I see on stage. I’m aware that the “Dance Play,” as it is called, is based on a highly regarded novel of the same name by Roland Topor, that it was made into a film by Roman Polanski, that the action takes place in Paris, and that it’s considered somewhat of a horror story. The brief program note further advises that the story is “a descent into psychosis as the pathologically alienated Trelkovsky is subsumed into Simone Choule,” the previous tenant who committed suicide.

With this limited knowledge, I have mixed reaction to the piece, which was directed and choreographed by Arthur Pita (with Nina Goldman, the Assistant to the Director and Choreographer), which might have been more positive had the program provided more detail. Suffice it to say that the choreography – essentially a series of duets and solos sandwiched by movement from one place to another within a confined space, is quite good if you appreciate choreography that’s as passionate about passion as it is about technique, and Whiteside, Trenary (both dancers with American Ballet Theatre), and Carmichael execute Pita’s choreography superbly and … passionately. And the score by Frank Moon (played live), punctuated here and there by snippets from three of Beethoven’s symphonies, is an extraordinary compilation of music and sounds that complements and enhances whatever action takes place on stage.

That being said, the staging – while at times brilliantly conceived, is too often needlessly confusing and just plain dumb. And perhaps most troubling, Pita’s conception, which may or may not be derived from the novel, raises questions about the genesis of so-called “aberrant” behavior that, intentionally or not, undermine current thinking.

Pita has a reputation as a highly expressive, and highly theatrical, choreographer who takes considerable artistic risks. I’ve seen three of his pieces (The Ballad of Mack and Ginny, which Pita choreographed for Wendy Whelan and Edward Watson, and which was presented at City Center’s 2016 Fall for Dance, Run Mary Run, performed by Natalia Osipova and Sergei Polunin at City Center two months after that, and Death Defying Dances, presented by BODYTRAFFIC at the Joyce Theater a few months later), and I found them to be exciting to watch and perhaps even more exciting to ruminate about later after the initial pain that was an intellectual consequence of viewing them and trying to make sense of it all dissipates (equivalent to the relief one feels after recovering from a bad headache). The Tenant does not change that assessment. That his staging and choreography may at times be seen as going over the top is accurate, but none of it, to my mind, is gratuitous, opportunistic, or particularly salacious: it’s appropriate for the story being told. That’s a thinly veiled reference to the fact that there is some nudity in this production, particularly by Whiteside, which certain members of the audience might find offensive. But to me there’s a difference between being shocking and offensive, and while I was appropriately shocked by a few images, in context – and with the exception of one sequence where Whiteside’s back was to the audience – they were not inappropriate.

The Tenant (unless otherwise indicated, such references hereinafter are to the “Dance Play”) begins before it formally begins, as Trenary paces around her apartment or curls up in her bed, obviously troubled about something, while members of the audience gradually take their seats. Once the theater darkens, the pace of her activity increases; she becomes more manic; eventually ingesting alcohol and drugs and attempting to slit her wrists. Suddenly, she decides to go out for the evening, changes into a dress, puts on a scarf, and heads toward the apartment balcony; then just as suddenly changes her mind, rips the scarf off, and, hysterical, runs out onto the balcony, opens the French doors (but of course) to reveal a beautiful Parisian nighttime panorama, climbs to the building roof, wanders around a bit, and, inspired or compelled by the opening of the second movement of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony, falls to her glass-shattering death, and the stage goes black. [The conception of the roof, and the staging relating to it, is highly effective, as is Trenary.]

After the stage brightens (and an upstage sign – presumably to mimic lighting atop one of the outside buildings – announces a new scene: “The New Tenant”), Whiteside enters his new apartment, looks around, unpacks a box and a suitcase, and looks around a bit more. He seems ordinary. Shortly thereafter he removes his pants, gets into bed, and goes to sleep. Or maybe he doesn’t, as a few moments later in stage time he gets back up, puts his pants back on, and dresses for a night on the town. At some point before he goes out the door he discovers a woman’s dress in the closet, which as I read Whiteside’s stage demeanor seems a little strange to him, but he puts it aside, unconcerned, as if he was aware that the apartment’s prior occupant was a woman and must have left it there. He later reacted similarly to finding a box containing women’s slippers.

James Whiteside
Photo by Matthew Murphy

That description reflects part of the problem. Not knowing the book, we don’t know whether Whiteside’s character, Trelkovsky, slept through the night and the following day (we know it’s night again in Paris because when he opens those French doors it’s dark out – but then again, it’s always dark out when those doors are opened), or whether he got out of bed because he was restless and couldn’t sleep, though there was no indication of restlessness. [In hindsight, it’s possible that the box containing women’s slippers was one he brought to the apartment when he first entered, and from my vantage point missed it – but even if it was, that doesn’t change my overall assessment.]

Anyway (and my ensuing description condenses the stage action), after returning from some wild, noisy party (we know that from the sound of a wild, noisy party emanating through the theater’s speakers) and going out again, preceded by removing his pants, going to bed, getting up from the bed, and then putting the pants back on), the apartment is invaded by a unitard-clad demonish creature who springs from nowhere. At first I thought it was Trenary, but this person was far taller. I even thought at one point that it might have been Whiteside, but he couldn’t possibly look that svelte in a unitard. Or could he? She / it (not a character identified in the program) stalks the apartment like some evil spirit monster or personified lightning bolt or nightmarish apparition of Christmas yet to come (sorry, it’s beginning to feel a lot like that time of year). She wrecks the place, plays with the knife that Simone threatened to cut herself with, and disappears. Who, or what, is this thing? Is she a spirit that haunts the apartment, dooming anyone who lives there? A force unleashed by Choule’s suicide? A figment of Trelkovsky’s imagination even though he’s not there to imagine her? [In hindsight once again, I suspect this demon was a visualization of Trelkovsky’s released inner demon, with the further possibility that this vision wasn’t just a horrific vision, but represented some predilection that Trelkovsky may have had toward being a woman, but at that point in time we don’t know that Trelkovsky even had an inner demon – he seemed simply a mild-mannered young man who happened to like wild parties. Nothing unusual there.]

Later, after returning from yet another wild party with a wild young woman, in tow (after getting out of and into his pants a few more times), he subsequently has wild sex (after…well, you get the idea), presumably with the character identified as “Stella” in the program, played by Carmichael. It seems clear to me that Stella was the same person as the one who danced the role of that frightening monster – Carmichael appears the appropriate size and character, and the “wildness” displayed by the spirit matches Stella’s approach to lovemaking. But could Trelkovsky have imagined Stella as that demon before he seemingly first met her? Or, notwithstanding that they’re performed by the same dancer, are they intended to represent two different “forces.” We don’t know.

As the piece progresses during the course of these and other scenes, Trelkovsky sees the trance-like Simone Choule, before him, even dances with her, but also seems to move and behave in ways that echo what Simone did before she committed suicide. Clearly, maybe, he’s being possessed by her. Or just as clearly, maybe, he’s acquiring her character and appearance as his own – “possession” having nothing to do with it. After this gradual slide into madness (or more visualized madness) and after hearing to the same musical exclamation points from Beethoven’s 9th that appeared to impel Choule to her death, he climbs out on the roof and leaps off, committing suicide.

James Whiteside
Photo by Matthew Murphy

Except he’s back on stage afterward, dazed, brutally wounded, and subsequently is seen bandaged in black, with one eye open, matching an image that inexplicably had been displayed earlier in the piece of Choule bandaged and bedridden after he’d already moved into the apartment. Then, once more to the strains of Beethoven’s 9th, Trelkovsky climbs onto the roof and kills himself. Again.

I ascertained after the performance that in the novel, Trelkovsky visits Choule in the hospital, where she’s bandaged as described (and died shortly thereafter) before he moved into the apartment, so the image of Choule that Trelkovsky sees on the bed must, in the Dance Play, be a flashback, and his twice-told suicide must be some reflection of Choule jumping off the roof, surviving, but dying later. Admittedly it might have been difficult to present all that (and more) with some coherence, but what Pita chose to do by condensing the story and changing the narrative order and presenting characters without explanation (which might have been readily explained in a program note) makes it way too confusing.

If one eliminates all the stuff that makes no sense, or is just annoying and silly (like the pants coming off and on repeatedly), the piece is exactly as billed – a study in developing psychosis triggered by … well, either his own instability to begin with, his visions of Choule, his possession by Choule, his “becoming” Choule, or his reaction to living in a haunted apartment. Pick one or them all – in The Tenant, any possibility is justifiable. But the fact that I’ve spent so much time discussing what Pita and his dancers presented indicates, ultimately, how curiously fascinating this horror story told through dance is, and that many of its images are enduring – which is much more than I can say about more “successful” story-dances.

However, the greater problem I have with The Tenant is the piece’s manifestation of Trelkovsky’s descent into madness. Either as a result of his ingrained mental illness, or of circumstances outside his control, he transforms himself into Choule – physically. He becomes a woman – and maybe had that propensity all along (though that’s hardly clear). So is the message here that a man who dresses like a woman or “becomes” a woman does so as a result of mental illness (the program note described him as “pathologically” alienated) or of outside forces that compel him to do what he does? Does it matter? And is the further message that the transformation into a woman (including but beyond wearing woman’s clothing) is the real horror story, or at the very least a component of it? Somehow I don’t think that that’s the takeaway that any of the artists involved in the piece intended to provide, but it’s there.

And if dressing as a woman, or thinking himself to be a woman, had been “normal” for Trelkovsky prior to the “possession” by Choule (or her influence), why was there no clear evidence of it? Why doesn’t he put on a dress or a woman’s wig to go out on the town? All this may be perfectly explicable to the artistic team, but to me, rather than being whoever you believe you are, what The Tenant describes is clear cause and effect, with the cause being his preexisting condition or the acquired madness, and the effect being that dressing like a woman and/or a male’s thinking himself to be a woman is perceived as abnormal behavior (separate and apart from committing suicide). Is Whiteside really comfortable with this implication?

So not only is the staging of The Tenant confusing, the point is as well. And I recognize that in his novel Topor may have been commenting on something about Parisian society or human nature that might make this explicable, but this Dance Play doesn’t do it.

Aside from those observations, however, The Tenant is worth seeing for Pita’s choreography and the performances. Carmichael is a dramatic, powerful dancer (her dance background is extensive) who made an indelible first impression (she looks like a cross between a tall version of Thandie Newton as she appeared in Mission Impossible II and Grace Jones, a James Bond villain in A View to a Kill – youthfully slight and engaging but scary and a little crazy. Her role – both components of it – is explosive, and she nailed it. Trenary’s dancing talent is well known and apparent here – somehow she makes her manic depression and suicide both believable and somehow graceful. And the scene as she struggles with her demons on the roof before jumping off is beautifully (if that’s the appropriate word) and brilliantly (that is the right word) executed. Whiteside, the Dance Play’s centerpiece (and probably it’s raison d’etre), does a superb job making Trelkovsky’s mad descent into cross-dressing and thinking himself a woman, and then committing suicide – twice – credible (although he could use some French lessons: his few French exclamations were the only part of his performance that seemed artificial). It’s a role seemingly made for him.

So by all means see The Tenant (don’t bring the kids or the squeamish). But maybe read the book, or a good summary of it, in advance. And perhaps keep in mind that notwithstanding that the excerpts from Beethoven’s 9th either trigger or reflect the suicidal impulses of Choule and Trelkovsky (and perhaps the apartment’s next tenants), Beethoven’s 9th Symphony is commonly referred to as “Ode to Joy.”

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Tom Gold Dance
Florence Gould Hall
New York, New York

November 10, 2018
Apparatus Hominus

Jerry Hochman

Most sculpture gardens that I’m familiar with are quiet places to rest, where the sculptures on display complement the calming experience, as well as provide a man-made contrast to the natural display around them. I’ve never seen the sculpture display at the TurnPark Art Space in West Stockbridge, Massachusetts that provided the inspiration for Tom Gold’s most recent dance, Apparatus Hominus, which I saw at the second of two performances last weekend in what was Tom Gold Dance’s introductory Fall New York season, but the sculpture / nature connection is both a good thing and a bad thing.

The good thing: like the best of sculpture gardens, Apparatus Hominus allows one to observe and reflect on nature’s simplicities, and complexities, in relative peace and quiet, with nothing to interrupt one’s thoughts except the ambient sounds of the wind rustling through the trees, the silent sounds of fellow-travelers, and the atonal drone of the occasional drone hovering overhead. The bad thing: Apparatus Hominus is a calming experience, maybe too calming.

Barton Cowperthwaite,
Shoshana Rosenfield,
and Mary Elizabeth Sell;
Joseph Liccardo (at piano)
in Tom Gold’s “Apparatus Hominus”
Photo by Eugene Gologursky

Two of the most significant components of any dance are the choreography and the performances. In this respect, Apparatus Hominus excels. The dance had its initial presentation last July, during what has become an annual company residency in the Berkshires. Originally set to four dancers, the piece now has been expanded to accommodate two more. Not having seen it in its original form, I can’t comment on how it initially looked, but increasing the number of dancers and dance segments probably was a good decision, if for no other reason than that it provided greater opportunity to see Gold’s choreography and the company’s superlative group of dancers.

Gold is a former soloist with New York City Ballet, but that fact doesn’t define his choreographic style, unless one considers that a certain level of artistic sophistication comes automatically from having been a member of that company. Not surprisingly, his steps are ballet steps, and his dancers are ballet dancers, but the choreographic result can’t be pigeon-holed that easily. In general terms, his choreography is balletic and lyrical, but it’s not exclusively that. Nor is it wedded to a particular orthodoxy that might illustrate how ‘contemporary’ or how avant-garde it might be, or how it might reflect the choreographer’s ‘unique’ vision. I suppose it comes within the ambit of contemporary ballet, but that term is so broad that it’s relatively meaningless. What it is is finely crafted workmanship that doesn’t draw undue attention to itself, but is multi-faceted and far more complex than it appears.

The choreography for Apparatus Hominus is consistent with that description. The piece is divided into seamless segments for a single dancer, subsets of the six dancers, or the entire cast, and no segment appears to be directly related, choreographically, to another. That degree of variety in a dance for six performers that lasts over an hour is difficult to accomplish.

Stephanie Williams
and Barton Cowperthwaite
in Tom Gold’s
“Apparatus Hominus”
Photo by Ani Collier

And the dancers are first-rate, with two who are new to the company, Tiffany Mori (a member of St. Louis Ballet) and Barton Cowperthwaite (ballet-trained; New York-based), joining company veterans Mary Elizabeth Sell, Shoshana Rosenfield (the first a current, and the second a former, member of NYCB), Stephanie Williams (a member of American Ballet Theatre), and James Shee (former member of National Ballet of Canada).

But more than solid choreography and superb execution by the cast is necessary to create a successful dance, and while there is a surfeit here of both, the overall impact of Apparatus Hominus is too much on a singular emotional level, and the few segments that seem to change the pace or introduce visual punctuations are overwhelmed by those that, notwithstanding the intelligence of the choreography, aren’t as exciting. In part, the fault, if that’s the appropriate word, is in it being too much like a leisurely walk in a park. More significantly, it uses a score that bathes the action in ennui. The selections from Nico Muhly – Drones and Piano, Drones and Viola, and Drones and Violin, would appear to be inspired choices to reflect a sculpture garden’s inspiration. But music comprised largely of similar sounds (I don’t doubt its complexity) can have a soporific effect (despite it’s being well-played, live, by Katherine Liccardo and Joseph Liccardo). Apply choreography intended to convey the emotional response to walking leisurely through a nature space with metal sculptures seemingly around every bend in every path and the result is something to look at and appreciate its detail and nicety, but generally not to get emotionally involved with.

The dance begins well, with a solo for Cowperthwaite that sets a tone of power and majesty. With his arms frequently stretched wide, I saw tree limbs, powerful avian images, and maybe both at the same time: perfect for an introduction to a nature space. The segments that follow are certainly pleasant enough, and as densely filled with choreographic variety as I’ve previously described, but they leave no lasting impression – maybe akin to the sculptures in TurnPark Art Space, they may stand out, but they also blend in so as not to distract from the natural settings that surround them. Every once in awhile another sequence emerges that’s particularly strong and interesting. The solo for Shee, for example, is quite powerful, and Shee here delivers his finest work since I first saw him with this company. And the pace of each segment was not completely monotonic: there were one or two segments when I could hear the pace of the music, and the accompanying choreography, increase noticeably. [There’s another Muhly musical component used in the piece – excerpts from the soundtrack to Kill Your Darlings, and perhaps that’s where this music came from.]  What was needed was the acoustic and choreographic equivalent of a bolt of lightning or a scary encounter between a couple of hyperactive squirrels, but that wouldn’t have been compatible with a peaceful walk through TurnPark Art Space, or from seeing the sculptures displayed there.

Tiffany Mori, Mary Elizabeth Sell,
James Shee, and Shoshana Rosenfield
(clockwise from bottom center)
in Tom Gold’s “Apparatus Hominus”
Photo by Ani Collier

And one would think that a dance inspired by the site-specific sculpture gardens at TurnPark would bring to mind the sculptures there. I checked TurnPark (vicariously via the Internet – it looks like a wonderful space; typically arts-focused for a location in the Berkshires), and although it’s certainly possible that Gold saw a different group of metal sculptures from those indicated in the mini-travelogue, I didn’t see anything in the choreography that was obviously connected to any of them.  Of course, there doesn’t have to be any direct connection: what Gold presented could simply have been movement “inspired” by the metal sculptures in an abstract way, or something reflecting the feeling of seeing or walking by them in a pastoral setting. But in this context, with the connection to TurnPark so significant, I expected a connection.

Every once in awhile I thought I saw such connections, but the references were too vague to be clear. For example, in a segment that included a group of women, I thought I saw circular patterning that would have fit “Heliograph 2” (artist: Vadim Kosmatschof); perhaps Cowperthwaite’s solo, coming at the piece’s beginning, was intended as a sort of gateway, and was intended to reflect, abstractly, “Talus Gate” (artist: Gene Montez Flores); and maybe Shee’s solo reflected “Don Quixote with a Flower” (artist: Nikolai Sillis), which segued into Shee and some of the women commenting on “Lazy Ladies” (artist: Nikolai Silis). But I saw nothing of the whimsy in these and other sculptures (like “Bohr and Einstein,” artist: Vladimir Lemport), and attributing specific segments to any of these or other specific sculptures is a stretch. About the only direct connection I could gather from Apparatus Hominus is the sense of moving along a path as the segments progress, and the dancers exiting the stage / the park unceremoniously when the piece ended, as if their journey would continue unseen.

Stephanie Williams
and Barton Cowperthwaite (center);
Tiffany Mori, Mary Elizabeth Sell,
James Shee, and Shoshana Rosenfield
(clockwise from bottom left)
in Tom Gold’s “Apparatus Hominus”
Photo by Eugene Gologursky

But the dance segments work on their own as abstract movement, so there being insufficient apparent connection to any of the park’s sculptures isn’t as concerning as the above description might sound. More problematic is the pace imposed by the music. To the extent everything sounded the same, even though the sounds were different (and certainly the sound of a violin differs from that of a piano), the segments of the dances left a similar impression. The “drone” sound in Muhly’s compositions dominated the other sounds, and “droned out” much of the choreography. Which is a shame, because the choreography itself is so good, and because the dancers shined. In addition to Cowperthwaite and Shee, I was particularly impressed with the work by Mori and Rosenfield, and the execution by Williams and Sell is always compelling.

I’m advised that Apparatus Hominus, which has no specific meaning beyond a general reference to the park’s metal sculptures (and by extension, the dancers in the piece) as ‘human apparatus’ is still an evolving work, so perhaps some exclamatory segments, and more musical variety, will be added later. Considering the caliber of Gold’s choreography and the members of the company, that’s something to look forward to.

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Heather Desaulniers

Oakland Ballet Company
Luna Mexicana – Día De Los Muertos
Paramount Theatre, Oakland
November 3rd, 2018

Downtown Oakland was abuzz Saturday afternoon as patrons flocked to the Paramount Theatre for Oakland Ballet’s program honoring the Day of the Dead. Entire families, including the youngest members, filled the aisles; the crowd was peppered with stunning Calaveras faces. Excitement and anticipation for the third year of OBC’s Luna Mexicana – Día De Los Muertos was palpable. What transpired over the next two hours certainly met those expectations – the dance and movement were truly delightful. I wish I could say the same about the recorded music. Not that it was recorded as opposed to live, but that the mix seemed off the entire show. The treble highs were piercing, loud and clippy, making the music uncomfortable to listen to. And that’s coming from someone who isn’t particularly sensitive to sound. It pulled focus from what was happening on stage, which was a bit of a shame.

Frankie Lee Peterson III in Luna Mexicana
Photo John Hefti

2018’s program brought an eclectic mix of four pieces, including a world premiere collaboration, and of course the return of 2016’s Luna Mexicana, the title work choreographed by Oakland Ballet’s Artistic Director Graham Lustig. Two guest companies were also featured on the bill, and it was they who kicked off the afternoon with a pair of extraordinary percussive performances. Using ritual, text and movement, Aztec dance ensemble Nahui Ehekatl and Co. provided the perfect introduction into the space – like a call or invitation to each audience member to quiet their minds and be in the moment. Goblets of smoke were offered up to the heavens; drums, reed flute and ankle bells provided the score; vibrant traditional Aztec feathered headdresses filled the stage. And because this was the one dance that didn’t have recorded music, there was nothing to distract from the grounded, pulsing physicality.

The sound mix notwithstanding, Ballet Folklórico México Danza was absolutely ebullient in Nuevo Leon. I don’t know whether the dance had any story or narrative component, but what I absolutely know is that the choreography by Martín Romero and the dancing from twenty-two company members was out of this world. Joyous in mood and tone; technically flawless in footwork, turns and extensions; dynamically intricate in stage patterning and partnering. And unlike some other percussive cultural dance traditions, the upper body was such a big part of the choreography, which made for a richer, deeper movement expression.

Samantha Bell and Landes Dixon in Luna Mexicana
Photo John Hefti

Lustig’s Luna Mexicana transports the viewer to a realm where its protagonist Luna (Jazmine Quezada, at this performance) has the opportunity to encounter and engage with those in her life who have passed on. Sometimes she danced with them, sometimes she simply watched. But in both cases, there was a distinctly uplifted atmosphere, with equal parts celebration, happiness and nostalgia. Costumed by Lustig and Christopher Dunn in skeleton unitards, these spirits entered and exited the space in a variety of distinct vignettes. Standouts were Frankie Lee Peterson III’s deer solo with its phenomenal double stag leaps along with the subtle yet striking bride and groom pas de deux, handily interpreted by Samantha Bell and Landes Dixon. This duet was imbued with incredibly detailed partnering, but what was most interesting was Lustig’s use of flexion – flexed feet, bent arms and legs. While choreographically intriguing on its own, the flexion also felt right in line with the skeletal frame of the characters. As the ballet reached its conclusion, Quezada lay sleeping in front of the candle and skull-adorned altar that had been upstage center throughout. Had Luna Mexicana been a dream or some other mysterious happening? The lights faded to black and the curtain fell. No definite answer had been provided, instead, a gorgeous ambiguity hung in the air.

Viva La Vida
Photo Alan Briskin

Oakland Ballet and Ballet Folklórico México Danza’s highly anticipated premiere collaboration, Viva La Vida, closed the program with a tribute to an iconic visual artist. “Inspired by the life and times of Frida Kahlo,” as the program noted, the large ensemble work (dancers from both companies, with choreography/direction by Lustig and additional choreography by Romero) certainly took a deep, and successful, dive into both personal and artistic stories. As a video collage of Kahlo’s paintings cycled on the scrim, different scenes would play out like living tableaux, most underscored by passion, urgency and volatility. For me, the most powerful chapter was subtitled “Portrait of a Marriage.” A 1931 painting of Frida and her husband Diego was projected at the back. Onstage, the image had been recreated – Nina Pearlman as Frida, Alberto Anguiano as Diego – a large metal frame surrounding them. One by one, Bell, Sharon Kung and Constanza Murphy appeared on the scene tempting Anguiano. He stepped out of the frame to dance a series of pas de deux with each of them – a fitting metaphor for stepping outside of marriage and relationship. While Viva La Vida was not too long overall, some of the internal vignettes could use a bit of editing. Dynamically and choreographically, a few were kind of flat, doing the same thing over and over again with no build. I also think a number of the scenes were somewhat obscure, unless you were a Kahlo enthusiast. I very much like her work and know some things about her life, yet, there were several moments that went right over my head. And I bet I wasn’t alone. Having said that, after seeing Viva La Vida, I was motivated to do some research. I wanted to learn more; I wanted to answer questions that had arisen during the performance. My curiosity had been piqued and that’s indeed a measure of good art.    

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Twyla Tharp Dance
The Joyce Theater
New York, New York

November 14, 2018
“Minimalism and Me”: excerpts from dances created from 1965-71; Eight Jelly Rolls

Jerry Hochman

As much as I enjoy seeing anything created by Twyla Tharp, I wasn’t really looking forward to a program titled “Minimalism and Me.” I anticipated an evening filled with … minimalism, which I frequently find as entertaining and/or illuminating as watching paint dry. I should have known better. “Minimalism and Me” is not only both entertaining and illuminating, it’s almost thrilling. It’ll leave you with a smile permanently etched on your face – at least for two plus hours, and one doesn’t need to enjoy minimalism to appreciate it. Simply put, it’s entrancing theater, illuminating dance, and one of the most entertaining programs I’ve seen in New York this year.

Above all else, “Minimalism and Me” is a history of Tharp’s choreographic (and to some extent personal) evolution during the early years of her performing and choreographing career. And the key to it being as wonderful as it is is that the evolution is presented in the form of a time travelogue narrated by Tharp, with the biting wit that she’s known for aimed squarely at herself.

My first acquaintance with Tharp’s choreography came via the Joffrey Ballet (its New York/City Center incarnation). Deuce Coupe, choreographed to music by The Beach Boys, had its New York premiere in March, 1973, and I believe I saw it shortly thereafter. Aside from that dance’s entertainment value, which was off the charts, I recall thinking to myself as I watched it that it was created by someone with a computer mind; the intricate movement patterns that appeared to have no rhyme or reason (unlike, say, Balanchine) but somehow worked beautifully had to have been the product of a computer program or a mind that thought like one. And the ensuing As Time Goes By and Deuce Coupe II, although not quite as successful (or surprising), only reinforced that assessment.

Turns out, I wasn’t far wrong.

(l-r) Mary Beth Hansohn, Kellie Drobnick,
Matthew Dibble, Reed Tankersley
and Kara Chan of Twyla Tharp Dance
in “Eight Jelly Rolls”
Photo by Ian Douglas

During the course of her presentation, Tharp displays her choreography at various early points in time both as produced by a real computer (albeit a prehistoric one), and as created and memorialized in her diagrams, which looked as if they’d been created by computer but did the job much more successfully. Many have seen choreographers’ creative diagrams of the placement of bodies on stage and the direction of movement, but rarely has anything looked quite so scientifically based.

But I digress.  As “Minimalism and Me” begins, and to the surprise of those in the audience who didn’t know it was coming, Tharp herself enters from the stage left wings and takes a position behind at a lectern. Seconds later, she begins what is to be a history of her early evolution as an artist / choreographer via snippets from some of the many pieces she created from 1965-1971. Tharp is intelligent enough to know that complete versions of these dances wouldn’t move the narrative ball forward, so excerpts are converted into examples that weave into her narrative. The entire production, from libretto to execution, is so accomplished (and just short of being overly slick) that I suspect it will, and certainly should, be memorialized in a more permanent form (perhaps a book/CD combination).

Twyla Tharp and Rose Marie Wright in a scene from “Dancing in the Streets of London and Paris, Continued in Stockholm and Sometimes Madrid,”
from “Minimalism and Me”
Photo by James Kravitz

Although I took extensive notes, there is no way to adequately replicate here that intelligence and wit, the pithy observations, the self-deprecation, and the nonchalant references to accomplishments that were interjected throughout Tharp’s narrative. It’s easier just to describe, in rough terms what the presentation looked like.

It begins with a photograph from one of her first performances, while she was thoroughly the minimalist revolutionary, which features her in a standing pose, aligned both vertically and horizontally to the floor at the same time – which was the artistic accomplishment. An excerpt from Tank Dive, which premiered in April, 1965, follows. Here, and in subsequent excerpts, Tharp enlists a group of 11 volunteers / dance students to act as an audience – and also to provide a critical counterpoint to the orthodoxy that Tharp’s movement then reflected. So in the Tank Dive excerpt, Kellie Drobnick replicates Tharp standing in second position, in releve, when the dance was performed at the Judson Memorial Church – the fulcrum around which post-modern, or post-post modern, dance turned. That’s it – for three or four long minutes – the length of the song that provided the piece’s musical accompaniment (Downtown, sung by Petula Clark, which has no relationship to the movement, such as it was, beyond being the most popular single in New York that month) – while the “audience” rebels at seeing one dancer standing in place with the only “movement” being her attempts to maintain her balance.

Twyla Tharp Dancer members Ron Todorowski (far L)
and Mary Beth Hansohn (far R) with volunteers in
a scene from “Minimalism and Me”
Photo by Ian Douglas

Recognizing that extreme minimalism, once movement has been eliminated, has nowhere else to go, Tharp gradually adds limited movement into her choreography, and recruits a company of women (eventually growing to six) who rehearse and perform wherever they can find space (rehearsal spaces and black box theaters did not then exist). Augmented with period photographs and fuzzy videos from the original performances, excerpts from Re-Moves (10/66), Disperse (4/67), and Generation (2/68; which was performed at the Wagner College gymnasium) follow, with Tharp’s movement vocabulary gradually growing (although initially parts of the movement were kept hidden from the viewing audience; part of the gestalt of being avant-garde). After After ‘Suite’ (2/69), included among a variety of presentations by modern dance companies at the Billy Rose Theater on Broadway (and as to which Tharp displayed a photograph of the contributing choreographers, including, among others, Martha Graham, Jose Limon, and Paul Taylor) and Medley (7/69), which was performed outdoors and produced the world’s first “flash mob” (except then, to my recollection, they were called “happenings”), came Dancing in the Streets of London and Paris, Continued in Stockholm and Sometimes Madrid (11/69), which featured Tharp’s dancers performing dance “installations” long before that was considered fashionable. The dancelogue concluded with pieces that more thoroughly reflected her stereotypical movement quality, The Fugue (8/70), and The History of Up and Down (1/71).  Throughout, dancers with her current company performed the excerpts, sometimes with men dancing pieces created on the original company’s women (as Tharp explained, the dances were not gender-specific).

Members of Twyla Tharp Dance
in “Eight Jelly Rolls”
Photo by Ian Douglas

A full performance of Eight Jelly Rolls (9/71), a Tharp classic that I’d not previously seen, followed after intermission, danced by her full company (Matt Dibble, Ron Todorowski, Reed Tankersley, Kara Chan, Mary Beth Hansohn, and Drobnick). The choreography is fabulous, as are the dancers, and is marked by the sense of the impromptu (though there’s nothing impromptu about it), the humor, and the non-reverential sense of American culture that has been a hallmark of many of her pieces since.

Finally, as a grand coup de theatre, Tharp joined her company in a performance of an added encore of sorts to Eight Jelly Rolls in which the seventy-seven year old Tharp danced with the same energy level and enthusiasm as her dancers. I don’t know if this was special for opening night, or if it will be repeated throughout the run, but it brought the audience (including me, creaking bones and all) to its feet, astounded by – and not a little envious of – her still abundant and accomplished physical ability.

Twyla Tharp in “Generation,”
as presented in “Minimalism and Me”
Photo by Bob Propper

“Minimalism and Me” left me wanting still more. While one can see the evolution of her choreography from minimal to magical, the initial impetus for her idiosyncratic movement quality seems to have just “happened.” That may have been the case, but some more clear indication of that development, to the extent there was one, would have been instructive.  And taking the steps further, it would have been nice to have witnessed the genesis of Deuce Coup, considered the first crossover ballet, and perhaps of the dance that put Tharp on the map, Push Comes to Shove, which she created for American Ballet Theatre, considered one of the best of crossover ballets and which I witnessed at its premiere performance. [For those interested, much of the opening night audience at the Uris Theater had no idea what to expect, and sat bemused for much of the piece’s 22 plus minutes. But the staid ballet crowd eventually warmed to it, and erupted at its conclusion. Why ABT has not revived it in recent decades is incomprehensible; the company has adequate replacements for the original leads Mikhail Baryshnikov, Martine van Hamel, and Marianna Tcherkassky – several times over.] Lastly, with respect to the Minimalism and Me production as well, the piece looks so well-rehearsed and produced (it premiered in Chicago, and was here having its New York premiere) that it borders on being a bit too polished.

But those observations are insignificant in the face of the artistry and entertainment that Tharp here presents. It should be obvious that this is one of the finer dance events in New York this year, a great way to kick off the holidays, and a must-see for anyone interested in dance, in Tharp, or simply having a great evening’s entertainment. The engagement is a long one (through December 9), so there are no excuses. Don’t miss it.

The post Twyla Tharp: Minimalism and More appeared first on CriticalDance.

Sleeping Beauty Dreams
The Beacon Theater
New York, New York

December 14, 2018

Jerry Hochman

Dreams can be interpreted in multiple ways, and, if describable, could mean different things to different people. The same holds true for works of art. So it was in both respects with the performances of a visualized “dream” presented at New York’s Beacon Theater Friday night: the New York premiere of Sleeping Beauty Dreams. The project, conceived and directed by Rem Hass and created by an artistic army on the cutting edge of technological development, featured Diana Vishneva and Marcelo Gomes dancing a stone’s throw up Broadway from Lincoln Center, where both gave so many memorable ballet performances.

On one level, that of visual performance art, the venture was a great success with much of the opening night audience, which gave it a standing ovation. It was exactly as described: “a contemporary dance and art show; a fusion of performance art, electronic music, new media art, and ‘revolutionary Real-Time Digital Avatar technology’.” If an artistically radical explosion of light and color and movement fueled by technology that appears activated by and an amplification of the movement performed by Vishneva live on stage is what audience-members anticipated, which appears to have been the case, that’s what they got. As something to look at, it’s often stunning, and all the artists involved (some of whom are identified below) deserve credit for the creation and execution of a ground-breaking visual experience.

A scene from “Sleeping Beauty Dreams,”
with Diana Vishneva and Marcelo Gomes,
from its December 14, 2018 New York premiere
Photo courtesy of SBDart

But as a piece of dance and theater, and as ground-breaking as it is, Sleeping Beauty Dreams comes across as an initial experiment in the possibilities of the technology as it relates to both, not the optimization of the art form as it may eventually appear. Anyone looking for something resembling the magic that Vishneva and Gomes provided and continue to provide, separately and together, in other dance performances won’t find that here (to the chagrin of many in my seating vicinity). And anyone looking for something resembling a coherent narrative beyond the presumed overall context of the fairy tale itself won’t find that here either. Indeed, Sleeping Beauty Dreams bears only the flimsiest of relationships to the fairy tale. Even if one assumes that the “story” of the piece, theatrically, is limited to being the visualization of a 100 year long dream during which, and within which, the protagonist evolves emotionally from being a teenager to someone 100 years older, give or take, the result, at least for an audience member for whom the advancement of technology is not an end in itself, is something to look at from a distance, not something to become emotionally involved in or to share the moment with.

Aside from a demonstration of technological wizardry, Sleeping Beauty Dreams is interesting – even at times exciting –  to watch, but it can also be numbing and tedious. And the best parts of it – other than the oohs and ahhs prompted by watching the technology work – is when it’s liberated from the technology and Vishneva and Gomes, within the confines of their costumes, and an accompanying chorus of ten male dancers, just dance.

A scene from “Sleeping Beauty Dreams,”
with Diana Vishneva and Marcelo Gomes,
from its December 14, 2018 New York premier

At the outset, it must be emphasized that the idea of exploring what happens within Aurora’s mind as she sleeps is both wonderful and long overdue. I’m not aware that the idea has been previously explored (publicity indicates that this is the first time), although more avant-garde productions of The Sleeping Beauty have hinted at the emotional and sexually-charged evolution that had taken place. Of course, a visualized dream is hardly new to dance in general and ballet in particular. Where would classical ballet be without Petipa dream scenes during which a central character’s dream is the subject of choreographic (and /or thematic) exploration? And such dreamy side-trips, or concepts for the piece as a whole, aren’t limited to male characters: for example, much of the raison d’etre to the vast majority of stagings of The Nutcracker is Clara (or Marie’s) dream, and Michel Fokine’s Le Spectre de la Rose is visualized entirely within the parameters of a young woman’s dream. I can’t explain why it wasn’t done before with respect to The Sleeping Beauty beyond the desire to avoid lengthening an already lengthy (in many incarnations) ballet, or, more likely, an aversion to visualizing the taboo subject of a teen-age girl’s emotional and sexual evolution.

But whether Sleeping Beauty Dreams accomplishes what it claims it sets out to do, beyond the technology involved, is another matter. To me, technological accomplishments notwithstanding, it doesn’t.

In a sense, the piece begins before it begins: with the theatrical environment. The Beacon Theater opened in 1929 and seats nearly 3000 over three or four levels. Its size, however, is not its most distinguishing feature. The cavernous floor-to-ceiling lower orchestra space is guarded on both sides by bronzish elevated, heroic-sized statues of watchful but emotionless Greco-Roman goddesses bearing staffs (or spears) that could, individually, kabob an entire orchestra row. Above them (and above a row of oversized coin-like heads of four warriors /politicians on each side, with slightly different poses between one side and the other) there are large rectangular vertical cascading panoramas of people on a dark and stormy night either fleeting a city from some terrible barbarian invasion (complete with an elephant or two) or scrambling all over themselves to be first to score the day’s catch in the harbor – or both, since, like the coins, the paintings/ frescoes on each side are not exactly identical. The stage itself is flanked by what appear to be metal receptacles (empty suits of armor?; huge but nondescript urns? – I couldn’t tell because the lighting was theater-dim, and looked even dimmer in contrast to banks of powerful stadium-like lighting facing outward from the area above the stage so audience members could find their way to seats without tripping over themselves – like the people in the paintings) filled with super-sized spears.

The ambiance was classical / gothic, melodramatic / ominous, and a highly appropriate venue for the Sleeping Beauty Dreams presentation.

A scene from “Sleeping Beauty Dreams,”
with Diana Vishneva,
from its December 14, 2018 New York premiere
Photo courtesy of SBDart

When the program actually begins, Vishneva is sprawled downstage center on a slab of a bed (or just a slab), wearing a sort of patchwork body suit (looking like sections of it were stitched together to make the whole)  – no celebratory tutu, which is the costume the audience would have last seen her character wearing in the purported dramatic context; and in a somewhat fetal position –no arms crossed across her body, the position in which the audience would have last seen her. I thought more of Juliet in the Capulet tomb than Aurora asleep in a royal bed.

As Vishneva, here identified as “The Princess” rather than Aurora, rises from her prone position, the area surrounding her (from above and behind) becomes illuminated with white light. When she moves her limbs the light splashes and fractures across the “screen” (I don’t know if that’s the correct term) behind her like a cascading movement spray that generates additional sprays of white light every time she moves her arms or legs (at various points her costume is embedded with “sensors” that track her movement which is simultaneously transferred to the movement of the sprays of light above her). The torso moves as well, but globally, looking on the screen like an amorphous blob that changes position as she does.

A scene from “Sleeping Beauty Dreams,”
with Diana Vishneva,
from its December 14, 2018 New York premiere
Photo courtesy of SBDart

As I recall, the color and shape of the images that are the visualized transformations of Vishneva’s movements soon change shape and color, corresponding to a change in tempo of the electronic music that accompanies all this. Some of the visual images (by Tobias Gremmler) are quite beautiful (particularly when Vishneva moves circularly); others are the visual equivalent of the electronic music –pounding and portentous, with a hint of vulgarity and a surfeit of artistic excess. At some point the background screen is replaced by a scrim behind which Vishneva sometimes moves. While it’s interesting to see the color evolution based on Vishneva’s movement, the sound at this stage (and largely throughout the piece) makes it seem more horror story than dream.

Accompanying another change in the music tempo, these flashing or kaleidoscopic image transformations of Vishneva’s movement yield to a wall of greenish grayish bluish cells of “air bubbles “ (a little – just a little – Kandinskyish) that alternatively change position or implode and which, at least initially, her movement doesn’t control.  And then these images break apart and yield to a visual cacophony of body parts and wild animals.

All these images (except for the initial phase of the “wall bubbles”} are accompanied by sounds that are noteworthy for their aural aggressiveness (translated – they’re mercilessly loud), and which reach repeated crescendos, perhaps an overused electronic equivalent of clashing cymbals, whenever Vishneva’s body movement is punctuated at its apex or there’s a change in movement emphasis. The panorama of images and sounds would be enough to awaken even one under the influence of an evil fairy’s curse.

A scene from “Sleeping Beauty Dreams,”
with Diana Vishneva,
from its December 14, 2018 New York premiere
Photo courtesy of SBDart

If there’s any meaning to this presentation that says something beyond being nightmarish, it eluded me. And, worse, notwithstanding what the technology was supposed to be doing, I saw the technology and the electronic music dictating the action rather than the other way around.

And then Vishneva leaves the stage, replaced by a gaggle of men in white.

At this stage in the piece the accompanying electronic music (by Thijs De Vlieger) is still overly vibrant and percussive, but now there seems to be a direction to it, and a semblance of choreography appears beyond the earlier angst-ridden movement designed to be transformed into images. But the movement that accompanies it is strange – on its own, and in context. With their white costumes (all costumes designed by Bart Hess), including floor-length white skirts, the men bring to mind whirling dervishes. And although there’s little swirling movement, the effect of the men moving either in unison or with varied sequencing is ceremonial, contemporary, ritualistic — and very Middle-Eastern. The choreography (by Edward Clug) is quite good here for what it is, the execution was superb, and the respite it provided from the prior images was most welcome – but what a Middle-Eastern (maybe a little African too) chorus is doing in the middle of the Princess’s dream (particularly if one still is under the impression that the princess is the fairy tale’s Aurora) is, at least, a conundrum.

A scene from “Sleeping Beauty Dreams”
from its December 14, 2018 New York premiere
Photo courtesy of SBDart

Then something almost wonderful happens. Vishneva returns, and eventually appears to wander among the ten men looking for something. Aha! She’s searching for the man of her dreams, just like danseurs do in so many ballets! Neat. Well, it’s not exactly that clear, but we’re grasping at thematic straws.

And then, emerging from the wings, her Prince (identified simply as “The prince”) appears: in white tights and a bubble-laden jacket that looked like the upper half of some misbegotten space suit.

The pas de deux that Vishneva and Gomes dance is … gentle, especially compared with what preceded it, but nondescript. What choreography there is was limited by the dancers’ respective costumes, and there was no expression of emotion. That being said, Gomes can still partner even when unable to measurably move his torso. And the changed tone was accompanied by a change in visuals. Instead of sparkles or blobs of color, there were gorgeous cosmic pinpoint flashes of color. Her prince from inner space gave her cosmic goosebumps.

A scene from “Sleeping Beauty Dreams,”
with Diana Vishneva and Marcelo Gomes,
from its December 14, 2018 New York premiere
Photo courtesy of SBDart

And then the space prince just walks away. It was time for intermission (and, perhaps, time for the seed that the Prince’s appearance may have represented to grow in the Princess’s evolving mind).

When the second Act begins, Vishneva has changed – or at least her costume has. In the intermission’s intervening 99 years or so, the princess has matured, and is now wearing a glittery golden body suit that oozes sensual evolution. And with sensors now spread all over her outfit, her accompanying imagery has changed as well. Instead of flashes or blobs of moving light, all around her are giant avatars (digital avatar technology by ‘fuse’) that multiply and move through space as she does on the stage floor. Maybe the transition from lights to bodies moving in space (within the Princess’s mind) is indicative of maturity as well as fantastic technology; but aside from that, there’s not much else to these images beside the fact that they’re there. The avatars look like stiff mannequins (somewhat like the balloons in Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, except weird) and although their bodies move as Vishneva does (moving their limbs and walking on air), they bear no physical resemblance to Vishneva beyond general shape.

A scene from “Sleeping Beauty Dreams”
from its December 14, 2018 New York premiere
Photo courtesy of SBDart

The ten men in white eventually reappear, except now they’re more playful. The Prince soon joins them – still in his space suit. The Princess and Prince dance – much more intimately than the prior pas de deux though still emotionless – but he again leaves her. Then, to yet another crashendo of electronic music (and far more animated movement resulting in a far more dynamic stage), the Princess turns to the back of the stage and sees a huge floating head (in her mind), with its face to the audience. From my angle, the face was devoid of any character but looked like it belonged to a different, older, woman. The music rises, the head slowly disintegrates, and the Princess moves upstage through the space the head occupied into her now mature future (in darkness, maybe because it’s unknowable). The end. It’s a dynamite image, but if the princess was going to shatter her previous teen age image of herself (which I assume the head was supposed to represent), why make the head look like that of an older woman? We don’t see her get kissed – I suppose that’s on the other side of the void.

A scene from “Sleeping Beauty Dreams,”
with Diana Vishneva,
from its December 14, 2018 New York premiere
Photo courtesy of SBDart

I’ve gone through this exercise of recounting the piece in more than usual detail in the hope of demonstrating what Sleeping Beauty Dreams really is – a concept that pushes existing technology to its limits, but that translates into a sound and light show that makes little sense as dance or theater. There’s a story there, as there’s supposed to be, but, as I saw it, that “story” can be summarized in a couple of sentences. The rest is technological filler.

I admit to being somewhat critically dishonest here. What I’ve recounted is my observation of what I saw, absent any indication of what the artistic team was trying to do beyond exploring Sleeping Beauty’s 100 year dream. But as intermission ended, theater ushers distributed programs that identified the players and the artistic team, and that provided a summary of the piece’s “plot” (although this libretto, such as it is, is not credited). I was unable to read it until the piece ended, but I suspect had I seen it in advance, it would have made things even more confusing, and the piece appear even less successful.

I could devote a great deal of space to lambasting this account of the story that Sleeping Beauty Dreams supposedly intends to tell, but in summary: in Act I the Princess’s soul separates from her body as she dreams (and moves around), but her soul immediately battles three “Demons”: Fear; Violence; Greed (why not the Seven Deadly Sins?)  – presumably the demons are the different garish shapes and colors accompanied by the equally garish sounds. So, I suppose, her body movement isn’t controlling the images, it’s battling them. And Soul Princess wins – although you wouldn’t know it from seeing the action on stage, since one “battle” immediately segues into the next, and since, after it’s over, the three Demons come right back. [Maybe they’re the men in white, who aren’t mentioned in the Act I description.] Soul Princess and the Prince together vanquish this Demon-act redux, but “harmony does not last,” the Prince vanishes, the Princess (presumably the real one, not her soul) goes back to sleep, and the audience enjoys intermission.

In Act II, the Princess, with or without her Soul, faces Three Temptations: passionate lovers, sweet dreams, and ardent fans (each Temptation personified, somehow, by the ten men in white). This really gets the Princess furious, and her fury transforms her into a heartless Goddess of Destruction [that face), but the Prince kisses the Princess and the Fury dies away. (There was a kiss? Where? When?)

I liked what I thought I saw better. And even had I known what the “story” was supposed to be, I wouldn’t have seen it – any of it – as it was presented.

What should be obvious by this point is that Sleeping Beauty Dreams is technology in search of a theatrical way to show it.

Not all is lost here. I see Sleeping Beauty Dreams as the first stage of an experiment that may eventually be refined into a program of dance theater that explores Aurora’s dream in a way that makes sense, and in which the technological bells and whistles are subservient to a story and the dancers performing it. All that’s needed is refinement, artistic control, and that sense of humanity that makes fairy tales timeless.

The post Sleeping Beauty Dreams: The Dream Deferred appeared first on CriticalDance.

Urban Nutcracker
Shubert Theater
Boston, Massachusetts

December 21, 2018

Carla DeFord

Urban Nutcracker, brainchild of retired ballet star and current dance educator Anthony Williams, is a hybrid of several performances.  A showcase for a variety of dance idioms, including hip-hop, flamenco, jazz, swing, and sophisticated tap, it’s also a retelling of the classic E.T.A. Hoffmann tale with lots of twists and modernizations.  Beyond that, it’s an opportunity to hear some of the Duke Ellington-Billy Strayhorn Nutcracker Suite played by a jazz combo. And, last, but definitely not least, it’s a classical ballet featuring two principal ballerinas who would grace any professional company in the world.  With tasteful choreography created by a team of dance makers as well as colorful costumes and sets with a retro vibe, Urban Nutcracker is a winning combination that certainly helps to make the season bright.

Perhaps the most noteworthy aspect of the show is that it’s not a low-budget traditional production.  This Nutcracker is completely reimagined, from the plot to the music to the character of the divertissements.  It also includes lots of delightful surprises, the first one being the appearance of a jazz combo that marches from the back of the house to the stage while playing a New Orleans second-line version of Tchaikovsky’s overture.  The combo was soon ensconced in a perch above the stage, and hearing their music (minimally amplified) was one of the great pleasures of Act I.  In Act II the frequent switching between the combo playing offstage, with much more aggressive amplification, and recordings of the original score was less successful.  I was told that one of Mr. Williams’s goals is to have more live and less recorded music in the future.

Erika Lambe, Junichi Fukuda,
Marcus Colimon, and Mae Anthony
in Anthony Williams’s “Urban Nutcracker”
Photo by Corwin Wickersham

A second surprise came as a result of my not reading the program carefully.  In the Act I party scene I was immediately impressed by the actress playing the mother of the family.  Although she didn’t do much dancing, every gesture she made was so elegant and precisely placed that it struck me as luxurious casting to have such an accomplished performer in the part.

Ruth Bronwen Whitney (far left), Gianni Di Marco,
Kirsten Glaser, Mae Anthony, and cast
in Anthony Williams’s “Urban Nutcracker”
Photo by Corwin Wickersham

Then all of a sudden I realized who she was … Erika Lambe, whom I remembered seeing many times as a party guest or snow flake in the Boston Ballet Nutcracker when she was a company member from 1993 to 2005.  It was such a treat to see her onstage again.  In the party scene she often interacted with her mischievous onstage son (traditionally named Fritz, but here called Omar) who, as played by Marcus Colimon, was full of energy and enthusiasm; he’s definitely a young performer to watch.  The other junior stars, Stella Kotter (named Ruby this year in honor of Williams’s late aunt) and Echo Kirke-Sofer as Samantha, seemed to be ballerinas in the making.

Khalid Hill and dancers
in Anthony Williams’s “Urban Nutcracker”
Photo by Corwin Wickersham

Other highlights included Khalid Hill, a tapper whose style seemed similar to that of Savion Glover, and indeed the program states that Hill was in the first national tour of Bring in ‘da Noise, Bring in ‘da Funk, Glover’s Broadway show of the 1990s.  Hill danced in an Act I face-off with hip-hop dancer Omar “Firelock” Thomas and in the “Tip-Tap Top of the Hub” construction-workers scene (set to Tchaikovsky’s Mother Ginger music).  Whenever he appeared, his footwork was rhythmically interesting, with his ability to travel on the tips of his toes being especially thrilling.

Ruth Bronwen Whitney and dancers
in Anthony Williams’s “Urban Nutcracker”
Photo by Peter Paradise

Guest artist Ruth Bronwen Whitney in the Arabian divertissement and Kseniya Melyukhina as the Sugar Plum Fairy, both of whom I saw in Midsummer Night’s Dream last June, are ballerinas of the first rank.  Melyukhina, who is a member of Williams’s City Ballet of Boston company, might have injected a bit more jazz into her variation, which was set to Ellington and Strayhorn’s “Sugar Rum Cherry,” but in the grand pas de deux (danced to the Tchaikovsky score) she could not have been more exquisite.  The move that stuck with me most was an astonishing, rock-solid balance that both punctuated the music and demonstrated her power as ruler of her domain.  If her dark-colored tutu decorated with what looked like city-building windows was any clue, that domain would seem to be firmly situated in the urban landscape.

Kseniya Melyukhina and dancers
in Anthony Williams’s “Urban Nutcracker”
Photo by Corwin Wickersham

One feature of the choreography in the grand pas gave me pause, however.  Sugar Plum traditionally dances it with the Nutcracker cavalier, but here she interacted with two cavaliers and Drosselmeyer.  Since this sequence is set to some of the most romantic music Tchaikovsky ever wrote, one expects to see a love duet.  Inevitably, the intimacy implied by the music is vitiated when Sugar Plum has three partners.

Ruth Bronwen Whitney and Joe Gonzalez
in Anthony Williams’s “Urban Nutcracker”
Photo by Corwin Wickersham

Whitney was as sinuous as possible in the Arabian divertissement.  As when she played Titania in Midsummer Night’s Dream, her laid-out positions, here including a spectacular upside-down split lift, were perfectly placed and seemed effortless.  Her partner, guest artist Joe Gonzalez, got her securely into the air, and he had some impressive moves of his own, but for the most part the divertissement belonged to Whitney.  The final tableau of the two of them behind a chiffon screen was reminiscent of Rodin’s “The Kiss” in its freezing of an erotic moment.

Gianni Di Marco and cast
in Anthony Williams’s “Urban Nutcracker”
Photo by Peter Paradise

Keeping the whole show together was Gianni Di Marco as Drosselmeyer.  Frankly, I’m happy to watch him in anything he does.  As Bottom in Midsummer Night’s Dream, he achieved a nice balance of comedy and pathos.  In this production, decked out in a red top hat, he reminded one of Dr. Seuss’s immortal Cat in the Hat, who proclaimed, “It’s fun to have fun, but you have to know how.”  Di Marco knows how.  A selfless performer, he is not merely willing but downright eager to create all kinds of virtuosic silliness onstage for the sake of his audience and fellow cast members.  During his time at Boston Ballet he played Carabosse as a toweringly malevolent figure, and he brought the same kind of over-the-top energy and disciplined physicality to this role.  Urban Nutcracker is fortunate to have a character dancer of his distinction.  One wishes that Boston Ballet would invite him back the next time it needs someone to do Carabosse, Madge, a wicked stepsister, or similar role.  He is definitely the man for the job.

Take it for all in all, Urban Nutcracker Is an enjoyable, entertaining, well-staged production that fulfills its mission of presenting diversity onstage while upholding high professional standards.  In its set projections it’s also a tribute to the city of Boston, and residents of the Hub – not to mention tourists – are bound to appreciate the compliment.

The post Urban Nutcracker: Making the Season Bright appeared first on CriticalDance.

Heather Desaulniers

• Cal Performances presents
  Pavel Zuštiak and Palissimo Company in Custodians of Beauty
  Zellerbach Playhouse, Berkeley

• Smuin Contemporary Ballet – The Christmas Ballet
  Yerba Buena Center for the Arts Theater, San Francisco

• Oakland Ballet Company – Graham Lustig’s The Nutcracker
  Paramount Theatre, Oakland

December 7th – In any Cal Performances’ dance season, there is much to luxuriate in. New chapters in decades old artistic collaborations; a wide swath of choreographic genres and styles; and a curiosity for newness. One of the ways the longtime arts presenter embodies this final quality is in its programming design. Most years, Cal Performances includes one or two (sometimes more) companies that have never performed in the Bay Area, exposing regional audiences to a fresh creative voice and perspective. This past weekend brought one of these debuts – Pavel Zuštiak and Palissimo Company in 2015’s Custodians of Beauty. An eighty-five minute conceptual collage directed and choreographed by Zuštiak and performed by the incomparable trio of Viktor De La Fuente, Emma Judkins and Justin Morrison, Custodians was both cool and thoughtful.

Emma Judkins in Custodians of Beauty
Photo Liz Lynch

Zuštiak included some commentary in the program, which concluded with a two-part question, “where do we find beauty today and does it need our defense?” While I’m not sure that I saw the latter line of inquiry, I was struck by how the former sentiment rang clearly throughout the work. Whether an extended movement vignette or a short creative snapshot, scene after scene oozed simplicity and purity. Physicality was unhurried and smooth; arm gestures, uncomplicated and natural; directional shifts, clear and precise. Small motions were celebrated and mined, like the movement of the head or the gaze of the eye. A giant smoke cloud was cast into the audience and simply allowed to dissipate; a vocal offering (which incidentally was performed with incredible musical prowess) hung hauntingly in the air. Every artistic idea in Custodians was distilled to its very essence; no pretense, no extraneous stuff. I found this particularly impressive seeing as how the piece employed so many different disciplines – sound, text, visual art, effects, choreography, video, song. But in Custodians, movement was movement; song was song, text was text. Not a hint of spectacle or ostentatious-ness cluttered Zuštiak’s varied artistic explorations.

While a paragon of clarity and distillation, Custodians did have some challenges. For those of us who suffer from any kind of motion sickness, the first moments of the work, with its bouncy, shaky videography, certainly triggered it. For the most part, I found the score to be compelling, though it occasionally ventured into uncomfortable territory – high-pitched soundscapes and atmospheric tremolo that left the ears ringing. While that kind of discomfort can certainly be purposeful, in this case, it distracted from what was happening on stage.

And at close to an hour and a half, Custodians was far too long, especially because some of the chapters felt like they could have been edited. For example, one lengthy section found De La Fuente, Judkins and Morrison moving methodically through a series of cluster sculptures. The transitions were slow and small, close to Butoh in their tempi. I was into it; the shapes and living figures they were creating were really something to behold. But as it continued and continued and continued, the idea lost its early potency. For me, the pull and magnetism of the first few postures had disappeared. The same was true for a later sequence of patterned aerobic running, bouncing and hopping. Again, interesting and dynamic, but just too long. Finally, there was a moment when the lights went up and the three performers ventured into the house. Each invited an audience member up on stage for a brief standing pause, after which they returned to their seats. I’m all for exposing the porous boundary between the performer and the viewer, but this didn’t feel like it served the piece at all. In fact, it brought unnecessary clutter to an otherwise uncluttered theatrical container.    

December 21st (matinee) – Celebrating the past and looking towards the future has been a theme at Smuin this year, with the contemporary ballet company marking its twenty-fifth anniversary season. That sentiment certainly rang true in 2018’s edition of The Christmas Ballet, which is just about to finish its annual San Francisco run at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts. Featuring thirty distinct, festive dance vignettes, the two-part wintry revue paired choreographic favorites from years past with more recent additions as well as two world premieres. As always, the performance moved along at a brisk pace – if a particular dance or piece of music wasn’t your speed, something new would be along in short order.

Ian Buchana and Mattia Pallozzi in
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
Photo Chris Hardy

If you’re a fan of traditional ballet vocabulary and sweeping scores, Act I’s”‘Classical Christmas” is a great fit. The cast is costumed in sparkling, bright white; the staged is adorned with large billowy fabric swaths; and the subtle lighting sets a demure mood. Several works stood out amongst this first group of fifteen. Terez Dean Orr and Robert Kretz in company founder Michael Smuin’s Hodie Christus Natus Est were the epitome of elegance and grandeur. One cannot ignore the abundance of lovely lines and steps, but what sets this pas de deux apart are its unexpected moments. Supported jumps had surprising landings, finishing en pointe but with the leg in plié; lifts would spin backwards with the shoulders being the only point of connection between the two. Longtime Smuin Choreographer-in-Residence and now the Artistic Director of Sacramento Ballet, Amy Seiwert’s Caroling, Caroling, Bright, Bright tackled the complex pas de cinq configuration, and in doing so, revealed its compositional potential and promise. Premiering this year was former company artist Rex Wheeler’s God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, a duet danced by Mengjun Chen and Ben Needham-Wood at this matinee. While the choreography itself was a bit busy for my taste, the pairing of Chen and Needham-Wood must be acknowledged. They can do it all – turns, jumps, batterie, balances – and in such precise unison.

Delightful Celtic influences also found their way into The Christmas Ballet’s classical offerings. An ensemble dance choreographed by current company dancer Nicole Haskins, Fantasia included a hearty dose of delicate petit allegro – cabrioles abounded as did Italian changements. Fueled by a waltz clog rhythmic base, Smuin’s The Gloucestershire Wassail contributed its own Celtic flair, coupling fast footwork with a quiet upper body. I loved the choreography in each, but in addition, both dances brought a tone of community, playfulness and fun to an act that tends to be more reflective and earnest in quality and atmosphere.  

Valerie Harmon and Peter Kurta in
Meet Me in the City on Christmas
Photo Chris Hardy

Speaking of fun, Act II’s “Cool Christmas” was filled with it – musical theater style vignettes, vivacious characters, an impish Christmas tree, even surfers avoiding a shark. The packed house (on a Friday afternoon no less) was enthralled and entertained by the festive mosaic, as was I, though I was more pulled to the dancier episodes and less to the novelty ones. Another work by Haskins, J-I-N-G-L-E Bells had some impressive rhythmic depth. I can’t be sure if this particular rendition of the famed Christmas song was actually composed in different meters, though the choreography certainly reflected a change in pulse, making it both riveting and buoyant. With a winning collection of stomp time steps and cramp rolls turns, Shannon Hurlburt’s Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer introduced yet another rhythmical element to the program. It’s a super tap duet (danced by Maggie Carey and Valerie Harmon), though there was a tendency to try and fit too many steps into a single phrase. But it was the sophisticated, chic, lyrical pas de deux that were the stars of the second half. Lauren Pschirrer and Needham-Wood, in the world premiere of company dancer Erica Felsch’s Meet Me in the City on Christmas, were the tops. With starry lights and a park bench framing the glorious, grand movements, the scene could have easily been part of an old Hollywood movie musical, and Pschirrer and Needham-Wood looked absolutely stunning together. Harmon and Peter Kurta were equally sublime in Seiwert’s River. Every time I see this dance, that amazing straight-legged fifth position spinning lift takes my breath away.     

December 22nd (matinee) – Live orchestral accompaniment makes such a difference when it comes to dance performance! The last time I was at the Paramount Theatre for an Oakland Ballet Company program, I commented that at times, the recorded mix was so clippy and loud that it distracted from what was happening on stage. Not so yesterday for the opening of Graham Lustig’s The Nutcracker. As has been the tradition in past years, the Oakland Symphony, under the direction of Michael Morgan, and the Piedmont East Bay Children’s Choir joined the troupe for their annual pre-Christmas run of the story ballet. Live music combined with a festive narrative and splendid dancing made for a simply magical afternoon at the theater.

Ramona Kelley and Seyong Kim in Graham Lustig’s The Nutcracker
Photo Dan Dion

Artistic Director Lustig’s version of The Nutcracker is a classic one, told through the eyes of Marie, the ever-riveting Ramona Kelley, and her Nutcracker Prince, the confident, poised Seyong Kim. But classic should not be confused with standard or stale. To the contrary, this Nutcracker has innovation and creativity to spare. This Christmas Eve party is filled to the brim with energy. Many different characters arrive to celebrate the season, including Marie’s Cousin Vera (Jackie McConnell) and her suitor (Thom Panto). Marie seems completely taken with them both, so what a perfect plotpoint that is they who later transform into the Sugar Plum Fairy and the Cavalier. In this adaptation, Uncle Drosselmeyer is a much dancier role, handily portrayed by Vincent Chavez. He is wonderful addition to the fête, which is awash with intricate and interesting choreographic episodes. And with dancers! So, so many dancers! The cast’s spatial awareness was absolutely second to none – I didn’t notice a single collision during the party’s many dances. It’s only too bad that a lot of the choreography was hidden. With the presents arranged in a large pile, front and center, much of the footwork and pointe phrases were obscured from view.

Lustig keeps the battle scene moving along (which suits this viewer just fine), with winning choreography for the Nutcracker. Until he removes his mask, the steps are appropriately stiff and mechanical, framed by flexed feet and angular arms. Then he transforms into a real being and the choreography similarly shifts. Gone are the mechanized steps, having been replaced by swirling lifts, dipping turns and jeté entrelaces. The Nutcracker’s first pas de deux with Marie had such joy and levity, flowing effortlessly into the wintry snow scene swirling with snowmaidens and snowballs.

Jackie McConnell and Thomas Panto in Graham Lustig’s The Nutcracker
Photo Stephen Texeira

The charm continued as Act II’s divertissements took over the stage – Spanish, Arabian, Chinese Nightingale, Russian and German (often French in other renditions). With its changements en pointe and Russian pas de chats, Nina Pearlman’s nightingale variation was a stand out amongst the group. And though it might have been a little finicky from time to time, I also quite enjoyed the choreography for the German pas de quartre. But the internal bows from all these soloists and small groups – to the audience and then to Marie and the Prince – definitely needed to be sped up. The breaks created a rather halted stop and start feel. That is until the waltz of the flowers got underway and the action picked up again with pulsing, billowy choreography lead by Marie and the Prince. And McConnell and Panto were probably the best Sugar Plum Fairy/Cavalier duo that I’ve ever seen at the Oakland Ballet. He with sky-high extensions and impressive fouettés; she with enviable pointework, serpentine rond versés and impenetrable balances. They were truly a regal pair, ideal monarchs to reign over the land of the sweets.  

The post SF/Bay Area Round-up December 2018 appeared first on CriticalDance.

American Dance Platform
The Joyce Theater
New York, New York

January 3, 2019
Program I

Stephen Petronio Dance: Excerpt From Goldberg Variations; Hardness 10

Martha Graham Dance Company: Woodland, Chronicle (excerpts)

Jerry Hochman

American Dance Platform is an annual series of programs at the Joyce devoted to demonstrating the vitality and variety of contemporary dance, and to providing companies with exposure to visiting producing organizations who have gathered in New York to see what they might not otherwise be able to see. This year the series presented three programs, each of which focused on two companies. I was able to attend the first of them, which featured Stephen Petronio Dance and Martha Graham Dance Company, neither of which are strangers to New York audiences. Each company presented two pieces (or excerpts therefrom), and two of the four were new to me.

By far the most interesting piece on the program was Hardness 10, a dance created by Petronio to music by Nico Muhly that premiered last March during the company’s Joyce season. While there are too many of its disparate ingredients that don’t gel – or which create confusion where there should be none, overall it’s a very interesting piece of work.

Presumably the dance’s title is a reference to the Moh’s scale of hardness, which ranks a diamond as the hardest of minerals, a “10” on a 1-10 scale, unable to be “scratched” by other minerals of lesser degrees of hardness.

Stephen Petronio Company dancers
(l-r) Nicholas Sciscione,
Ernesto Breton, Elijah Laurant,
and Megan Wright
in “Hardness 10”
Photo by Sarah Silver

Hardness 10 represents the third collaboration between Petronio and Muhly, but that fact isn’t particularly informative. The music was created but unreleased prior to the choreography, with the name “Long Phrases for the Wilton Diptych,” but perhaps the title was changed since I saw no reference to it in the program. Be that as it may, the electronic sound is characterless, somewhere between a refrigerator hum and a car engine in need of an oil change – maybe closer to the sound of a drone at a higher than normal pitch. It adds nothing to the dance – it has no melody or exclamations (which, granted, allows Petronio to create his own framework, or to ignore a framework altogether) – but it also doesn’t call attention to itself or detract from the choreography. It’s just there, constantly, like background noise. [Save your emails – it’s probably a fine example of the genre that I’m not competent to recognize.]

But there’s another ingredient to the dance that is intrusive. The costumes for the seven dancers, designed by Patricia Field ARTFASHION and hand-painted by Iris Bonner/Those Pink Lips (as the credits are indicated in the program), from my viewing position initially appeared as intricate designs emblazoned on two sets of differently colored unitards (one set black; the other off-white or light tan). But as the dance progressed, I realized that the thick lines and angles were letters that had been painted onto the base-color of the unitards to form words, and the words to form phrases that are repeated over the entire costume. The phrases varied from dancer to dancer (there’s no gender-specificity to the phrases, or even to the unitard base colors), and were difficult to see in full, but what I could decipher ranged from: “Look Don’t Touch,” to “He Says She Says,” “Working Woman,” “Her Story (or Herstory),” and “The Boss (or He’s The Boss or She’s The Boss).”

Stephen Petronio Company dancers
(l-r) Elijah Laurant,
Megan Wright, and Bria Bacon
in “Hardness 10”
Photo by Sarah Silver

So … this is a topical dance with a message. Except the message of Hardness 10, if there is one, fails to match the intensity of the phrases. There’s no confrontation here, at least none that I was able to discern as confrontation. There’s no avoidance, no alienation, no community divisiveness, no attempt at the dance equivalent of chit-chat or anything deeper. So maybe the dance (which, given the title and the phrases, must have some intended meaning) is simply about “hard”-edged human entities calloused by the polarizing political/sociological orthodoxies of the time, willing to risk limited contact but never really getting involved because of the pervasive toxicity inherent in relationships.

But there’s more to this dance than what might or might not have been its intended meaning. Despite (or maybe because of) the drone-like ambiance and the confusing costumes, the movement that Petronio has crafted, though limited in variety, is in a strange way dominant and engrossing.

The piece begins somewhat postmodern mechanically, with five dancers aligned in what might be an overall diamond-like shape (though from my viewpoint it looked relatively non-specific), moving in lock step forward and back and side to side and, dramatically, diagonally. Gradually the steps begin to vary, and eventually one “facet” of this “diamond” breaks free, does his own movement thing, and then returns, and then another does the same. But soon the communal entity is fractured entirely, with each “facet” entity dancing solos, in pairs, or in small groups. Despite that description, the effect of the movement variety within this overall form is mesmerizing.

Stephen Petronio Company dancers
in “Hardness 10”
Photo by Sarah Silver

While primarily angular, Hardness 10 is never didactic, and simple steps and street-movement (walking, running) yield to mirror-like replication to the unique and inscrutable qualities that make facets of a gemstone in some way unique, including movement of great complexity and inherent meaning, even if that meaning is difficult to discern.  These facets of the whole (if that’s what they were – it’s not clear since two dancers seem to join the original five as if the original shape had a gravitational force) have individual characters, if not personalities, with hard edges. They can’t do anything lasting with each other, but they can’t live without each other. So my conclusion is that if one ignores the costumes (the struggle to read the phrases and to find their meaning in the choreography is far too distracting) and the annoyingly soporific background sound, Hardness 10 is well worth seeing for the intriguing movement and the impeccable execution by the company’s dancers: Bria Bacon, Jaqlin Medlock, Tess Montoya, Megan Wright, Ernesto Breton, Nicholas Sciscione, and Mac Twining.

The other piece new to me was the program’s third piece, Woodland, choreographed by Pontus Lidberg and co-commissioned by the Graham Company. Perhaps because of its genesis, the piece looks like it might have been created by a Graham acolyte. The music (Irving Fine’s Notturno for Strings and Harp) sounds a little Copland-ish, with the feel of a prairie or woodland clearing. Even the costumes (by Reid Bartelme and Harriet Jung) have a “prairie” feel – with all but one of the women wearing flared skirts that had they been denim might have been “prairie skirts” (as the style was recreated in the 70s) and the other woman wearing pseudo denim overalls.

Martha Graham Dance Company
in Pontus Lidberg’s “Woodland”
Photo by Brigid Pierce

The dance itself, which premiered in 2016 at the Library of Congress, appears to be “about” one woman’s encounter with other denizens of the ‘hood. A woman initially appears to scout the area, then others join, including the one who is different, who either wants to figure out who these people are or wants to join them. Sort of Appalachian Spring meets Dances at a Gathering meets every dance about an outsider trying to fit in.

Martha Graham Company dancer
Lloyd Knight (here with Xin Ying)
in Pontus Lidberg’s “Woodland”
Photo by Hibbard Nash Photography

But aside from being pleasant but not particularly inventive, the piece is done in by a weird diversion. Long after the dance begins, one dancer (Lloyd Knight) emerges from the wings wearing an animal mask. As he begins to dance with the central woman in overalls (Marzia Memoli), all I could think of was Little Red Riding Hood. But soon other dancers, who had appeared like perfectly normal humans earlier, emerged from the wings wearing animal face masks (the men wore wolf masks; the women cat masks). And then, not long after they appeared, the masks are removed (out of sight) and the “human” faces reappear. Why?

These masks can’t be irrelevant, but their meaning is either uncommunicated or simply a trite brief commentary on the way these strange people appear to the central character. In the end, it’s simply a “big” statement” that, as presented, is relatively pointless, and it has a negative impact on the dance.

Martha Graham Dance Company
in Pontus Lidberg’s “Woodland”
Photo by Brigid Pierce

The balance of the program consisted of pieces I’d previously seen. The evening opened with Sciscione repeating his star turn in excerpts from Steve Paxton’s Goldberg Variations. [The piece’s title may now incorporate the excerpts culled from the original into a separately-named dance. It’s identified in the program as Excerpt From Goldberg Variations, rather than Goldberg Variations (excerpts), so maybe these excerpts have now assumed a life, and an existence, of their own.]

Paxton’s choreography here is dated, but less so than other postmodern components of Petronio’s “Bloodlines” series that celebrates lasting contributions of postmodern choreographers. I saw Sciscione dance this piece at a 2017 Fall for Dance program, and although the opening section is not one I recall, the rest of it, whether identical to the FFD program or not, arouses the same sense of wonder at the choreography and Sciscione’s execution of it. His body appear rubberized, with movement controlled by outside forces that twist and pull his limbs out of balance and then whiplashes them in an opposite direction (still seemingly off balance), with the torso following where the limbs direct. I wouldn’t want a steady diet of this choreography, but, as he previously demonstrated, Sciscione is a master of it.

Xin Ying (left) and members of Martha Graham Dance Company
in “Prelude to Action” from “Chronicle”
Photo by Melissa Sherwood

The Graham Company’s excerpts from Graham’s Chronicle closed the program. As much of a masterwork as Chronicle is, this iteration of excerpts from it didn’t work nearly as well as did the piece when I previously saw it – and is further evidence of why I find the presentation of “excerpts” from a larger piece, unless they can pass as standalone dances, to be almost inevitably disappointing.

Graham created Chronicle in 1936, and as Artistic Director Janet Eilber explained during a break between the two Graham Company pieces on this program, followed Graham’s rejection of Hitler’s invitation to perform at the Olympic Games that year, and was a response to Nazism’s growing menace.

Martha Graham Dance Company dancers
Xin Ying and Anne Souder
in “Prelude to Action” from “Chronicle”
Photo by Melissa Sherwood-

I saw Chronicle for the first time in 2012, as the final piece in a Gala celebration at City Center in honor of the company’s resurgence, and found it to be a shattering anti-war ballet.

The piece’s opening section in that 2012 performance, titled “Spectre-1914,” was a solo during which one woman, following the war to end all wars, senses the calamity to come in nascent fascism. Clad in a black garment infused with red (designed by Graham), the woman moves as if tortured, and eventually the red in the garment overtakes the black, foreshadowing the bloody war still to come. The section bears a superficial similarity to Graham’s Lamentation, but is far more galvanizing, and it led clearly to the second section of the piece, “Steps in the Street,” which appeared to metastasize the suffering by the solo dancer in the “Spectre-1914” segment to the entire cast (the ballet is danced entirely by women).

To my eye, the only defect in Chronicle as I initially saw it was the overly martial third segment of the piece, “Prelude to Action,” despite the excellence of the performances. I thought Aristophanes (Lysistrata) had a better idea. But without the opening segment to influence “Steps in the Street,” “Prelude to Action” loses any connection to suffering. Instead, the martial aspect is intensified. Indeed, while I described Fang-Yi Sheu’s performance in this section in 2012 as akin to Spartacus leading a charge against warrior /slave-owning oppressors, here Xin Ying, equally strident and powerful, appeared as a revered, inspirational, and megalomaniacal leader inspiring the troops to a triumph of the will – as totalitarian an image as the totalitarianism that the dance was supposed to condemn. While the performances of Ying and the ten other women in the piece were all very good (except for more “stiffness” among the supporting dancers than I recalled from the 2012 program), it left me feeling uncomfortable, and wondering whether this was the sense that Martha intended to convey.

ADP’s two other programs that I was unable to see featured Raphael Xavier and BalletX, and, on one program, companies led by two of this year’s Dance Magazine Award winners: Ephrat Asherie Dance and Ronald K. Brown / Evidence (with Arturo O’Farrill and Resist).

The post American Dance Platform at the Joyce: Petronio and Graham appeared first on CriticalDance.

The Chase Brock Experience
Theatre Row; Harold Clurman Theatre
New York, New York

January 4, 2018

The Girl with the Alkaline Eyes

Jerry Hochman

My introduction to the Chase Brock Experience was in November, 2017, during its 10^th Anniversary season. I can be a little slow keeping track of what’s happening in New York, but eventually I catch up, and I regretted not having seen CBE sooner. I found that 2017 program of five dances that summarized Brock’s choreographic oeuvre to date to be, primarily, dances of joy, filled with contagious exhilaration.

CBE has now returned with an evening-length program, reportedly his first (not counting a highly-regarded off-Broadway show that he choreographed, Be More Chill, which is scheduled to begin Broadway previews next month). This piece, however, is definitely not a dance of joy, and its plot is a little strange. Ok, a lot strange. But in a curious, engaging, and operatic sort of way, The Girl with the Alkaline Eyes is still worth seeing.

Chase Brock Experience dancers Jane Abbott,
Spencer Ramirez, Yukiko Kashiki,
Amber Barbee Pickens, and Travante S. Baker
in “The Girl with the Alkaline Eyes”
Photo by Michael Kushner Photography

Reviewing The Girl with the Alkaline Eyes is like walking in the woods trying not to step on a twig. It’s described as a “dance narrative,” but also as a “futuristic A.I. thriller.” Being a “thriller” implies something unexpected – which in this case is accurate. The upshot of all this is that I don’t feel free to discuss what in this case needs to be discussed most – the plot. So I’ll dance around it – which to some extent is what the choreography in The Girl with the Alkaline Eyes does too.

The story, or what I feel comfortable telling about it, is of a futuristic entrepreneur, Troy (Travante S. Baker), and his employee / coder named Oliver (Spencer Ramirez) who is working on a top-secret project to create an entity, identified as “Co,”  that has human mannerisms and responses but is purely an example of Artificial Intelligence.

Chase Brock Experience dancer Spencer Ramirez
in “The Girl with the Alkaline Eyes”
Photo by Michael Kushner Photography

As the piece begins, a number (to the best of my recollection, “98”) is projected onto the upstage wall, and we see Oliver manically entering information into what’s supposed to be a computer screen (open space to the audience) to equally manic introductory segments of the full score by Eric Dietz (who is also credited with the “Scenario”). Scientific methodology is supposed to be careful and deliberate, so Oliver’s ceaseless percolating seemed needlessly exaggerated. In hindsight, that should have been a tip-off.

Soon thereafter Troy appears, trying to convince an Investor (Jane Abbott) that this project is the next Westworld. All this occurs within the confines of what first appears like some underground Victorian scientist-cave, but which converts, when the lights dim, into a futuristic space with perimeters that reflect the action on stage (or what’s projected onto it) and that also create their own visual ambiance by moving like vertical blinds to the flow of interstellar wind.

Chase Brock Experience dancers James Koroni,
Spencer Ramirez, Jane Abbott, and Travante S. Baker
in “The Girl with the Alkaline Eyes”
Photo by Michael Kushner Photography

Eventually Oliver walks toward the upstage perimeter, walks through the blind barrier, and pulls out a doll he created with a cut-and-pasted plasticky human form (Amber Barbee Pickens), then pulls out a second creation (James Koroni). Oliver can make them move via his Virtual Reality mask and gloves, but only mechanically, like mannequins with limbs that can be moved on demand. Sometimes. But faster than you can say Dr. Frankenstein meets Dr. Coppelius meets Dr. Ford and Bernard, Oliver goes back to the perimeter and pulls out his crowning achievement, Co (Yakiko Kanishi). Co is clearly an advanced creation: she looks human, moves like Swanilda (forgive the ballet allusions), and helps Troy to convince the Investor to part with her money.

Chase Brock Experience dancers
Spencer Ramirez and Yukiko Kashiki
in “The Girl with the Alkaline Eyes”
Photo by Michael Kushner Photography

But then the plot thickens, as Co becomes more human-like, becomes “alive” (whatever that means), dances with Oliver, but ultimately falls (much too quickly) for Troy – and Oliver doesn’t seem to mind. That also should have been a tip-off. Anyway, one thing leads to another: there’s a depiction (obvious, but appropriately understated) sex with a robot that may or may not be a robot, an Evangelist who rants about A.I. taking over the world, and a reprise of prior iterations of Oliver’s A.I. creations until Co, the 98^th attempt, appears. And in the end, the entrepreneur gets an unexpected return on his investment. I particularly enjoyed the way the piece segues from Oliver controlling Co’s movement through his A.I. controlling gloves, and then realizing that he wasn’t controlling Co at all. [The work “Co” must have a particular meaning with respect to A.I., or maybe it relates to Co being a “co-conspirator,” but the piece provides no definitive explanation.]

Chase Brock Experience dancers Jane Abbott,
Amber Barbee Pickens, and James Koroni
in “The Girl with the Alkaline Eyes”
Photo by Michael Kushner Photography

Brock’s direction and choreography makes the most of stage environment within which the plot progresses, but it’s mostly background recitative to relatively few operatic arias, except for a dance for three “clubgoers” that seems to come out of nowhere and lead to nothing, but is very entertaining, with all three faux gold lamé-clad clubgoers (Abbott, Pickens and Koroni) deliberately hamming it up and providing a few minutes of comic relief to the pseudo-serious 70 minute piece. [All costumes were designed by Loren Shaw.] If there’s anything in The Girl with the Alkaline Eyes that brought to mind the Chase Brock from the program I saw last year, it’s this brief intermezzo.

Chase Brock Experience dancers
Yukiko Kashiki and Travante S. Baker
in “The Girl with the Alkaline Eyes”
Photo by Michael Kushner Photography

Beyond that, such dancing as there is, besides moving bodies around the stage, consists of interactions between Co and either Oliver or Troy. Some moments of the duets are languid, liquid, and quite lovely (including a particularly inventive one with an umbrella prop), but they don’t last very long. This isn’t a criticism (on the contrary, it provides a glimpse of Brock choreographic potential that I’d not previously seen): had there been more dancing, the piece, in terms of it being a story, would have seemed unnecessarily padded. What was there seemed slight, but it was all that was necessary to keep things moving.

Most of the dancers in The Girl with the Alkaline Eyes appeared with CBE during its 10^th anniversary program, and executed as well here as they did then. Ramirez was just right as the somewhat artificially mad computer scientist, while Baker, at first relatively bland as the entrepreneur Troy, became appropriately nonplussed and smitten, and then vice versa, as the narrative progressed. His partnering, essential to pull off the duets with Co, was deceptively deft – more than sufficient to get the job done, but was also downplayed to maintain Co’s status as the piece’s dominant character. Kashiki, the A.I. centerpiece, was both endearing and somewhat frightening as Co (which is how the character is supposed to come across), and her execution of Brock’s choreography made it sing. My only regret was being unable to see CBE’s Courtney Ortiz, who was so impressive during the company’s 10^th Anniversary program, but here was a standby for all the female roles.

Through it all, much of Dietz’s score was illuminated by the live (out of view) performance by Rob Berman, Arthur Moeller, and Amy Kang (on keyboard, violin, and cello respectively).

Chase Brock Experience dancers Travante S. Baker,
James Koroni, and Spencer Ramirez
in “The Girl with the Alkaline Eyes”
Photo by Michael Kushner Photography

But the star of The Girl with Alkaline Eyes was the staging, which was non-stop (as it needed to be to avoid appearing like a television skit,) and the effects created by the set, projection, and lighting. [The dynamite set, within low-budget realities, is by Jason Sherwood; abetted by projection design by Alex Basco Koch and lighting by Brian Tovar.] And when the lights illuminate Co’s eyes at a certain angle, the effect of the sudden revelation of her “real” alkaline (battery-energized) eyes is striking. As Dr. Ford said (in Westworld): “You can’t play God without being acquainted with the devil.”

The Girl with the Alkaline Eyes may not be the greatest dance theater, but it’s uncomplicated escapist fun, which is always welcome regardless of the bells and whistles it might lack. Its run at the Clurman Theatre continues through January 13.

The post The Chase Brock Experience: Oh Those Alkaline Eyes appeared first on CriticalDance.

[pending receipt of performance photographs]

Malpaso Dance Company
The Joyce Theater
New York, New York

January  9, 2019
Fielding Sixes (Event Arrangement), Carrying Floor, Being (Ser), Tabula Rasa

Jerry Hochman

The best contemporary dance program to be performed in New York in 2019 may have just happened.

Malpaso Dance Company (“MDC”) returned to the Joyce Theater on Wednesday for a limited run of seven performances of a repertory program consisting of four pieces: one by Merce Cunningham (in honor of the centennial of his birth); one by Ohad Nararin; and two by MDC dancers who have not previously choreographed. As it turns out, the weakest piece on the program was the Cunningham – not because of any performance deficiency by the dancers, who executed superbly, but because of the limited breadth of the choreography (although Fielding Sixes – the “Event Arrangement” – is one of the better Cunningham pieces that I’ve seen).  Of the two new pieces, Abel Rojo’s Carrying Floor is one of the most original, imaginative, and gripping solos I can remember. If / when I compile a list of 2019’s best, Carrying Floor will be on it. Beatriz Garcia’s Being (Ser) is a very fine piece of work for a choreographer of any level of experience, but for a first effort it is particularly exceptional. And Tabula Rasa, a piece that Naharin originally choreographed in 1986, is one of the finest of the admittedly few pieces of his that I’ve seen, and the MDC dancers’ execution appeared both moving and flawless.

Malpaso Dance Company,
here in Aszure Barton’s “Indomitable Waltz”
from its 2018 program
Photo by Judy Ondrey

I find it difficult to believe that Carrying Floor is Abel Rojo’s first choreographic effort. He joined MDC in 2016, after dancing with other contemporary Cuban companies following his graduation from the National School of Modern Dance in 2010. He’s a solidly built lumberjack-sized man who towers over the other company dancers, and his thick dark hair and beard make him appear somewhat like a bear (a brown bear; not a teddy bear). In Carrying Floor, Rojo’s size amplifies what he’s doing on stage to the point where, even though it’s a solo, it’s a solo of epic proportions.

Describing Carrying Floor in general terms is relatively easy. The characters are Rojo and four pieces of a “floor” – roughly 3 x 3 foot squares that look like industrial pallets crossed with microphoned flooring often used to amplify the sound of tap dancing. These blocks represent the stage floor upon which Rojo, and all dancers, perform – and in Carrying Floor Rojo moves exclusively on these four squares.

As the dance begins, Rojo is standing on one of the squares, staring at the floor of squares beneath him. One at a time (usually), to Erik Satie’s Gnossienne No. 1, Rojo slowly pick up a block and moves it adjacent to another, and then continues with another square, and then another. The pattern isn’t solid: there may at one point be a large rectangular block consisting of all the squares, or 3 x 1 design, or an uneven 2 x 2, or with one square separated from the others until Rojo straddles the space and lifts and carries that piece of floor adjacent to the others. Then the progress, now downstage right, moves slightly upstage, then back across to mid stage center. During all this, Rojo is engaged in multiple permutations of standing, bending, twisting, or kneeling.

But this description says nothing. Most of the dance’s movement is some form of contemplation, which prompts the movement in order to achieve some anticipated result, which is always unfulfilled. What Carrying Floor is really about is much more difficult to describe. It’s the relationship between a dancer and the floor that the dancer works on to be sure, as the program note indicates, but it’s far more than that. It deals with creation and limitation and the interrelationship of both, the power of obsession and the obsessiveness of power – or the lack of it, and the gradual recognition that what you think you control may really be controlling you.

All this is conveyed through Rojo’s increasingly frantic, though excruciatingly measured and inner-directed, movement, as this big man can’t seem to figure out what the floor is compelling him to do, or how to make it do what he wants it to do when he figures out what that is. The stage floor is his Sisyphus, and we see Rojo appear to gradually lose his strength and his will before our eyes. For a piece that’s deliberately paced and relatively slow moving, it is relentlessly intense. At any moment I expected Rojo to toss one of the squares against a wall, or to lose his sanity and cut himself off from the unyielding floor upon which he moves; the burden that carries him, and that he carries. What an exceptional, unforgettable piece of work Carrying Floor is!

Being (Ser) [“ser” is the Spanish verb “to be”] is not in the same intensity league, but it’s another beautifully crafted dance. I’m not sure what point Garcia is attempting to make here, if any, but the point is far less significant than the movement.

The subject of Being (Ser), to the extent there is one, is of broad emotional forces – building blocks of “being.” To three pieces of music by Ezio Bosso, a young, highly regarded Italian composer whose work I had not previously heard, Garcia has crafted three visually and choreographically distinct but interconnected movements descriptive of broad emotional forces  – independence, conflict, and resolution – that are reflected in the interactions among the three dancers. They may also be seen as components of growth or fear to be overcome (the first two of the three songs that Garcia uses are to dances in Bosso’s score for the film Io non ho paura, which means “I am not afraid”).

The first movement, I initially feared, was too much influenced by the company’s exposure to Cunningham.  The three dancers move across the stage very much in tandem but also very independent of each other. Eventually, the three (Dunia Acosta, Fernando Benet, and Garcia) break free of their invisible tethers. There’s no hint of any emotional force here beyond satisfied exhilaration and perhaps self-discovery.

Danza 4 from the film’s score is titled “Della paura” – “of fear” – and the second movement of the dance, which follows a brief blackout pause, is exactly that. Suddenly, on the verge of possibly succumbing to a relationship (which makes a lot more sense than simply visualizing conflict for the sake of conflict), the three dancers grapple with each other’s bodies, and effectively play with each other’s heads. It isn’t a three-person scrum with the dancers crawling all over each other, but it’s visually brutal as the three seem to fight each other and their instincts concurrently.

The final segment is the best. If nothing else (and there’s a lot else), I am indebted to Garcia for introducing me to Bosso’s instrumental song, ”Smiles for Y…” (not from the film) which is elegantly simple, lilting, understatedly joyful and hopeful and wistful all at the same time: a secular hymn to that which makes us really human. [Off the top of my head, the closest I can get to something that generates a similar emotional response might be Israel Kamakawiwoʻole’s version of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” or Leonard Cohen’s “Suzanne,” but “Smiles for Y…” is even gentler than those.]

After another brief blackout, the three dancers return having overcome their fear and accepted their need for companionship and/or relationship. While using the same parameters as she did with the previous movement (the dancers grouped together, never seeming to lose touch with one another) Garcia has crafted movement to match the music: perceptive; mutually dependent; agonizingly imperative – in other words, as simple and as intricate as relationships, demonstrating what “being” is, might, or should be.

I would like to describe the movement quality of Being (Ser) with greater specificity and detail, but I was paying too close attention to dissect it, and doing so wouldn’t be constructive anyway. The dance’s success is how all of the movement fits together. My only quibble with it is with Garcia’s choice of three dancers rather than two or four. Using three raises issues that I didn’t really see in the piece (a manage a trois, or two women competing for one man, or one man who can’t make a choice), and that didn’t add anything – although visually the use of three dancers works very well. Perhaps there’s a simple explanation that escapes me. Regardless, Being (Ser) is a simple, powerful statement.

Tabula Rasa is much more complicated, but in the end is another simple, powerful statement. Created for Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre and choreographed to Arvo Part’s eponymous composition, the piece arguably visualizes individualized human conflict in the form of multiple pairings of the ten dancer cast. The genesis of the conflict is uncertain, and the violence inherent in the movement is intense. But the violent action is not excessive, as singles and pairs separate from the overall group, and then fail to communicate. The conflict does not appear to be “about” anything specific – just an inability to interact and/or to sustain a relationship, which is a community-wide problem.

Suddenly, the tempo of the music changes to something far more repetitive and rhythmically metronomic. Rojo, who had exited stage right as the first movement ended, emerges from the upstage left wings, facing forward and legs spread maybe two feet apart, swaying his body robotically from left to right and back again, while gradually inching his way almost imperceptivity across toward stage right. After traveling about six feet, another dancer emerges from the upstage left wings, moving as Rojo did and following his path. She’s followed by another, and then another, and then another, until all ten eventually appear. This assemblage is in no way related to the angled arabesque processional in Act II of La Bayadere – the dancers here move as if they’d been wiped clean of the “history” of the first movement, and are now emotionless blank slates. But toward the end of the procession, the third or fourth dancer from the end moves laterally about ten feet, then stops, angled mid phrase, while the others keep moving. Eventually the next zombie in line hits the woman who had stopped, and is himself stopped. Eventually, and quite robotically (although it’s not so much “robotically” as having been cleansed of the memory of how to interact), the two begin to dance together as the one next in line joins. This pas de trois of sorts continues, with the odd man out eventually, and unhappily, separating himself from the other two. At this point one of the woman from the group of others who had moved on (and who are still moving like collective robots mid-stage right) separates from that group and begins to dance with him. And so, inevitably, after societal relationships fall apart, human relationships begin to be rebuilt. It may take awhile to appreciate, but Tabula Rasa, although it sees emotional forces from a distance, is a masterful work.

Naharin’s use of movement here is as dramatic as it is, and as mesmerizing as it is, not because it’s repetitious, but because its repetition is a means to an end rather than an end in itself. Tabula Rasa premiered with MDC last May in Havana, and the dancers have made it their own. As with everything else on this program, their execution was flawless.  In addition to Rojo, Acosta, Garcia, and Benet, they included Maria Karla Araujo, Lisbeth Saad, Esteban Aguilar, Armando Gomez, and company co-founders Daileidys Carrazana and Osnel Delgado.

For those who may think that Cunningham’s dances display nothing more than tandem and emotionless movement for movement’s sake, the program’s opening piece, Fielding Sixes, is unlikely to change that. [As the program note explains, the piece premiered in 1980, and at that time consisted of thirteen dancers and lasted 28 minutes. But as performed at the Merce Cunningham Dance Center, sections of the piece, which differed from performance to performance, were cut. In the late 1990s, these edited programs were solidified into a single, eleven minute “Event” version, which is what MDC presented.]

But this version does not appear as rigid and orthodox to me as other Cunningham dances – the movement is almost entirely in tandem with arms rigidly arched downward, but within that framework there’s a wide variety of steps, and although there’s still no emotional component, the dancers are smiling, there’s an occasional moment of levity, and there’s a measure of contact among the dancers, including partnering (albeit minimal). And John Cage’s score, though repetitious, is surprisingly (to me) fluid and audience-friendly. So although the dance is what some might consider “pure movement,” it’s not uninteresting.

And in this program, aside from celebrating Cunningham’s centennial, Fielding Sixes serves a dual purpose: It shows, again, how remarkably accomplished these MDC dancers are, and to some extent is a point of departure for the other three program pieces, each of which might be seen to show some Cunningham influence. However, I must also note that of all the dances on this program, Fielding Sixes was the most tepidly received by the opening night audience.

To this point, I’ve avoided mentioning that Malpaso Dance Company is Cuban, and I’ve done so for a reason: I didn’t want the fact that company is based in Havana to factor into an evaluation of the company. The program is a superb reflection on the six-year old company because it’s a superb program superbly executed, not because the company is Cuban. It’s also an outstanding introduction to the Joyce’s Cuban Festival (the other two companies, appearing consecutively next week, are Los Hijos del Director and Compañía Irene Rodríguez), and it’s a highlight of this or any other dance year. Without hesitation, it’s a program worth going out of one’s way to see.

The post Malpaso Dance Company at the Joyce: A Remarkable Program appeared first on CriticalDance.

Nederlands Dans Theater (NDT 2)
City Center
New York, New York

January 16, 2019
mutual comfort, Sad Case, Wir sagen uns Dunkles, SH-BOOM!

Jerry Hochman

While there is no denying the extraordinary capabilities of the dancers I’ve seen with Nederlands Dans Theater, those few NDT programs that I’ve attended in recent years have frequently been overly expressive, alienating, self-absorbed, and audience unfriendly, with movement that generally appears prompted by repetitive electrocution. NDT (NDT 2) returned to City Center Wednesday night with a program of four dances, all, based on my prior exposure to the choreographers, practically guaranteed to produce another uncomfortable evening.

They didn’t.

NDT 2 dancers
in Sol León and Paul Lightfoot’s
“SH-BOOM!”
Photo by Rahi Rezvani

This NDT 2 program, consisting of American premieres by Edward Clug and Marco Goecke, and two pieces by NDT house choreographers Sol León and Paul Lightfoot, was a marvelous presentation of style and technique. While one of the four did indeed leave me feeling uncomfortable – that was its intent. Of the others, two are highly enjoyable zany adventures, and the best, Clug’s diminutive contemporary dance gem.

NDT 2 is a component of Nederlands Dans Theater, the company that, under the leadership of Jiri Kylian, swept into New York like a breath of fresh air in the late 1970s. The memory of that initial program, performed at City Center, is still fresh, and still feels exciting. In 1978, NDT formed NDT 2. Like most “second companies,” NDT 2’s function was to provide professional and performance training, the purpose of which is to funnel dancers into the main company. Whatever its origins might have been, however, NDT 2  is now considered a standalone company (the “original” NDT is now known as NDT 1), with its own repertoire. I last saw the company, now under the artistic direction of Fernando Hernando Magadan, at an engagement at the Joyce Theater in 2015 (NDT 1 in 2016 at City Center), and they’ve been represented in various Fall for Dance programs as well. Nothing I’d seen before, however, prepared me for the tour de force that this company and these dancers present now.

By far the most absorbing piece on the program, if not the most unusual (all the pieces, by New York standards, may be considered unusual), was Clug’s mutual comfort, the evening’s opening piece.

NDT 2 dancers
in Edward Clug’s
“mutual comfort”
Photo by Joris Jan Bos

My only prior exposure to Clug’s work was the recent Sleeping Beauty Dreams, which had its New York premiere last month. I didn’t think much of the choreography in that piece, and didn’t even mention Clug in the review because although he got the choreographic “credit,” I thought his abilities may have been overly and artificially restricted by the program’s overall concept.

mutual comfort is nothing like that, and, hopefully it provides more of an indication of Clug’s choreography (and perhaps a sense of the way Sleeping Beauty Dreams may eventually evolve). There’s never a dull moment, and it visualizes its theme in a very strange but fully accessible way. More significantly, Clug here utilizes an idiosyncratic movement language that’s internally consistent and, once you figure it out, both translatable and dazzling.

Clug uses a score by Milco Lazar, PErpeTuumOVIA, as the dance’s framework. Lazar is a contemporary Slovenian composer, musician and conductor, with over 40 LPs to his credit and a background in classical as well as “Big Band” music. This places PErpeTuumOVIA in a context of sorts. While it’s repetitious and rhythmic, it’s also gentle and decidedly non-electronic (it was danced to a recording by a ballet orchestra, with two pianos and two cellos). If anything, it’s a background purr as opposed to a noisy engine.

NDT 2 dances
in Edward Clug’s
“mutual comfort”
Photo by Joris Jan Bos

The piece, which premiered with NDT in 2015, opens with two male dancers standing midstage left, in identical poses, roughly six feet apart and moving their heads in a circular motion while the rest of each man’s body remains still. One of the two women in the piece appears, but the men do nothing more than continue to move their heads in a circle. One thing leads to another, the other woman appears, and the quartet interacts. And that interaction is dizzying. Every limb is used in unusual ways, but not to make individual statements (which is how I’ve observed similar movement previously – slight highlights in an otherwise not unusual piece of choreography) – this is the language. A foot will grab a head. An arm will move a leg. And the whole thing will lead to a woman somehow straddling a man’s neck. The motion is constant – although at times one or more of the dancers will watch the others. And like the best choreographers, Clug repeats particularly meaningful and surprising image combinations to add emphasis and a sense of creative control.

When it suddenly dawns that Clug’s movement is not just unusual, but extraordinary, one realizes that there’s a point to all this. It’s minimal to be sure, but what Clug is choreographing are relationships and the ‘mutual comfort’ relationships provide, using a new and thrilling way to visualize the same type of thing we’ve seen in other “relationship” dances. The dancers may not “act,” but they’re not automatons either. They smile. What they’re doing is enjoyable, not torture. Dances at some 21st century gathering. And when the piece comes full circle at its conclusion, the realization that the men’s head rotation (which expands to include the women, and is repeated in different contexts during the dance) is just a new way to see guys standing on a corner watching all the girls go by, is a lightning bolt. Sharply defined it is, as the program note indicates – all thirteen minutes of it. Twitchy it isn’t. [For “twitchy,” see below.] It’s stunning. Thalia Crymble, Tess Voelker, Kyle Clarke, and Adam Russell-Jones were the extraordinary dancers.

NDT 2 dancers in Sol León and Paul Lightfoot’s “Sad Case”
Photo by Rahi Rezvani

León and Lightfoot’s Sad Case is anything but. Created in 1998, the program note emphasizes that León was seven months pregnant with the couple’s first child, and her ‘raging hormones’ contributed to the zaniness of the dance. That’s unfortunate – not that the hormones effected the choreography (I suspect that this is the case with most creative artists – male or female), but that it somehow explains the strangeness. While Sad Case certainly has a quality of strangeness, it’s also marvelously inventive.

One of the most inventive aspects of it is that it’s not what you might think. The piece is choreographed to a suite of Mexican mambo music by Perez Prado (if you were around in the sixties, you might recall “Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White”) and others, including a non-sanitized version of “El Watusi” by Ray Barretto. Limp American mambo covers (e.g., Perry Como’s “Papa Loves Mambo” or Rosemary Clooney’s “Mambo Italiano”) are not included.

NDT 2 dancers
in Sol León
and Paul Lightfoot’s
“Sad Case”
Photo by Rahi Rezvani

To this mambo suite, León and Lightfoot create a suite of dances, none of which remotely resembles a mambo – except for the overall sense of freedom, energy, and a little craziness that the mambo music instills and that the dramatic lighting by Tom Bevoort emphasizes (e.g., the opening image of an overhead spot illuminating one dancer). The movement generally is in broad strokes, but it matches the background sound – not just the rhythm, but the melodies and musical punctuations, making for a sparkling and surprising presentation. True, there’s a lot of shaking, but it’s consistent with a lot of gibberish sound (amplified by some gibberish speech from the dancers). And for all its zaniness, it comes full circle at its conclusion, with a sole overhead spot illuminating a sole dancer, but a different one. Combined with the program’s concluding dance, Sad Case displays a side of León and Lightfoot’s choreography that I’d not previously seen, and is most welcome. Fay van Baar, Amanda Mortimore, Toon Lobach, Surimu Fukushi, and Boston Gallagher delivered brilliant performances.

I’ve found Marco Goecke’s choreography hugely problematic in the past, and still do. Movement reflecting manic anger and/or chaos and/or alienation is not inappropriate in the right context – it’s that kind of world. But movement that seemingly makes no sense just to be different and ugly, no matter how depressing the subject, is overkill. That being said, I recognize that many consider his twitchy (truly), jarring, ultra-angular, ultra-fast, seemingly pointless movement for movement’s sake interesting, and it’s indisputable that this type of expressionist movement is typical of much contemporary European choreography.

NDT 2 dancers
Kyle Clarke
and Jesse Callaert
in Marco Goecke’s
“Wir sagen uns Dunkles”
Photo by Rahi Rezvani

In any event, and with that prejudice in mind, Wir sagen uns Dunkles (roughly, “we exchange dark words”) is thoroughly in keeping with Goecke’s oeuvre, at least what I’ve seen of it. The movement quality is dark, twitch, shaky, sexually obvious as well as ambiguous – but what takes getting used to (if one can ever get used to it) is an insect-like quality that, at best, is unpleasant to watch. Often I don’t see dancers, or humans, I see mosquitoes or fleas or the aptly named ticks on steroids, angularly and rapidly moving their legs or antennae as they prepare to suck blood.

In this piece, however, as uncomfortable as it is to watch (at least to me), I saw – at least I think I saw – what Goecke was trying to say. It’s nihilistic to be sure – but it’s also, in its own way, a dystopian epic, and by far the best of the Goecke pieces I’ve seen.

The dark ambiance of the piece is evident immediately, from Udo Haberland’s barely existent lighting to Schubert’s dark Piano Trio: Notturno in E flat, Opus 148. This music is more than sad, it’s gloomy, but gloomy with some built-in sharp edges – rapidfire dramatic punctuations that cut through the gloom like sawtooth blades, suggesting danger, which Goecke emphasizes with choreographed spasms of dancers’ bodies, limbs, or just hands, as if they’re diseased – or insects.

NDT 2 dancers
Fay van Baar
and Adam Russell-Jones
in Marco Goecke’s
“Wir sagen uns Dunkles”
Photo by Rahi Rezvani

This setting thereafter is further reinforced by three songs that Goecke uses for the bulk of his dance, sung by the English alternate rock band, Placebo.  Sometimes classified also as “post punk rock” or “pop punk,” among other descriptive terms, the band has been well-known in the U.K. and Europe – somewhat less so here – for over 20 years. The songs chosen – “Song to Say Goodbye,” “Slave to the Wage,” and “Loud Like Love” – exemplify the sense of alienation, angst, and hopelessness that permeates Goecke’s piece, and the lead singer’s loud, monotonic, and somewhat nasal delivery adds to the annoyance factor, like chalk on a blackboard. These three songs describe different societal problem areas: the first is believed to address heroin addiction; the second’s title is self-explanatory; and the third is a paean to love – but in context, with its repeated emphasis on imagining “a love that is so proud” among other similar references, its subject clearly is intended to extend beyond “conventional” heterosexual love.

Goecke’s ‘dark words’ encompass each of these issues. Some of the scenes, and the androgynous appearance of many of the NDT 2 male dancers (a comment made about the Placebo band members as well), reflect what used to be described as a heroin-chic appearance on top of the anger and anomie. And here Goecke adds to his insect-like movement rep various animal-like movements and sounds, most notably dancers emerging onto the stage from behind a black upstage curtain in rapid steps, making tiny “clicking” sounds as they move – like a horde of mice. Or rats. [One of the lyrics in “Slave to the Wage” is “It’s a race, a race for rats / A race for rats to die.”] And if the connection weren’t already sufficiently clear, Goecke clads the dancers in costumes (which he designed) edged with simulated fur. Lastly, the final image of the dance (by this time the Placebo songs have yielded to an excerpt from Alfred Schnittke’s Piano Quintet, Part 2 in tempo di valse) – is a slow, ebbing, disappearance behind the upstage curtain of one of the company’s male dancers as the one male dancer remaining on stage longingly watches him depart.

NDT 2 dancers (foreground, Surimu Fukushi)
in Sol León and Paul Lightfoot’s “SH-BOOM!”
Photo by Rahi Rezvani

Dealing with all these issues is fine for three individual songs that have little relationship to each other beyond the band singing them and a certain style. Homogenized into one dance, however, the multi-pronged attack on society as it is loses focus – as well as potentially an audience that may be unable to discern how it all ties together. Regardless of the movement quality, this lack of cohesion makes Wir sagen uns Dunkles, which premiered in 2017, less than it might have been. But it’s undeniable that there’s intelligence at work here, and a style that much of the opening night audience clearly appreciated – although, judged by the muted laughter I heard within earshot, some audience members thought Goecke’s movement was quite funny to watch, which clearly was not Goecke’s intent.

NDT 2 dancers in Sol León and Paul Lightfoot’s “SH-BOOM!”
Photo by Rahi Rezvani

But humor clearly is part of León and Lightfoot’s intent in SH-BOOM!, an emotional antidote to the dance that preceded it. The choreography is over the top, exaggerated, cartoonish, sexual (there’s unannounced male nudity), and more fun than orchestra seats padded with whoopee cushions. Don’t ask me to describe the choreography – I couldn’t begin. But the gist of SH-BOOM! is captured in a quotation from Francisco Goya that begins the program note: “The dream of reason produces monsters. Imagination deserted by reason creates impossible, useless thoughts. United with reason imagination is the mother of all art and the source of all its beauty.” I’ve seen some key words translated from the Spanish somewhat differently, but the essential meaning of two seemingly contradictory terms, reason and imagination, being essential for the creation of art is the same.

This contradiction, as the program note indicates, is the essence of SH-BOOM! But perhaps that intellectualizes the piece too much. It’s crazy, but crazy fun.  The first dance that León and Lightfoot created, it had its formal premiere in 2000 (this performance was its New York premiere), and it’s a fitting fin de siècle commentary.

NDT 2 dancers
in Sol León and Paul Lightfoot’s
“SH-BOOM!”
Photo by Rahi Rezvani

The piece is a series of seemingly disparate scenes choreographed to eight seemingly disparate songs and a cast of seeming thousands (ten dancers), united primarily by the men wearing white underwear and the women robed (or otherwise costumed – maybe pajamas) in black. It’s more insane than funny, but it’s very funny. Pseudo glitter / confetti reigning down on the orchestra seats as the piece concluded was icing on the banana cream pie. In addition to most of those dancers already mentioned, the cast included Nicole Ishimaru (who danced a superb solo), Donnie Duncan, Jr., and Jesse Callaert.

I have only one complaint with the NDT 2 presentation. Nowhere does the program indicate who is performing what, or even the names of the members of the company. [The only reason I’ve inserted the names here is that a cast list was made available to the press.] I understand that to some extent dancers in these pieces are interchangeable, and generally that all that’s required of them is to execute the choreography perfectly (considering the athleticism and timing involved, no easy task). I also accept that the company may not be certain in advance which dancers will be appearing in which piece. Even so, those difficulties can be addressed by program inserts available to all. To me not identifying the dancers on stage is demeaning to the dancers and the audience. I hope that when NDT 2 (and NDT 1) return, this oversight, which I consider a serious one, will not be repeated.

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The Music Center at Strathmore 
North Bethesda, Maryland

January 20, 2019

Carmel Morgan

The 25th anniversary performance of Step Africa! certainly warmed up a frigid East Coast Sunday afternoon. The celebration began with a spirited opening by special guest Dem Raider Boyz (DRB) Step Squad from Greenbelt, Maryland’s Eleanor Roosevelt High School. This all-male group won the High School Step Team National Championship in 2014, 2016, 2017 and 2018 (a record number of wins), and they recently appeared on the TV show World of Dance. Their abundant pride, precision, creativity and high energy shows why they’ve achieved such success. The young men of DRB delivered a performance full of sharp wit and lightning fast moves.

According to the program notes, “Community participation has been a part of the step tradition since its inception in the early 1900s — members of the audience are invited to clap, stomp, cheer, and participate in call and response with the Artists throughout the performance.” Indeed, audience members shouted out enthusiastically as soon as the performance began. And DRB acted not unlike a cheer squad — encouraging the yells via their peppy dancing. DRB’s routine was framed around the theme of “Stepflix,” a clever take on “Netflix.” The team exhibited different movement styles as if they were assorted movies and TV shows being browsed. Their arms jutted up and out with power, their feet slammed the floor, and they smiled broadly, all while keeping their timing admirably tight.

Dem Raider Boyz on WORLD OF DANCE — Season: 2, photo by: Andrew Eccles/NBC

Founder and Executive Director of Step Africa!, C. Brian Williams, then took the stage, explaining that he created Step Africa! in 1994 while living in South Africa, and that he sought to spread joy and unity by presenting stepping as an art form. Step Africa!, through its national and international tours, continues to do just this — invigorate and educate diverse audiences and bring people together via stepping.

Step Africa!’s 25th anniversary performance highlighted the company’s choreographic range. In some pieces, the dancers’ stepping technique took clear precedence, while in others, the dancers incorporated contemporary dance, African dance and hip-hop to various types of music. In each of the works, however, the dancers gave it their all.

Idemo!, choreographed by Christopher Brient, was inspired by Step Africa!’s 2015 tour of southeastern Europe (“Idemo” means “Let’s go,” in Croatian). A chorus of rhythmic feet and voices leads to a fun series of call and response exercises designed to engage the audience.  

Step Afrika!, photo by Jim Saah

In The Wade Suite, somewhat reminiscent of Alvin Ailey’s Revelations, dancers (the women in church hats) performed to live vocals by Matthew Evans, Vincent Montgomery, Sherise Payne and Krislynn Perry. Here, as the written program detailed, the movement blends South African gumboot dance, collegiate stepping and tap dance with the African American spiritual. The soft wide circles of praise on view in Deacon’s Dance (Movement One), choreographed by Bongkosi with Ronnique Murray, pair nicely with the lively moods of Wade (Movement Two), choreographed by Paul Woodruff, LeeAnet Noble, and Kirsten Ledford, which include a baptism scene. The effect is definitely heartfelt.

In nxt/step:hip hop, at first men in hoodies sit on crates, and women later join, seated on higher stools behind them. To choreography by Jakari Sherman, and an original score by Sherman and Jonathan Matis, their feet bounce and slide. Passing 25, choreographed by Ryan Johnson with Christopher Brient, Brian McCollum, and Jason Nious, conveys complexity, moving from classic stepping to cacophonous delirium. Both of these works speak to contemporary times and conjure hope.   

It’s in the two works directly honoring Zulu culture that Step Africa! shines the brightest. In Umngane, choreographed by Makeda Abraham, Mfoniso Akpan, and Aseelah Shareef, company members move organically to the sounds of master drummer Kofi Agyei. From languorous stretches to high kicks and rocking hips, the dancing builds and grows faster and more fierce. Long past the point when most dancers and musicians would have tired, Step Africa! showed off their stamina. The dancers kept sweating as they leapt, and Agyei’s percussive beats kept mesmerizingly piercing and rattling the theater.   

The closing work, Indlamu, brought DRB back to the stage, where they stood in support of the amazing feats before them. Originally choreographed by Mbuyiselwa “Jackie” Semela, the dancers appear in traditional Zulu attire. Warriors, to the music of live drumming, practically walk on air, they bound so high. High pitched whistles blare and rear ends shake as dancers take turns outdoing each other in exhausting, impressive solos. This was the perfect way to conclude Step Africa!’s 25th anniversary celebration, and the crowd wasted no time jumping up for a well-deserved standing ovation.   

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