Top 15 in 2018 New York Dance

Jerry Hochman

It’s that time of year. Again.

Last year, against my better judgment, I decided to join many other reviewers and offered my list of 2017’s top dance performances in New York. In response to a steadily diminishing number of requests, I’ll do the same with 2018. I’m aware that we’re already nearly a full month into 2019. So sue me.

My Top 15 (as last year, 10 ballet; 5 “not ballet” – although the distinction is somewhat fluid), includes both individual and group performances, and also choreographic efforts. As was the case last year, it is decidedly not a listing of the “best” performances of the year in New York, although many – if not most – of them merit that distinction, because I can’t claim to have seen more than a subset of the offerings in the New York area (and a bit less than last year), and I don’t doubt that there are many more performances that are worthy of accolades.

Again, my criteria includes not only my evaluation of the individual performance or dance, but also any extraordinary circumstances that increased the personal or situational “adrenaline factor.” Being an unexpected and pleasant surprise is also determinative, and that I remember each performance or dance as if I’d seen it yesterday means something significant to me as well, compared to others I might have enjoyed but can no longer remember why. And I recognize that comparing a performance in a leading role in a full length, full dress ballet with one in a 20 minute contemporary dance is like comparing bananas and peanuts, much less apples and oranges, but excellence is excellence. And if I tend to lump a danseur’s outstanding efforts in the context of recognizing a ballerina, my apologies.

I have modified the criteria somewhat from last year. Even though I may think that particular performances by the same dancer or choreographic efforts by the same choreographer merit separate attention, I’ll combine them here. And this year I’m including a performance that I saw, but did not review. Last, where it seemed appropriate, I bundled two dancers’ performances together. [Yes, that really makes it way more than 15 … so sue me.]

Skylar Brandt in
“Don Quixote”
Photo by Gene Schiavone

The list still does not include the following, which I arbitrarily decided were beyond the scope (a list almost as long as the Top 15): a company’s overall excellence; a dancer’s body of work for the year (e.g., Skylar Brandt, 2018’s international “it” girl, who nailed every featured role she was given but who hasn’t even assayed a career-making leading role in NYC … yet; New York City Ballet’s Maria Kowroski, whose 2018 performances proved that retirement expectations were way premature; and Sterling Hyltin in anything); noteworthy events (such as Natalia Osipova and David Hallberg’s one-shot return to ABT with Giselle; Marcelo Gomes’s glowing return to New York in the final pas de deux in Sir Frederick Ashton’s The Two Pigeons, with Sarasota Ballet; the extraordinarily entertaining compilation of the wit and wisdom (and performing exuberance, still) of Twyla Tharp’s Minimalism and Me program at the Joyce; and Sara Mearns’s briefly shedding her NYCB persona and delivering a remarkable portrayal of Isadora Duncan in Dances of Isadora during the Paul Taylor American Modern Dance season, later repeated on a Fall for Dance program); individual performances in a competition (e.g., in Youth America Grand Prix’s 2018 NY Finals); a dancer’s commendably fulfilling expectations (e.g., Hee Seo’s now first-rate Giselle); the presentation of an excerpt from a larger piece (e.g., Cie Hervé Koubi’s possibly epic The Barbarian Nights, or the First Dawns of the World, excerpts from which were presented on an October 1 Fall for Dance program); or a reprise of a piece that suddenly made sense after years of thinking that it wasn’t particularly successful (e.g., New York City Ballet’s performances this past year of Alexei Ratmansky’s Namouna, A Grand Divertissement). Two new categories of “not included”: performances I see exclusively via social media or a “live” transmission, although in one case I’ll mention some to buttress my point, and stellar performances of dances that have been around for a very long time (e.g., El cruce sobre el Niágara, performed by Carlos Luis Blanco and Alejandro Silva (Acosta Danza), choreography by Marianela Boán, on Fall for Dance’s fifth program, and Threshold, performed by Virginie Mécène and Kevin Predmore (Buglisi Dance Theater), choreographed by Jacqulyn Buglisi, on a “Women / Create!” program at New York Live Arts). And I’ve tried not to include contemporary dance companies I included last year, notwithstanding outstanding programs, in order to provide some measure of “equal time” to other equally meritorious groups (so the 2018 Joyce Theater programs by Ballet Hispanico and Rioult Dance NY are not included, although both programs included dances and performances of distinction). Finally, and maybe most memorably, I’ve not included the collective NYCB Robbins Centennial celebration because … there was just too much that was exceptional.

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

And yes, I realize I just effectively doubled the “top 15.” So …  sue me.

This year I’ve also added two additional categories: the best compilation (I don’t envision this category being repeated), and “best worst” of 2018 (which, unfortunately, I do).

So with those caveats, here are my Top 15 (links to the pertinent reviews are provided as well):

1) Sarah Lane, American Ballet Theatre, Giselle (May 16, mat.); Other Dances (October 26)

In 2017, Sarah Lane debuted in Giselle with American Ballet Theatre. That was a remarkable performance, one I described as “a Giselle for our time,” and sufficiently exceptional to be included on my “tops” list last year.

Sarah Lane
and members of American Ballet Theatre
in “Giselle”
Photo by Erin Baiano

This past spring, Lane outdid herself, with a “mad scene,” and a Giselle, for the ages. I don’t know how she did it, or whether the synergies could happen again (top-flight ballerinas – and danseurs – never give exactly the same performances in the same piece twice), but this performance was particularly extraordinary. It helped immeasurably that the rest of the cast was “on” as well, but the mad scene was an individual effort. And as much as I’ll never forget the accomplishment, I’ll also never forget the response from the young woman sitting a few rows behind me, who remained frozen in her seat after Act I ended, transfixed, eventually whispering to her companion: “Oh. My. God.”

http://criticaldance.org/american-ballet-theatre-four-giselles-one-ages/

But this Giselle was not her only extraordinary outing this past season. Her Other Dances, performed during ABT’s Fall 2018 season and complemented by Herman Cornejo’s dynamic performance, added qualities to Jerome Robbins’s piece that I’d not previously seen, that worked, and that added a new dimension to what already is a wonderful example of his work.

http://criticaldance.org/american-ballet-theatre-performances-dances/

Sarah Lane, Herman Cornejo,
and members of the company
in American Ballet Theatre’s “Don Quixote”
Photo by Jerry Hochman

Combined with helping to make Alexei Ratmansky’s Harlequinade palatable after what I considered to be an annoyingly self-absorbed opening performance, and her debuts (albeit one-shot) in La Bayadere and Don Quixote (both reviews are included below), both partnered by Cornejo, it was quite a year – even with ABT’s artistically indefensible decision not to recast her in Swan Lake, and its continuing and inexplicable failure to cast her as Juliet.

http://criticaldance.org/abt-met-2018-makarovas-magnificent-la-bayadere/

http://criticaldance.org/don-quixote-whipped-cream-abt-met-2018-us-ballet-soars/

2) Michael Trusnovec and the Paul Taylor Dance Company: Promethean Fire; Concertiana (Koch Theater, March 22; Fall for Dance October 4)

What a way to go: parts 1 and 2.

The company must have known that Paul Taylor, who passed away in September, was near death during their Spring, 2018 Lincoln Center season – their performances during that entire engagement seemed even more driven than usual. The crowning achievement was their performance of Promethean Fire, which made an already superb program even more memorable.

Promethean Fire is a Paul Taylor masterpiece – perhaps Taylor’s greatest work (although with so many to choose from, including of course Esplanade, it’s a close call). Generally accepted (although not formally acknowledged) as Taylor’s response to 9/11, the piece is never less than superbly executed and incredibly moving. PTDC’s performances of it in 2018, however, took it to another level, and the performances by Michael Trusnovec, who is retiring this year after a 20 year PTDC career (and who later received a 2018 Dance Magazine award), helped take it there.

Michael Trusnovec
and Parisa Khobdeh appearing at
the Dance Magazine Awards
in Paul Taylor’s
“Promethean Fire”
Photo by Christopher Duggan

In my review of that March 22 performance, I described Trusnovec as one of the most powerful dance presences anywhere, and together with his partner through most of that piece (and in many other dances during that season), Parisa Khobdeh, who herself had a remarkable 15th season with PTDC, and an electric audience that started cheering even before the dancers began to move, this performance of a work of art that recognizes horror and tragedy and also celebrates the ultimate triumph of the human spirit brought tears to my eyes.

But that was nothing compared to the gusher prompted by the company’s performance of Promethean Fire at City Center’s Fall for Dance program on October 4, a couple of weeks after his death. It was a celebration of a monumental dance, and a monumental life in dance. And it was recognition that technique and style are one thing (well, two), but heart and soul are another.

On that same March 22 program, I was treated to Taylor’s final dance, Concertiana, which had premiered earlier in the season. Taylor was criticized by some shortsighted critics in recent years because the quality of his choreographic output in his ‘80s did not appear to them as strong as it was earlier in his career. Concertiana proved that he had it to the end. It’s an Esplanade for the 21st Century, and it was Taylor’s parting gift.

http://criticaldance.org/paul-taylor-classic-choreography-classy-company/

3) Taylor Stanley and The Runaway, NYCB, choreography by Kyle Abraham (October 6)

I did not see Kyle Abraham’s The Runaway at its NYCB premiere, but the buzz I heard was not positive. Coupled with my less than enthusiastic response to other pieces of his that I’d recently seen, my expectations for Abraham’s first piece for NYCB were not high. And for most of my initial exposure to it, I disliked it intensely.

Taylor Stanley
in Kyle Abraham’s “The Runaway”
Photo by Paul Kolnik

Then it suddenly clicked (it’s glorious when that happens). I thought I understood what Abraham was trying to communicate, and although I’m not sure I’m right, I’ll take it. Even though I suspect many will embrace The Runaway for all the wrong reasons [Abraham’s outrageous song choices (which, as I noted, I would have been perfectly happy never having heard); the equally outrageous racially oriented costumes; or the fact that it might be perceived as an “African-American” ballet performed by what some erroneously consider a white-bread company], what I think Abraham is trying to say is far more significant, far more introspective, and in a strange way, far more universal than it first appears. It’s a landmark ballet, and one not to be missed.

Regardless of its meaning (or whether it has one), The Runaway must be seen for the company’s outstanding execution overall – you probably will never see Sara Mearns, Ashley Bouder, and Georgina Pazcoguin dance like this in any other piece, but mostly for Taylor Stanley’s tour de force performance. Stanley had a huge artistic growth spurt in 2018: seemingly everything he danced was brilliantly conceived and executed, but his jaw-dropping performance in The Runaway was from an entirely different dance galaxy.

http://criticaldance.org/new-york-city-ballet-runaway-hit/

4) Joaquin De Luz (and Tiler Peck), NYCB, Theme and Variations, A Suite of Dances (October 14); Other Dances (October 12), Tchaikovsky Pas de Deux (September 21)

What a way to go: Part 3

Joaquin De Luz
and members of New York City Ballet
during his Farewell Celebration
Photo by Jerry Hochman

It’s never too late. For years, as competent a danseur as he was, I felt that Joaquin De Luz was too into himself on stage, and while he danced superbly on his own, he seemed deficient as a partner. But in recent years, in my eyes that distinction either became less apparent, or he overcame it. And in his last NYCB year, his performances seemed particularly memorable. Ultimately, at his October 14 “Farewell,” he left not with an echo of what he used to be able to do, but with performances that reached new artistic heights.

Since announcing his retirement, every performance was, to one extent or another, his last in that role. Two days before his Farewell, he danced his final Other Dances, appearing with his frequent stage partner, Tiler Peck. It was a marvelous performance. [Discussed in detail in the context of my review of Lane and Cornejo’s performance of Other Dances above.] Earlier in the Fall, 2018 season, he and Peck danced their final Tchaikovsky Pas de Deux together, which he danced admirably, and which Peck, seemingly buoyed by the occasion, blasted into the stratosphere.

Joaquin De Luz
in George Balanchine’s
“Tchaikovsky Pas de Deux”
Photo by Paul Kolnik

But his Farewell performance two days later, and most significantly his performance in Balanchine’s Theme and Variations, was a year highlight. One would not logically choose this piece on the eve of retirement: Farewell performances are not usually the time to take risks, and the piece is tough enough for a danseur in his prime, much less one whose hair is beginning to grey and whose technique, fine as it still is, couldn’t possibly be as sharp as it once was. However, and with Peck perhaps as inspiration, he nailed it. Even he seemed amazed, and grateful – and his performance was saluted with onstage applause by the entire cast. He followed this with a demanding Robbins masterwork, A Suite of Dances, which he executed as well on this occasion as he did when he debuted in the role during the company’s Robbins Celebration the previous spring.

http://criticaldance.org/new-york-city-ballet-celebrate-celebrate-dance-music/

http://criticaldance.org/new-york-city-ballet-sensational-still/

5) Erica Pereira, NYCB, Romeo + Juliet (February 16)

    Indiana Woodward, NYCB, Romeo + Juliet (February 21; Les Noces (May 12)

Perhaps I’ve been unusually fortunate, but I’ve never seen a poor performance of Juliet (going back as far as ABT’s one-act Romeo and Juliet with Hilda Morales, choreographed by Antony Tudor). [Speaking of which, the return of Tudor dances to ABT’s repertory is long overdue.] So to make it on my list, there has to be something particularly special about it. The portrayals by Erica Pereira and Indiana Woodward in Peter Martins’s Romeo + Juliet were that, and more.

Erica Pereira and Peter Walker
in Peter Martins’s “Romeo + Juliet”
Photo by Paul Kolnik

For whatever reason, following her exceptional debut as Juliet during its premiere 2007 season (selected by Martins to dance the role while still an apprentice), and although she was promoted to soloist fairly quickly, Pereira was rarely assigned demanding full-length roles thereafter. But under the interim NYCB tripartite leadership Pereira has finally been given a shot at a wider variety of roles.

Even though she’s danced it before, I consider her return as Juliet last winter to be, effectively, a second debut (similar in impact and significance to Lane’s “second debut” as Aurora with ABT several years ago). Together with her Romeo, Peter Walker (in an outstanding role debut), Pereira made the most of the opportunity: it was a courageous, triumphant performance. She should be given more such opportunities. [Unfortunately, rumor has it that this coming season’s The Sleeping Beauty will not be one of them.]

Indiana Woodward
in Peter Martins’s “Romeo + Juliet”
Photo by Paul Kolnik

It seems that Indiana Woodward hits most everything she touches out of the park. Her Juliet debut the following week was no exception. And her Romeo, Stanley, improved exponentially since his role debut many years ago.  His may now be the seminal Martins milquetoast to murderous-avenger Romeo.

http://criticaldance.org/nycbs-romeo-juliet-new-performances-indelible-memories/

Indiana Woodward, Ashley Hod, Unity Phelan,
Russell Janzen (center, front to back),
and members of New York City Ballet
in Jerome Robbins’s “Les Noces”
Photo by Paul Kolnik

Although she impressed me immediately with a ballerina-next-door quality, Woodward’s stage persona has acquired many facets. An example is her compelling, dominating performance in the resurrection of Robbins’s Les Noces. Even though she had less dancing to do than other featured characters, every move she made, every breath she took, demanded attention. One could not take one’s eyes off her – and wouldn’t have wanted to.

http://criticaldance.org/new-york-city-ballet-robbins-centennial-programs/

6) Daria Reznik, Eifman Ballet of St. Petersburg, Anna Karenina (April 7 mat.)

When your only criticism is that the lead ballerina in Eifman Ballet’s Anna Karenina may have been too young to portray the character, that says something about every other aspect of the performance. Reznik, a relatively new member of the company (she graduated from Vaganova in 2016, and was only 20 at this performance), is riveting in a demanding role.

Daria Reznik and Sergey Volobuev
in Boris Eifman’s “Anna Karenina”
Photo by Evgeny Matveev

For Eifman, ballet movement is about expressing and visualizing emotion, including the subconscious psychological forces that create and respond to emotional stimuli. It is relentlessly intense – all melodrama all the time – but it’s also electric to watch.

Superbly abetted by Sergey Volobuev in a masterful performance as Karenin, Reznik dominated the emotionally tormented role, and dominated the stage in the process. And it wasn’t just her overall choreographic execution or the body that looks like a stretched rubber band. She does with her eyes what she does so magnificently with her legs – she somehow wraps them around everything in their path.

http://criticaldance.org/eifman-ballets-anna-karenina-rapturous-daria-reznik/

7) Christine Shevchenko, ABT, Swan Lake (June 23 mat.)

I’ve often written that swans aren’t hatched fully grown. But Christine Shevchenko’s debut came reasonably close.

Christine Shevchenko in “Swan Lake”
Photo by Gene Schiavone

Shevchenko is one of the company’s strongest dancers, but she avoids appearing to dominate the stage and every dancer in eyeshot, turning the strength somehow inward so the focus is on her character rather than her undeniable command (except where command is an obvious requirement – as in her gasp-inducing fouettes). And in her Odette / Odile debut she demonstrated both strength and an unexpected quality of lyricism. The result was a rare balanced performance, with both a high excitement factor and an almost as high vulnerability factor. That there’s room for improvement, albeit limited, in an already marvelous portrayal(s) is almost scary.

http://criticaldance.org/abts-swan-lake-stunning-shevchenko-debut-seo-shines/

8) Dada Masilo / The Dance Factory, Dada Masilo’s ‘Giselle’ (April 3)

It was a good year for Giselle – even an anti-Giselle.

Dada Masilo (center)
and members of The Dance Factory
in “Dada Masilo’s ‘Giselle'”
Photo by John Hogg

I was angry when I read what I considered to be a one-sided and inaccurate description of Giselle in the program note for Dada Masilo’s interpretation of the classic Romantic ballet – it isn’t necessary to knock something else down in order to build your interpretation up. That aside, and notwithstanding a couple of serious missteps, Masilo’s revisionist / African-based one-act Dada Masilo’s ‘Giselle’ is a marvel of cross-cultural invention, intelligence, and audacity, with a contemporary spin and an emphasis on revenge. I found Masilo and her company’s appearance at the Joyce in 2017 promising; this performance took her and her company to another level.

http://criticaldance.org/dada-masilos-giselle-shes-human/

9) Katherine Williams, ABT, Giselle (Myrta); David Hallberg, ABT, Harlequinade (Pierrot)

Non-lead performances don’t often get recognized, but two last year could not be ignored.

ABT has a new queen of mean.

ABT has many strong Myrtas. From Gillian Murphy to Stella Abrera to Shevchenko to Devon Teuscher, there’s not a weak link in the bunch. Now there’s another – and although I’ve recognized Katherine Williams’s technique and, even more significantly, her characterizations, from the day I first saw her dance with ABT, I was not prepared for the strength and depth of her debut performance as Myrta, one that proved promotion-worthy.

[Williams’s Myrta debut is discussed in the review of Sarah Lane’s Giselle, above.]

The character of Pierrot in Alexei Ratmansky’s bloated but ultimately enjoyable Harlequinade, depending on the cast, is relatively non-descript. Intentionally.

But David Hallberg’s Pierrot was from another dimension: the most moving depiction of the character that I’ve seen in Harlequinade or in any other ballet derived from Commedia dell’arte where the sad and somewhat clueless clown is seen on stage. His was an astonishingly gripping, heartfelt, and unforgettable portrayal – a pierrot noble – even more stunning because in costume he was unrecognizable, and the audience failed to acknowledge him (normally audiences applaud when he first appears) until the ballet’s end.

http://criticaldance.org/les-millions-de-petipa-hes-jolly-good-fellow/

10) Maria Khoreva, Daria Ionova, Anastasia Nuikina and Xander Parrish, Apollo, The Mariinksy Ballet; Mathilde Froustey, Scotch Symphony, San Francisco Ballet; Balanchine: The City Center Years (November 1, 2 and 3)

A year ago, I recognized the astonishing performance of the Bolshoi’s Alina Kovaleva in “Diamonds” at the Lincoln Center Festival’s Celebration of Balanchine’s Jewels, and stated that “sometimes you just know…”

Sometimes you just know, redux.

Maria Khoreva and Xander Parish
in George Balanchine’s “Apollo”
Photo by Daniele Cipriani
Courtesy of The Mariinsky Ballet

I had been watching Vaganova student Maria Khoreva since I quite inadvertently stumbled upon one of her social media posts, and I knew immediately – as, apparently, did the powers that be at the Mariinsky, who assigned this not yet graduated student the role of Terpsichore in Balanchine’s Apollo, and then had the audacity, and perspicacity, to send her and two other newly minted Vaganova graduates to New York a few short months after they joined the company. Khoreva has already been promoted to First Soloist, has already been cast in lead roles in full length ballets (and, hot off social media, will be dancing “Diamonds” very soon), and already brings a rare quality of joy as well as technical brilliance to her performances. And she’s only 18. To be present at (or close to) the beginning, and to watch her grow, is a thrilling opportunity – as was the opportunity to interview her the night before her New York debut.

Maria Khoreva (foreground) with
(l-r) Daria Ionova and Anastasia Nuikina
in George Balanchine’s “Apollo”
Photo by Daniele Cipriani
Courtesy of The Mariinsky Ballet

Khoreva is not alone. Her Vaganova-graduate colleagues, Daria Ionova (who I’d already noticed on social media) and Anastasia Nuikina (who until this performance I’d known only because she was the other recent Vaganova graduate cast in Apollo), also excelled, with Nuikina being a huge surprise. She has a particularly engaging, endearing quality that steals the heart, and that I hope will not be lost with increasing experience. And both appear at a technical level far beyond their years. Although I was not enamored of Xander Parish’s Apollo on first view, I grew to appreciate it as a credible and, for him, an essential interpretation, to like it a lot, and to recognize that different is not necessarily deficient.

This recounting of Balanchine’s choreography might not have been acceptable to purists, and it’s undoubtedly true that any NYCB performance of it will be more stylistically sound and just as accomplished. But for NYCB dancers Balanchine is part of their genetic material; dancing the roles as well as these Mariinsky dancers did, as young as they are, is something else entirely. And the glimpse it provided into the Mariinsky’s future is priceless.

http://criticaldance.org/balanchine-city-center-years-choreographic-performance-excellence/

http://criticaldance.org/conversation-maria-khoreva-mariinskys-precocious-young-ballerina/

At another Balanchine City Center celebration performance, I had the opportunity to see San Francisco Ballet’s Mathilde Froustey for the first time. Scotch Symphony, which I’d not seen in ages, is Balanchine’s abstract take on La Sylphide. I’m grateful to SFB for delivering such a glowing presentation of it, but even more grateful for introducing me to this young principal. Strong, fast, endearing and effervescent – but also as delicate as a sylph, Froustey’s return to New York (ideally, in Giselle) would be most welcome.

11) Tatiana Melnik and The Hungarian National Ballet, Don Quixote (November 9)

It was a particularly busy and, as it turned out, significant time of the year, so with a full plate I doubted that I’d have an opportunity to see The Hungarian National Ballet Company’s brief three-performance visit to Lincoln Center, consisting of one Swan Lake, one Don Quixote, and one repertory program. But I made a last minute decision to see Don Q, and although I didn’t review it, I’m very glad I did.

Based solely on this performance, this company deserves more performance opportunities in New York. Every dancer in the company delivered superb performances, including (but not limited to) the evening’s Amour, Mercedes, Gypsy dancer, and Basil (Igor Tsvirko, who had recently joined the company after roughly ten years with the Bolshoi). [Sadly – and unforgivably — aside from the two leads, the other featured dancers were not identified.]

But the performance highlight was Tatiana Melnik’s Kitri. Melnik clearly is the company’s prima (she also danced the lead in the company’s Swan Lake performance earlier in the week), and the role is nothing new to her. Nevertheless, her execution was fresh and exceptionally accomplished – perhaps not with all the nuance we’ve seen in some other Kitri portrayals, but with all the essential pizazz and extraordinary facile technique, culminating in an unforgettable final pas de deux that left the audience, and me, in disbelief.

Back in the Stone Age, New York ballet enthusiasts could look forward to visits by visiting non-US companies like Hungarian National Ballet on a regular basis thanks to the foresight and risk-taking of producer / impresario Sol Hurok. As good as performance snippets on social media and YouTube may be, there’s no substitute for a live performance; and as broad a brush as the Joyce Theater’s offerings in recent seasons commendably represent, there’s no substitute for a venue that can enable a company to perform what it does best. So take notice, would-be Huroks. There’s considerable performing excellence out there, regardless of its location – the Hungarian National Ballet is only one example – and there’s an audience out there eager for an opportunity to see what these companies and their dancers can do.

12) Reclamation Map (Tayeh Dance with Heather Christian), Fall for Dance, (October 5)

So … I sit in the City Center audience waiting patiently for Program 3 of Fall for Dance to begin, hoping that the first dance, by a group I’d never heard of (I’d forgotten that I’d seen the dance company component previously) would pass quickly so I could focus on what I thought would be the evening’s main events. It doesn’t happen often, but seconds after Reclamation Map began, I was hooked. Somehow the concept, the powerful but highly controlled dance choreographed by Sonya Tayeh, and the astonishing performance by composer/vocalist Heather Christian and her two vocalist colleagues (Jo Lampert and Onyie Nwachukwu) created a haunting, multi-faceted ambiance to get lost in. I don’t know if this piece is typical of Christian’s work, but here her voice, delivery, and performing presence matched delicacy with power, crystalline clarity with earthy expressiveness, and emotional depth with soul.

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

Surely the concept of overcoming darkness and despair through inner strength is nothing new, but this piece presented it in a unique and sensational way – so much so that I reviewed the same performance twice. Reclamation Map was a benevolent shock; it blew me away.

http://criticaldance.org/fall-dance-2018-first-two-half-programs/

http://criticaldance.org/fall-dance-2018-second-week/

13) Parsons Dance (May 24)

Parsons Dance in Trey McIntyre’s “Ma Maison”
Photo by Yi-Chun Wu

Six dances, and not a clinker in the bunch. Featuring five pieces by Artistic Director and Co-Founder David Parsons – one jointly with company dancer/rehearsal director Abby Silva Gavezzoli, who retired following this Joyce Theater engagement (what a way to go – Part 4) and one by Trey McIntyre (the knock-out Ma Maison), for sheer entertainment value, this was the finest overall contemporary dance program that I saw last year.

http://criticaldance.org/parsons-dance-joyce-dance-doesnt-get-better/

14) Lauren Lovette and Kennard Henson, NYCB, Afternoon of a Faun (October 12)

Lauren Lovette’s success in roles she seemingly was born to dance, is, by now, nothing to be surprised about (although her successful choreographic efforts, happily, still are). And the role of the self-absorbed ballerina in Jerome Robbins’s Afternoon of a Faun is one of them. She should have been assigned this role years ago, even while she was still in the corps, but NYCB has many outstanding interpreters of that role (Sterling Hyltin being one), and there’s a long and growing waiting list.

Lauren Lovette
and members of New York City Ballet
here in Jerome Robbins’s
“The Goldberg Variations”
Photo by Paul Kolnik

But when she was finally cast, the stage partner who I thought would be ideal in this piece was no longer with the company, and other candidates were injured or otherwise unavailable. The casting of Kennard Henson, a relatively new member of NYCB’s corps who I’d not seen outside of non-featured corps roles, seemed disastrous.

As has been happening with increasing frequency, I was wrong. Her technique and attitude and his seeming awe-struck freshness resulted in a silent dance theater thunderbolt. It was double-debut that was as sensational as it was a shocking surprise.

Purists might contend that Lovette and Henson added more visible emotion to their portrayals than is appropriate. I disagree that they did, and that it was inappropriate even if they did. While the narcissism of the dancers is an essential component, the characters here are self-absorbed, not unfeeling automatons. If there was a degree more reactiveness here than in other portrayals, the difference was worth it.

[The review of Lovette and Henson’s performance in Afternoon of a Faun is included in the review of the Joaquin De Luz “Farewell” performance, above.]

15) Shibuya Blues (Tulsa Ballet, March 9) and Balamouk (Dance Theatre of Harlem at Fall for Dance, October 5): choreography by Annabelle Lopez Ochoa

Tulsa Ballet dancers
Joshua Stayton and Jaimi Cullen
in Annabelle Lopez Ochoa’s “Shibuya Blues”
Photo by Francsico Estevez

Shibuya Blues is not a new piece of choreography, nor is Tulsa Ballet a new company, but both were new to me when Tulsa Ballet appeared last year at the Joyce. The dance, “about” an outsider trying to find her way in a bustling metropolis (Tokyo), is told in an inventive and entertaining way, is multi-textured, and is a ballet that doesn’t have the appearance of a ballet. It is by far the best of the Lopez Ochoa ballets that I’ve seen. And although each of the Tulsa Ballet dancers in it excelled, the ballet belonged to the “Outsider,” Maine Kawashima, whose performance combined a waif-like characterization with steely determination.

http://criticaldance.org/tulsa-ballet-tornado-hits-new-york/

Shibuya Blues was not Lopez Ochoa’s only 2018 success. Though not at the same level, her Balamouk, which was created for Dance Theatre of Harlem and premiered on a City Center Fall for Dance program, is highly entertaining and the best “new” piece that I’ve seen performed by DTH in many years. It’s a sparkling, joyous ballet that melds its disparate musical cultural sounds into a coherent whole, and that showcases the individual and group talents of the company’s ten participating dancers. It was a fitting tribute to the late Arthur Mitchell, DTH’s co-founder, to whom the program was dedicated.

[The review of Balamouk is included in the reviews of Reclamation Map, above.]

Best Worst Ballet: AFTERITE, ABT, choreography by Wayne McGregor (May 22)

I don’t often hate any particular dance, but I hated AFTERITE, Wayne McGregor’s take on Rite of Spring which premiered during ABT’s Met 2018 season and was repeated during its Fall season at the Koch Theater. And it wasn’t just because, to me and many others, by its inescapable and obvious connection to Sophie’s Choice it trivialized the Holocaust, or because, at the very least, it’s controversial (and intended to be), but also because its concept, calculated to be a different take on the “Chosen One” and thereby lock in audience attention that might otherwise have considered this Rite to be just another sacrifice, lacked not only compassion, but cohesion and clarity. It was, and remains, very difficult to follow above the broad strokes of a mother’s decision to choose one of her children to die in order to make crops grow. Little of it, as presented, makes any sense beyond its melodrama and nausea-inducing horror.

Members of American Ballet Theatre
in Wayne McGregor’s “AFTERITE”
Photo by Marty Sohl

But I cannot deny that although I have not seen most of McGregor’s pieces, of those I’ve seen (including his Autobiography at the Joyce earlier in the year), AFTERITE is by far the best choreographically, with a plethora of movement variety and complexity and not dancer twisted into a pretzel or pointless angular twitch in sight. And although to some extent I was unable to see the trees for the forest on first view, on second I could appreciate the extraordinary efforts by ABT’s dancers – all of them, but particularly Cornejo, Alessandra Ferri, Isabella Boylston, Cassandra Trenary, and Blaine Hoven.

Nevertheless, if I never see AFTERITE again, it will be too soon.

http://criticaldance.org/mcgregors-afterite-make-crops-grow/

[the second performance of AFTERITE is reviewed in the context of the review of the program that included Lane and Cornejo’s Other Dances, above.]

Best Compilation: Something to Dance About, NYCB, choreography by Jerome Robbins, direction and musical staging by Warren Carlyle (May 3)

The Jerome Robbins Centennial was celebrated by ballet companies around the world (with the exception of ABT, where such recognition as there was seemed both belated and tepid at best), but to my knowledge none more comprehensively than NYCB’s commemoration during its Spring, 2018 season.

Members of New York City Ballet
in “Something to Dance About”
[Guest Vocalist Jessica Vosk (center)]Direction and Musical Staging by Warren Carlyle
Photo by Paul Kolnik

Ask la Cour and Students
of the School of American Ballet
in Jerome Robbins’s “Circus Polka”
Photo by Paul Kolnik

What a way to go, Part 5.

http://criticaldance.org/jerome-robbins-something-wonderful/

2018 was, overall, another noteworthy dance year in New York. On to 2019, which, as of this writing, has already produced one or two candidates for next year’s tops in dance in New York.

The post Tops in 2018 New York Dance: Drama, Distinction, and ‘What a Way to Go’ appeared first on CriticalDance.

BalletBoyz
The Joyce Theater
New York, New York

February 1, 2019
Young Men (Acts I and II)

Jerry Hochman

BalletBoyz returned to the Joyce Theater this week with a multi-media presentation titled Young Men. The company’s appearance is cause for celebration – they’re an excellent group of dancers, and Young Men is a heartfelt piece that appears to do what it sets out to do, and generally does it well. But for all its sincerity and credible atmosphere, it lacks two components that to me are essential to a dance theater performance: a coherent narrative (assuming a narrative of some sort is a component, as it is here), and compelling choreography.

BalletBoyz was co-founded in 2000 by Michael Nunn and William Trevitt (each receiving an OBE designation in 2017) as a vehicle for the two of them following twelve performing years with The Royal Ballet. In 2010, they retired from performing, opened BalletBoyz to new talent, and the resulting all-male (generally) company has since performed to international accolades.

Members of BalletBoyz
in “Young Men” (film)
Photo by Sophie Harris Taylor

It sometimes seems like ancient history, particularly since “history” now crams more information into less time than it used to (think about it) and events seem to recede in memory faster than they used to, but World War I took place only a century ago, from 1914-1918. Also known as The Great War, or The War to End All Wars, the conflict claimed an estimated 16 million deaths (7 million civilians), directly or indirectly led to millions more, and its consequences are still being felt. Young Men, which premiered at Sadler’s Wells in 2015, obviously was conceived as a centennial remembrance / memorial to those British soldiers who fought and died in World War I, and those who survived it. This engagement was its New York premiere.

Most of the ingredients that together comprise Young Men – specifically the accompanying “background” film, the overall staging, and the lighting – work brilliantly.

Members of BalletBoyz
in “Young Men” (film)

There is nothing about the film component of Young Men that is less than top drawer. The cinematography (Trevitt is credited as Director of Photography), direction (credited to Nunn), editing (Jimmy Piper), and coloring (George Morrison) create a landscape that is both harrowing and crystalline; the costumes by Katherine Watt appear not only period accurate, but moderated so they quietly enhance rather than dominate the presentation; and the acting by the ensemble (including but not limited to many of those who appeared) was extraordinarily compelling. Expanded, this film accompaniment could have been a stunning standalone film – which apparently was the case. It’s not clear to me whether the film released under the name Young Men in 2016 is identical to the background film for the performance or is a “fleshed out” version, but according to the program notes the independently-released film won several awards. Whether the film that provided the background for, and is integrated with, the live performance at the Joyce is the same as the original or a subsequent version, or the award-winning film, it’s certainly the finest ‘film accompanying a dance theater performance’ that I can recall. In parts, the film reminded me of battle scenes I vaguely recall from Peter Weir’s memorable 1981 film Gallipoli, except instead of Australian recruits sent to Gallipoli, here British troops are sent to France or Flanders (the film was shot in Normandy).

Members of BalletBoyz in “Young Men”
Photo by Jessie Coleman

Similarly, the staging, overall, is very well conceived. I suspect that the production has been modified since its Sadler’s Wells premiere to fit the Joyce space, but even with any such modification, the presentation on stage leaps seamlessly from the background film onto and off an almost stage-spanning platform that extends from upstage to mid-stage, and spans almost the entire stage width. Accordingly, in addition to the usual (but here very well done) live extension and/or mirroring of what’s presented on film, the sense of the soldiers leaping in and out of trenches and being blasted by bombs, from film to stage and back, is vibrant and terrifying. Combined with the spectacular lighting (designed by Andrew Ellis), the film comes to life on stage, and, more significantly, the film’s atmosphere comes to life as well. And although the “fog of war” is by now a cliché, here Ellis creates a living, breathing “fog” that exceeds in quality anything I can recall in a stage presentation. But it’s not just battle. In one of the rare “calm” scenes, the sun-dappled presentation of a bucolic field is translated, again seamlessly, to sun-dappled light that bathes the live individual characters.

So why am I not jumping for joy at a marvelous commemorative presentation?

Members of BalletBoyz in “Young Men”
Photo by Panaylotis Sinnos

While the production can be seen as an anti-war piece, to me it’s more about the suffering that the combatants, and to some extent civilians, endured during World War I. Young Men doesn’t condemn war per se – there’s no connection to war in general or war as it arguably has evolved into a battle of technologies where, at least theoretically, combat may no longer be at arm’s length. More significantly, there’s no villain to this piece. War – this particular war – is an event that combatants and those who love them lived through and endured. It just is. There’s no blame, no sense of the senselessness of it all. This is not The Green Table.

Well, fine. I can’t criticize Young Men for not doing what it apparently never intended to do. But to be effective as dance theater, what’s left, the horrors of this war, must do more than show the horrors of war. Too much of it is stuff we’ve seen before, however well put-together it may from time to time be here. Too much of whatever narrative there is is unexplained, comes from nowhere, and leads to nowhere – or the audience is forced to guess. Too many loose ends. [Admittedly, part of my confusion may arise from not being able to follow specific characters because I’m not familiar with the dancer / actors who portray them, but that’s a problem that I think most in the audience would face as well.]

Members of BalletBoyz in “Young Men”
Photo by George Piper

For example, the “drill sergeant” who is abusive during the recruits’ training early in the presentation (very well presented, on film and on stage) and seemingly hates himself for the brutality he shows – is he the same soldier who seems to lose his mind as the piece progresses, and drowns in a muddy puddle / lake? And there’s a recurrent theme of sorts – early on, a soldier receives what may be a “Dear John” letter, which causes him to jump out of the trenches and attempt suicide-by-combat, only to be rescued by another soldier who risks life and limb to save him. Later, a young woman, dressed like a nurse, somehow meets a soldier in a clearing near the battle zone, partially disrobes apparently intending to change into a soldier’s outfit, but is found by one wandering soldier and they immediately begin to act like this was a planned rendezvous. But why the costume and the partial costume change?  What was really happening? Then, while the woman and the soldier are joyously writhing, other soldiers – led by one particularly virulent man – pull them apart and eventually one drags the woman off-stage (presumably to be assaulted). Are the virulent man and the man in the romantic scene with the young woman the same as, respectively, the one who gets the Dear John letter and the one who saves him? And is the one who gets the Dear John letter the same as the drill sergeant? And in the film’s most harrowing scene, with one soldier effectively drowning the other, are those two the same two soldiers? And what was this “fight” about, since it happened so much later than the confrontation with the young woman and her maybe or maybe not boyfriend soldier? And was the “drowning” “real” or imagined. And who’s the woman who brings the soldiers eggs? Where does she come from, and where does she go? And what is it about her being considerate to the soldiers that prompts the “crazed” soldier (maybe drill sergeant, maybe virulent recipient of that Dear John letter) to go off the deep end, again. And why are the costumes worn by the soldiers in “Act II” different from those in “Act I”? Is Act II no longer about World War I, but World War II also? If the costume change was intended somehow to universalize the suffering of war combatants, however, more would have been needed than a simple costume change.

Members of BalletBoyz
in “Young Men”
Photo by Jessie Coleman

These are just some examples. It’s possible that there’s a connection between these characters that I couldn’t follow, and it’s also possible that there’s no connection, and the characters and events are emblematic of “things that happen” during war regardless of who the specific character is. But some clarity would have been helpful.

A greater problem, overall, is that these soldiers’ are depicted as fighting two fronts: certainly the invisible “other side” that sets off bombs and uses poison gas, but also, much more directly and vividly, their fellow soldiers crazed by war. Even in the filmed “drowning-murder” scene, the two soldiers seem at once to be fighting each other and loving and trying to save each other – so much so that you don’t really know whether the drowning was real or imagined, or an unintended consequence of a soldier’s losing his mind (maybe, or maybe not, parallel to the “attempted suicide by combat and rescue” scene earlier in the piece).

Members of BalletBoyz in “Young Men”
Photo by Jessie Coleman

Even if all the above made coherent sense and I just missed it, there’s the choreography (by Iván Pérez). With some wonderful exceptions – the duet between the young woman and the soldier and the depiction of the soldiers battling to tear them apart; the compassionate “rescue” of a shell-shocked young soldier (including a stunning scene of the rescuing soldier providing his own body upon which the emotionally destroyed soldier could rest); the ultimate pas de trois / pietà at the end, with a (presumably) mother and girl-friend comforting a returning soldier suffering from PTSD – it’s all jumping and running and pushing and pulling and leaping onto and down from and onto and down from the platform again, and hitting the ground and getting up and hitting the ground again and getting up again, sometimes in synchronized groupings sometimes not, and through it all seemingly to fight each other … all the time. It gets tedious to watch. And the score (by Keaton Henson), except for those few periods of calm, is all tension all the time. Everything’s at the same decibel level, and it feels endlessly repetitious. This is understandable as a reflection of seemingly near-constant battle and stress, but the theater isn’t a battleground. The brief periods of calm are welcome, but they’re too rare, and too often only lead to more acts of violence.

Members of BalletBoyz in “Young Men”
Photo by Panaylotis Sinnos

The nine dancers who appear live – Joey Barton, Benjamin Knapper, Elizabeth McGorian (a Principal Character Artist with The Royal Ballet who played the “older woman” / mother of one of the soldiers), Harry Price, Matthew Rees, Liam Riddick, Matthew Sandiford, Bradley Waller, and Jennifer White (the “young woman”) – and the thirteen who appeared in the film (including six of those who appeared live) executed sensationally.

Ultimately, however, although Young Men is undeniably a work of performance art worthy of admiration and respect, its value is limited by its scope and concept. It’s a well-deserved memorial to those almost forgotten soldiers who fought and suffered in World War I, but it pains me to believe that it might have been better than it is.

The post BalletBoyz at the Joyce: Men of War appeared first on CriticalDance.

Whim W’Him
Cornish Playhouse at Seattle Center
Seattle, WA

January 25, 2019
“3X3” Program: The Most Elusive Hold, This mountain, Trail of Soles

Dean Speer

Two incidents in my ancestral past were brought to mind by Whim W’him’s latest bill, 3 x 3, where two of the three works depicted immigrant journeys, at least it appeared so to me. The first was how my maternal great grandfather had the courage to bring his family and emigrate from a border town in what is now Poland (sometimes it was in Germany, sometimes in France, depending on who won the latest skirmish) to, of all places with a great name in the US, Sheboygan, Wisconsin, in 1847, the city itself having only been established in 1846.

Whim W’him dancers in the program “3X3”
Photo courtesy of Whim W’him

The other was my maternal great grandmother who had the wonderful name of California Van Hagen Bogue (whose own mother left Holland with her husband as they were not allowed to marry there due to class differences) who survived an 1867 shipwreck off the coast of Central America. In each case, I’ve asked, Why did they move initially? How did they overcome what difficulties they must have encountered and how did they make do? What was their community and how was it re-built?

Olivier Wevers’ Trail of Soles (which features many pairs of shoes on stage, used in various ways) is a very strong piece that shows the isolation and bias toward one person, danced by Cameron Birts, and how his relationship with the other cast members changes and evolves as they, individually and as a group, face the unknown. Set to the hauntingly beautiful score of Polish composer Henryk Górecki (I think his Symphony No. 3, Op. 36, also known as the Symphony of Sorrowful Songs), Trail of Soles is a mature choreographic work that bears repeating and seeing again.

Whim W’him dancers
in the program “3X3”
Photo courtesy of Whim W’him

Likewise, Zoe Scofield’s This mountain is also a mature work by an experienced choreographer who understands and effectively deploys classic compositional tools that build into a moving dance. It begins with the cast upstage in a narrow curtain opening, moving toward the audience in a walking pattern where they take turns in front of and replacing each other, passing one front to back. The work states its theme well, develops it, and then returns to its opening motif. The dance also spoke to me of a body or community of individuals migrating and changing due to circumstances.

Yin Yue made the first work on the program, The Most Elusive Hold which I found to be a mercurial dance that challenged its cast of five dancers, Liane Aung, Jane Cracovaner, Adrian Hoffman, Jim Kent, and Karl Watson, with a dense amount of complex material in a relatively quick pace throughout.

Whim W’him dancers
in the program “3X3”
Photo courtesy of Whim W’him

Bravo to the Whim W’him dancers for their bravery in venturing out with three new works, each a good challenge and “main-stage worthy.” Aung, Birts, Hoffman, Kent, Mia Monteabaro, Cracovaner, and Watson make a great team and it’s a joy to see them in the programs and how they adapt to the varying demands each choreographer places on them.

Next up is Wevers’ collaboration with Early Music Seattle in Pergolesi’s Stabat Mater, February 23 and 24th.

The post Whim W’Him: A Trail of Souls appeared first on CriticalDance.

The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts
Opera House
Washington, DC

February 5, 2019

Carmel Morgan

If it’s the beginning of February in Washington, DC, then you can count on Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater coming to the Kennedy Center. At least that’s the way it’s been for the decade or so I’ve lived in the nation’s capital. I believe the tradition stretches back even further. At any rate, it’s an event many Washingtonians eagerly await on a yearly basis. Just as you can count on the annual Ailey visit, you can also count on the company presenting Ailey’s timeless masterwork Revelations. For me, watching Revelations is always a joy, a sort of cleansing of the soul. So beautiful and heartfelt is the movement, it’s easy to sit back and let your spirit soar. I don’t feel the need to say anything more about the performance of Revelations that I saw, except to note that I appreciated seeing old favorites like Clifton Brown still dancing divinely.

Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater in Alvin Ailey’s Revelations. photo by Nan Melville

The new work on the opening program, Lazarus, which premiered in 2018, surprised me with its impact. Artist-in-residence Rennie Harris, known for his hip hop choreography, created the company’s first two-act ballet to honor Ailey and celebrate the company’s 60th anniversary season. It would be hard to match the belovedness of Revelations, or to incorporate all of the complexities of Ailey’s life and the dance company he founded. Harris, I’m guessing, didn’t set forth to do so. Instead, it seems he took a very genius approach. Rather than trying to relate Ailey’s entire life history or to mirror Ailey’s choreographic style, Harris, using his own unique language, paints a broad picture inspired by Ailey but reaching beyond him. Lazarus is such a success because in addressing Ailey’s life and legacy, Harris touches upon the larger African American experience.  

Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater’s Jeroboan Bozeman in Rennie Harris’s Lazarus, photo by Paul Kolnik

At the start of Act I, a dancer collapses into another’s arms, and this happens repeatedly, a series of resurrections like the title of the work suggests. The dancers at the beginning of the work wear simple clothing that suggests the conditions of slavery (costumes by Mark Eric), as does the manner in which they move — hunched over from their forced labor. The lighting by James Clotfelter is initially quite dark, the music and sound by Darrin Ross includes dogs howling. Dancers with heads hanging to one side, rocking on their toes, conjure images of bodies swinging as a result of being lynched. A limp body is dragged across the floor; dancers toppled by grief crawl on their hands and knees; on their backs, arms reaching skyward with hands bent to the side wave as if struck by a breeze. From this dark place, African-Americans, Ailey among them, emerged.

The dancers also journey beyond this darkness. Their steps, often slow, speed up. You sense the connection between past and present, between African roots and American struggle, in the way the dancing unfolds. The revelation here is this shared ancestry. A living history book opens up. You see in the bodies of the dancers, and their tall shadows, movement that develops into today’s hip hop and contemporary dance, which electrifies in Act II.  

Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater in Rennie Harris’s Lazarus, photo by Paul Kolnik

At the beginning of Act II, the group on their backs with undulating arms simulating swaying plants has moved from one side of the stage to the other. Dancers still rise and fall. As Act II goes on, the dancers’ footwork grows ever faster. Legs crisscross rapidly like lightning quick scissors. The rhythms are catchy. The dancers take flight, and it’s all sweat and energy, the kind of choreography for which Harris is best known. A celebration erupts. Arms fling from the chest triumphantly. There’s clapping. The faces of the dancers become animated and their dancing builds into something bold and lively and fun. Toward the end, Ailey’s recorded voice speaks of “blood memories.” Despite the rejoicing, there’s a serious need to respect one another in this country, and Ailey strived for this kind of coming together. Lazarus is a wonderful tribute to him that reflects and extends his dedication to “enriching the American modern dance heritage and preserving the uniqueness of the African American cultural experience.” Bravo Rennie Harris and congratulations to Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater on 60 years of Ailey ascending.     

The post Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater: Lazarus and Revelations appeared first on CriticalDance.

Dance Place
Washington, DC

February 17, 2019

Carmel Morgan

Urban Bush Women (UBW) has been around since 1984, and this innovative company dedicated to “weav[ing] contemporary dance, music, and text with the history, culture, and spiritual traditions of the African Diaspora” is still going strong. UBW’s recent work, Hair & Other Stories, choreographed by Associate Artistic Directors Chanon Judson and Samantha Speis in collaboration with company members, is purposefully provocative. Is it about hair? Yes, and no.

There’s certainly a lot to discuss when it comes to hair, and UBW introduces conversations about hair, in particular “nappy” hair (they take on this word directly) and efforts to tame it (or not). You can’t be duped into thinking the performance is solely about hair because a warning comes early that talking about hair provides a ticket to a journey elsewhere (the written program also states, “Don’t come here for no show: we’re goin’ on a Journey!”). It’s really the other stories and the elsewhere (the “beyond” as described by the dancers) that dominates this dance/theater piece. Hair simply serves to initially frame the discussion. As the work progresses, the strands of hair all but disappear in favor of attention to the broader issues of beauty, identity, and race.

UBW in Hair & Other Stories, photo by Christopher Roesing

UBW’s company members are multi-talented, and this is necessary due to the nature of the work they do. They dance, of course, but they also talk, they challenge and engage. In the case of Tendayi Kuumba, she really belts out notes (in addition to being a dancer, she’s a singer/songwriter). Just as the dancers are called upon to do more than dance, the audience is called upon to do more than sit. In Hair & Other Stories, the audience is invited to join the performers on stage, but even those who elect to remain seated are asked to think and actively witness. Eradicating racism appears to be the admirable goal of the performance (UBW acknowledges that Hair & Other Stories is informed by its ongoing partnership and work with The People’s Institute for Survival and Beyond’s Understanding and Undoing Racism workshop).

Undoing racism is no easy task. Hair & Other Stories should be applauded for its efforts in that direction, for creating a safe space for dialogue. Because I’m a dance critic, I’m going to present some criticism, not of the subject matter, but of the performance. My perspective is, of course, influenced by the experiences I’ve had, and my own personal lens, which are intertwined with the color of my skin (white).

I’m certain that Hair & Other Stories, like most works of art, strikes different people differently, and that’s a good thing. There’s a lot to mull over. Many times my personal stories intersected with or diverged from the conversations at the forefront of the piece. The performers made it clear that discomfort might occur, and that it should be welcomed as part of the journey.  

UBW in Hair & Other Stories, photo by Christopher Roesing

My criticism mainly centers on formal, structural elements of the composition itself. I wonder  how Hair & Other Stories would read with more editing and fewer theatrical devices. I appreciate combining dance with text, I’ve got no problem with singing or live film projections, or the use of a very adorable toddler on stage (the precious and precocious Aminata Mariama Balde Top, daughter of Speis). However, when extensive audience participation is thrown in, too, the narrative thread/message gets blurry. In addition, the work clocks in at well over two hours in length. There’s so much going on, I can’t adequately summarize what takes place. Via various tales, songs, screen projections, and physical movement, even some play with dolls, plus guided exercises on stage involving the audience, UBW’s performers reflect on race, history, hair, and more.

Another criticism — there’s simply not enough pure dancing for my dance critic soul. The dancers are magnetic. Hair and Other Stories has far too few moments of glorious dancing for my taste, but I realize that this is a choice. Nevertheless, I can’t help wishing for more dancing! Moreover, I wish the ending had completed the circle and somehow returned to the topic of hair, which didn’t happen. I left feeling generally hopeful and uplifted, but I’d have liked having the loose ends tied up.

Now that I’ve gotten those criticisms out of the way, I can zero in on what I liked most. Without a doubt, I was drawn to the vibrant performers. Judson, in particular, is beguiling. She’s both tender and tenacious. It’s hard not to want to watch her endlessly, whether she’s moving or standing still, sharing a story or staring ahead in silence. All of the dancers, though, have impressive stage presence, young Aminata included. (Although there’s “women” in UBW’s name, two men, Du’Bois A’Keen, and the fair-skinned redhead Ross Daniel were among the group for the Sunday afternoon DC performance co-presented by Dance Place and CityDance).

UBW in Hair & Other Stories, Chanon Judson in front, photo by Christopher Roesing

Furthermore, I really loved the costumes by DeeDee Gomes, a remarkable self-taught fashion and fiber artist based in New York. Her eclectic costumes for Hair & Other Stories could be an art exhibit. I longed to study them up close. Through patches of fabric and glitter, Gomes turned casual loungewear into striking artistic statements.      

Finally, I enjoyed the heart and humor of Hair & Other Stories. The funny and serious moments both left lasting impressions. A long silky black skirt, worn over the head, becomes idealized smooth hair that blows in the wind. A young girl being chased with a hot comb suffers searing burns that an errant wiggle might have caused. Thanks to this performance, I can imagine the weight of carrying a lifetime of social messages about what kind of hair is desirable. Those messages are not about hair as much as they are about colorism (discrimination based on skin color), and that makes them all the more damaging. That Hair & Other Stories focuses on the dubious value we attach to hair type and skin color at the expense of our greater humanity is proper and profound, and the resulting meandering journey is worthwhile.    

The post Urban Bush Women: Hair & Other Stories appeared first on CriticalDance.

Verb Ballets
The Breen Center for the Performing Arts
Cleveland, Ohio

February 9, 2019
Dance Legacy: Celebrating the Life of Ian Horvath

Steve Sucato

It’s been nearly three decades since former Cleveland Ballet (predecessor company to the current Cleveland Ballet) co-founder Ian “Ernie” Horvath (1943-1990) lost his battle with AIDS at age 46. The life and career of this Cleveland native who danced with Joffrey Ballet, was chairman of Dance/USA, and was a pioneering advocate for those with AIDS, was honored in Cleveland-based Verb Ballets’ program, Dance Legacy: Celebrating the Life of Ian Horvath. 

The performance featured three dance works, including arguably Horvath’s two best creations, along with excerpts from the upcoming Nel Shelby Productions documentary No Dominion: The Ian Horvath Story.

(f-r) Lieneke Matte,
Christina Lindhout,
and Kelly Korfhage
in Ian Horvath’s
“Laura’s Women”
Photo by Bill Naiman

The program began with a trailer for the documentary that introduced Horvath to those in the audience unfamiliar with him. It also briefly described the evening’s opening dance, Horvath’s “Laura’s Women” (1974).  His earliest and most celebrated work, “Laura’s Women” was inspired by, and set to three songs by, late American singer/songwriter Laura Nyro (1947-1997). The modern dance trio about three differing personalities contained in one woman with a self-destructive past was staged by Verb’s artistic director Dr. Margaret Carlson, a former Cleveland Ballet dancer under Horvath.

While dated with regard to its soundtrack and movement language, “Laura’s Women” was nonetheless a masterful creation from an era from which seemingly few works survive in the repertory of dance companies today.  Nyro, who was critically acclaimed for her own recordings, also wrote the commercial hits “Eli’s Coming” popularized by Three Dog Night, “Wedding Bell Blues” recorded by The 5th Dimension and Barbra Streisand’s rendition of “Stoney End.”  The three songs of hers used in “Laura’s Women” (“Emmie,” “Poverty Train” and “Lonely Women”) reflect her sensitivity as a songstress to the human condition, especially concerning woman. These songs and their lyrics were as integral to the work’s heartfelt narrative as they were to Horvath’s choreography.

Christina Lindhout
in Ian Horvath’s
“Laura’s Women”
Photo by Bill Naiman

Danced with feeling by Kelly Korfhage, Christina Lindhout and Lieneke Matte, “Laura’s Women” was awash in emotion from hopefulness to hopelessness. It began in silence with Matte appearing onstage and launching into Horvath’s José Limón-esque choreography laced with image-evoking hand and arm gestures that suggested division. She was then joined by Lindhout and Korfhage who slipped in single file behind her through a rear stage curtain. The trio then split apart moving off to opposite areas of the stage, indicating a split in Matte’s stage persona.

Korfhage then set out on a sweeping and somewhat hopeful solo danced to Nyro’s song “Emmie”.  With its “Oo la, la, la, oo la, la, la, la” lyrics, the song, and Korfhage’s dancing, were the soothing calm before the storm that was Lindhout’s unhinged solo to “Poverty Train,” whose lyrics suggested a woman cursed by the devil and driven to prostitution by poverty. With long teased hair flying about, Lindhout aggressively swooped and swayed about the stage — her performance like a mini-tornado on a path toward its own destruction.

Lieneke Matte
in Ian Horvath’s “Laura’s Women”
Photo by Bill Naiman

Beautifully-crafted and danced, “Laura’s Women” concluded with Matte performing a heart-wrenching solo to the song “Lonely Women” that ended with the three women lined up one behind the other again; Lindhout and Korfhage then slipping out the back curtain and leaving Matte in a final pose, head bowed, resigned to her desolation.

After more documentary excerpts, an all-male cast performed Horvath’s final work “No Dominion” (1988), staged by Pacific Northwest Ballet soloist Margaret Mullin, who is also the director and producer of the Horvath documentary.

(f-r) Brandon Leffler
and DeMarcus Suggs
in Ian Horvath’s “No Dominion”
Photo by Bill Naiman

Originally created on The José Limón Dance Company, “No Dominion” was essentially Horvath’s farewell message and gift to the world. Created when he was dying of AIDS, the piece, set to music by Sir William Walton, was another touching statement on Horvath as a human being and dance maker. The work featured guest dancer Brandon Leffler portraying Horvath aware of his fate and surrounded by figures representing those he loved, some of whom were also lost to the disease.

Titled after the Dylan Thomas quote “…though lovers be lost love shall not; And death shall have no dominion,” the dance moved through vignettes in which Leffler was paired with several other dancers in partnering sequences that were as athletic as they were poignant.  Most piercing was a final duet with fellow guest dancer DeMarcus Suggs as a former lover of Horvath in which he lovingly cradled Leffler (as Horvath) in his arms as a chorus representing departed friends moved along the back of the stage toward a light indicating the hereafter and beckoning Leffler to follow.

Verb Ballets dancers in Kay Eichman’s
“Mendelssohn Italian Symphony”
Photo by Barb Cerrito

The enriching program concluded with Kay Eichman’s “Mendelssohn Italian Symphony” (2018), the first ballet that Eichman, another of Horvath’s Cleveland Ballet dancers, has created for a professional dance company. Currently a ballet mistress at Cuyahoga Community College’s Creative Arts Academy in Cleveland, Eichman initially choreographed the first movement of the ballet on her student dancers. For Verb’s rendition she expanded the neo-classical ballet to three sections for four couples set to, and in response to, the first, second and fourth movements of the Mendelssohn’s “Symphony No. 4 in A Major, Op. 90” (Italian Symphony).

Despite having the word ballet in its moniker, Verb Ballets is better known for its repertoire of contemporary and modern dance works. As such, Eichman’s ballet, while performed adequately by Verb’s dancers, exposed their technical weaknesses in the style. Led by the company’s de facto ballerina Korfhage, formerly with Kansas City Ballet’s second company, Verb’s dancers navigated Eichman’s choreography with vigor and only a few bobbles. Full of familiar steps, movement phrases and dancer couplings seen in other ballets, Eichman’s “Mendelssohn Italian Symphony” nonetheless bubbled with enthusiasm and proved a spirited counterpoint to Horvath’s mostly melancholy works.

The post Verb Ballets: Ian Horvath’s Dance Legacy appeared first on CriticalDance.

George Mason University Center for the Arts
Fairfax, VA

March 1, 2019

Carmel Morgan

This year’s performance by the Mark Morris Dance Group (MMDG) at George Mason University (GMU) coincided not with snow, which has happened in past years, but with miserable cold rain. Nevertheless, my excitement wasn’t dampened. I always look forward to MMDG’s GMU performances, despite the long trek from my home in DC into the Virginia suburbs. I’m rarely disappointed. Even if every piece isn’t a hit with me, I can always find something to love about Morris’s choreography and his dancers and musicians.

For this visit, MMDG performed three works, two from 2018 — Little Britten and The Trout, and one from 2017 — Numerator, and all were new to me. I was a little concerned that I might head back to DC this year not having experienced the exultation MMDG usually offers after Little Britten, the opening work. I didn’t dislike Little Britten, but neither did it capture my soul. Lesley Garrison, Aaron Loux, and Brandon Randolph danced to Benjamin Britten’s Five Waltzes and Twelve Variations for Piano, played by Colin Fowler. Fowler and his piano sat on one side at the front of the stage. His back remained to the audience as he played, and he wore a pale sweatshirt, some kind of long, and full pants or skirt, but no shoes. The costumes for the dancers by Isaac Mizrahi had a similar casual flair. Aaron Loux sported a gray and white jail-striped unitard with a single spaghetti strap. Garrison had on a little toga over a gray t-shirt, and Randolph wore gray track shorts with loose fabric on top that draped in a long strip over one shoulder and billowed down his back like a cape, plus creamy legwarmers over his calves that almost resembled boots. The Greek costume nods reminded me of mythic heroes.

MMDG in Little Britten, (L to R, Brandon Randolph, Lesley Garrison, and Aaron Loux), photo by Nan Melville

Some of the movement mimicked heroes, too. Dancers with their hands in fists, crossed at the wrists, deflected punches or asteroids hurtling toward them, and they bent their arms at a right angle, flexing their muscles. Garrison, legs spread wide apart, jostled back and forth like a football player doing warm-up drills. Was she preparing for a fight, a game, a deathmatch, or just going through the motions? Randolph kept holding his head and jaw, but this seemed less heroic and more like he was grappling with a memory.

As usual, Morris’s choreography made listening to the music pleasantly visceral. When Britten’s music showed its moods, so did the dancers, and the music jumped into my body. It’s this genius of Morris, his way of translating music into a visual and physical sensation, that’s unmatched by other choreographers today. Little Britten is one of Morris’s lighter pieces, I think. I appreciated its quirkiness, but it didn’t quite take off for me despite the fabulous performances by Fowler and the trio of dancers, particularly Randolph, whose long lines and musicality were especially satisfying.

Numerator, however, took me to that place of exultation I’d hoped to experience. A sextet of male dancers — Loux, Randolph, Sam Black, Domingo Estrada, Jr., Dallas McMurray, and Noah Vinson — electrified the stage. The musicians (Georgy Valtchev, violin; Sean Ritenauer, percussion, and Fowler, piano) also electrified in a brilliant performance of Lou Harrison’s Varied Trio for violin, piano, and percussion. Elizabeth Kurtzman’s simple costumes — black pants and colorful shirts (blue, wine, green), and Nick Kolin’s lighting, made the dancers positively pop.

MMDG in Numerator, (L to R: Noah Vinson, Sam Black, Brandon Randolph), photo by Christopher Duggan

In the beginning, dancers crawled as if emerging out of a primordial soup. First, flat on the ground with the face turned, nuzzling against the floor, stretching, crawling, then eventually walking, and later gently running. They lyrically swished, changing facings. All of the swirls and waves were luscious and hypnotic, and with a little midair jump they sometimes flipped where they were going. When the movement gathered speed, my heart sped as well. The dancers’ arms curiously flung, going against forces that would propel them in the opposite direction like wayward particles battling a centrifuge. I had to stop taking notes and just revel in the intriguing loveliness. When it was over, I wanted to immediately see it again, a sure sign this is among Morris’s most best works and already among my favorites.

The Trout also turned out to be stunning and beautiful, another work in which you want to simply sit back and breathe it in, then sigh with contentment when it’s done. Franz Schubert’s “Trout” Quintet (Piano Quintet in A major, D. 667) is masterful on its own. The dancing, as I’d hoped, didn’t spoil the music, but again heightened my experience of it. The addition of choreography complemented the music, each a unique language. Here, as in Numerator, the emphasis is on gorgeous, graceful movement. Silliness is at a minimum, but the dancing is still creative and lively.

Former MMDG company member Maile Okamura contributed the costumes — vivid blue shirts and neutral colored pants for the men, coupled with full-skirted dresses for the women in various distinct colors with a sheer gauzy layer on top. Eleven dancers breezed on and off the stage, some hand in hand, some arm over shoulder, some alone. They sometimes exchanged glances. Among the lifts, spins, and pulls that developed, a dancer would leap up suddenly in front of the couple on which I’d been focused. The script-like shapes formed as dancers weaved around flowed with the music expertly played by Ramón Carrero-Martinez (viola), Wolfram Koessel (cello), Kris Saebo (double bass), Valtchev (violin), and Fowler (piano).

MMDG in The Trout, photo by Mat Hayward

The unspooling seemed endless, dreamy. In fast sections, dancers rapidly crisscrossed, some rushing forward toward the front of the stage. The near-misses were glorious and carefully orchestrated. Playfully, a line of dancers involved a game of leapfrog. A series of dancers, each with hand on another’s back, hopped up and away. A recurring gesture featured a lifted chest with arms extended a bit out from the hips and thighs, palms facing front. It seemed to be a sign of surrender, but a happy one. The Trout did get a little weird when dancers began to collapse, bent over, suffering, as if felled by a shared stomach bug. But it was a surprise, and it effectively broke the lingering rhythms, making one question the meaning within the work. And the dancers again became drifting propeller seeds, blowing about.    

I want to close by giving a shout out to Karlie Budge, a new MMDG apprentice and an alumna of my hometown dance studio and former dance company, the Tennessee Children’s Dance Ensemble. Break a leg, Karlie! I hope to see you dancing as a full-fledged MMDG company member soon. Your passion for dance should take you far. It’s a passion I know we both had nurtured by Ms. Linn, one of our dear dance teachers. What a wonderful gift that is, whether dancing or seeing dance.

The post Mark Morris Dance Group: Little Britten; Numerator; The Trout appeared first on CriticalDance.

Complexions Contemporary Ballet
The Joyce Theater
New York, New York

February 22, 2019: Program A – Bach 25; Star Dust
February 26, 2019: Program B – From Then To Now; Woke (world premiere)

Jerry Hochman

Unlike other dance companies I’ve recently reviewed that seem to have emerged from nowhere and were previously unknown to me, I’ve been well aware of Complexions Contemporary Ballet, but for various reasons have been unable to see their programs. This season’s two-week, two-program engagement at the Joyce Theater in celebration of the company’s 25th Anniversary was a great way to get acquainted.

A few observations must be emphasized at the outset: First, the Complexions dancers are an extraordinarily talented group, as well as unusually eclectic-looking one, with ballet backgrounds being both extensive and significant. Their execution of co-Artistic Director Dwight Rhoden’s choreography provides, on its own, indelible memories. Second, Rhoden’s Star Dust is equally extraordinary. This celebration of, and tribute to, David Bowie, which is concurrently a celebration of the company and its dancers, is breathtaking in its appropriate irreverence and indisputably glorious entertainment value. For what it is rather than what it’s not (which I’ll explain below), it’s one of the finest of contemporary ballet. And third, Complexions provides one of the best examples I’ve seen –maybe the best I’ve seen – of seamlessly amalgamating contemporary dance with ballet, without resorting to the movement curiosities that plague other companies that attempt to do the same. Although the thrust of the steps and combinations is more weighted, more “into the ground” than stereotypical ballet, it’s still ballet.

Tatiana Melendez and Simon Plant
in Dwight Rhoden’s “Woke”
Photo by Steven Pisano

But to me, not everything I saw worked. The two new dances on these programs, though consistent with Rhoden’s other work and a showcase for his dancers, are more one-dimensional expressions of generalized feeling. They’re not unsuccessful: these pieces have style, the dancers’ energy, and at least one of them accomplishes its intended purpose. They’re just not on the same level as Star Dust – but few dances could be.

Program A opened with the NYC premiere of Bach 25. As may be gleaned from its title, the piece, which premiered nearly a year ago in California, is a celebration of Complexions’ 25 years. To music by J.S. and C.P.E. Bach, the full company delivers the non-stop visual excitement that epitomizes Rhoden’s style.

Complexions dancers
in Dwight Rhoden’s “Bach 25”
Photo by Sharen Bradford

To say that this style, in general, emphasizes physicality and speed is an understatement. If there was any doubt that dancers are superb athletes, the company’s dancers and Rhoden’s choreography end the discussion. And in the course of all this movement, Rhoden injects staging that, in most cases, is so variable that it visually compensates for any limitations in choreographic variety. Perhaps most significantly, Rhoden uses the individual characteristics of his eclectic group of dancers optimally. Jillian Davis, for example, appears on stage to be unusually tall and angular, but her always imposing presence coupled with her manifest technical ballet capability adds drama to anything she dances; while Tatiana Melendez appears on stage to be too compact, too tiny to be a significant presence, but when Rhoden’s choreography turns to her, she becomes the little ballerina that could. Something similar can be said about each of the Complexions dancers. It’s not that these ballet dancers couldn’t fit in with any company, but that, with the appropriate choreography, which Rhoden provides, their individual characteristics become both important and irrelevant – which is what Complexions has been demonstrating for its 25 years. Complexions may be the poster child for choreography that adapts to, even requires, multiple dimensions of diversity. The significance of this cannot be overstated.

Complexions dancers
in Dwight Rhoden’s “Woke”
Photo by Nina Wurtzel

And, strange as it may seem, as I grew more accustomed to Rhoden’s style, at certain points in time I saw flashes of Balanchine. Rhoden shuffles groups of dancers on and off stage and back on again, and each time the dancers appear to be racing to get in proper position for the next sequence. I found this awkward and almost laughable at first – and then it hit me that this is what groups of corps dancers frequently do in some Balanchine ballets. Similarly, at a certain point in the choreography in one of his pieces, Rhoden has one dancer (Melendez, as I recall) pull off a series of pique turns heading into the wings, and for another fleeting moment in my mind’s eye I saw the ballerina in red in Balanchine’s Symphony in Three Movements. The point is not that Rhoden is Balanchine, but that Rhoden’s choreography is both evolutionary and revolutionary, and well within a ballet context. The significance of this cannot be overstated either.

(l-r) Larissa Gerszke, Shanna Irwin,
and Tatiana Melendez
in Dwight Rhoden’s “Woke”
Photo by Nina Wurtzel

But the non-stop movement does have limits, one of them being an overall sense of sameness, notwithstanding individual moments and efforts by individual dancers, that amplifies choreographic idiosyncrasies. For instance, Rhoden relies too much on leg extensions. It’s not the execution, but the omnipresence. When in doubt, get that leg up, and then get it up higher. Similarly, the dance’s speed emphasizes the sheer physicality of that style: the impression being that every member of the company is working at full throttle all the time, which, although undeniably exciting to watch, can also be visually overwhelming. Rhoden skillfully attempts to camouflage this by dividing the stage into larger or smaller groups in a variety of ever changing combinations, but by doing so he’s also giving dancers a rest for a few minutes in the wings before returning to trade places with, and then provide a brief respite to, those then on stage (like a basketball team shuffling replacements in and out, except here it’s on a more regular basis). This effectively spreads the speed that’s constantly visible to the audience across the company, but to an audience unaccustomed to it, the constant speed can become a blur. [Which is a backhand way of explaining why I can’t describe more than a few individual moments from his pieces – they fly by too fast.] Lastly, aside from possibly getting dizzy watching the dancers percolate, one doesn’t get emotionally involved with Rhoden’s choreography – at least based on Bach 25 and the other pieces I saw. It’s more a dance concert that one goes to watch rather than dance theater that might be cathartic.

Complexions dancers
in Dwight Rhoden’s “Woke”
Photo by Nina Wurtzel

But then, Bach 25 is only doing what it sets out to do. The concise program note – “Reverence, Celebration, Moxie” – says it all. And in that sense, the piece is highly successful.

Woke, the world premiere dance that closed Program B, has greater movement variety, but, possibly because of its broader scope (the nearly as concise program note describes it as “A physical reaction to the daily news”), doesn’t carry any particular message beyond being just that. To me, Rhoden here missed an opportunity to make a statement.

Eriko Sugimura
and Craig Dionne
in Dwight Rhoden’s “Woke”
Photo by Joseph Franciosa

Woke is choreographed to a set of compositions composed and sung by a variety of artists, the effect of which takes the piece from song to song in a well-structured way (from the fact that the world is confused, to the fact that bad things happen, to the fact that what the world needs is peace and caring). In the process, Rhoden takes the audience, visually, from a sole dancer spinning his wheels (almost literally) and going nowhere, soon joined by the full company doing essentially the same (visualizing “Ball of Confusion”), to what appear to be non-judgmental and non-conclusory physical responses to “Killing Spree,” and “Mona Lisa” (Lil Wayne’s song; NOT the song popularized by Nat King Cole), to “Peace, Piece” and “Pray.” [The other songs included in the score are “Doomed,” “I’ll Take Care of You,” and “Rank & File.”] Woke isn’t so much an awakening from the nightmare of the daily news as it is a series of dance scenes (corresponding to the individual songs) choreographed to the rhythm of the accompanying the music, without adding anything beyond seeing the music.

Complexions dancers
in Dwight Rhoden’s “Woke”
Photo by Joanne Ziter

This is unlike, for example, Kyle Abraham’s recent ballet for New York City Ballet, The Runaway, in which accompanying music is also choreographed to (brilliantly), but the overall piece clearly – at least clearly to me – communicates something far more significant than the songs’ tempo and lyrics. Until Woke’s last moment, when the assembled dancers point toward the audience as if to say (though not very clearly) “what are you going to do about it?,” it’s all a visualization of the music. [Having said all this, I must note that I think Abraham was in the audience for this world premiere Woke performance. I may be mistaken, but if I’m right, he seemed thoroughly enthusiastic about what he saw on stage.]

Thomas Dilley and Simon Plant
in Dwight Rhoden’s “Choke,”
from “From Then To Now”
Photo by Nina Wurtzel

Perhaps, as with Abraham’s piece, the more I get to see it, the more I’ll see the sort of statement within Woke that, given the topic, one would expect Rhoden to make. However, as it is, Woke seems to simply offer choreography that captures the pulse of the accompanying music. This is what Rhoden does very well, and which the compilations of excerpts from larger pieces that opened Program B, under the overall rubrick From Then to Now, exemplifies.

I usually don’t respond well to excerpts, because they may or may not be representative of the larger piece, and in any event lack whatever ebb and flow that seeing the entire dance would provide. But in this case, there’s an obvious and meritorious purpose to these excerpts – to provide a summary of Complexions over its history to date: in essence, Complexions’ Greatest Hits.

Shanna Irwin
and Maxfield Haynes
in Dwight Rhoden’s “Spill,”
in “From Then To Now”
Photo by Steven Pisano

These excerpts (from Rise, Spill, Wonder – Full, Choke, Testament, and Star Dust), which cover a period from 1994 through 2016, are outrageously good, and. collaterally, demonstrate that Rhodens’s choreography may include more variety than the three complete dances presented lead me to believe. The excerpts have the unbridled energy that I saw in the engagement’s other pieces, but those that featured a solo or duet, while perhaps a blip in a longer piece, here were emphasized. And these individual performances – by Maxfield Haynes and Shanna Irwin (Spill), Brandon Gray (Wonder – Full), Thomas Dilley and Simon Plant (Choke), and Davis and Gray (Testament) – were outstanding. And Irwin in particular, without attempting to be a particular “character,” demonstrated a level of attack that I rarely see. Here, as well as in other program pieces, her every move cut like a knife.

Star Dust, which closed Program A, is billed as a “tribute to David Bowie.” It’s certainly that, but it’s far more.

Brandon Gray and Complexions dancers
in Dwight Rhoden’s “Star Dust”
Photo by Sharen Bradford

There are many dances choreographed to songs written and/or sung by a particular contemporary artist (and many more that feature one or two such songs in a larger context). But I know of none on a dance company scale (as opposed to Broadway) as effective as a work of entertainment as this one. It’s not a particularly cerebral piece – no attempt is made to look beyond the music and the performing nature of artist and go behind the scenes, or to use the songs to craft a dance that attempts to visualize the time and place in which the song flourished (Pascal Rioult’s Fire in the Sky and Paul Taylor’s Changes come immediately to mind). But what Star Dust does do, as with Rhoden’s other pieces, is to reflect the music in the dance, and more than that, to celebrate Bowie within his own context. It’s theatrical the way the best concerts are theatrical, but it’s also ballet.

Tim Stickney
in Dwight Rhoden’s “Star Dust”
Photo by Sharen Bradford

Star Dust doesn’t have the thematic continuity, besides the continuity of Bowie’s creations and persona, of, say, The Who’s Tommy. But that, as with not being cerebral, doesn’t matter – it just shows what Star Dust is not. What it clearly is is exactly what the program note indicates: A ballet that “takes an array of [Bowie’s] hits and lays a visual imprint, inspired by his unique personas and his restless invention – artistically to create a Rock Opera style production in his honor.”

Rhoden here curates nine Bowie songs from his extensive oeuvre (one of which, Warszawa, serves as a sort of introduction), and presents them as Bowie might have in concert, except it’s in the form of a ballet with one or more dancers, different for each song, mouthing Bowie’s lyrics and acting as Bowie stand-ins (or dance-ins). The music selected [Lazarus, Changes, Life on Mars, Space Oddity, 1984, Heroes (sung by Peter Gabriel), Modern Love, Rock and Roll Suicide, and Young Americans] perfectly illustrates the scope and variety of Bowie’s musical output (and it’s remarkable how many of these have become classics). Rhoden and the Complexions dancers take it from there, translating each song into a knockout series of full-blown distinctive productions that create the feel of a Bowie concert. Its outrageous gender-bending goes with the territory, and it had the audience in its pocket from the moment the theatrical-style starry lights (the fabulous lighting and sets were designed by Michael Korsch) penetrated the darkened theater when the piece began. And as it progressed, the knowing audience reacted as if they were at a live Bowie concert.

Complexions dancers
in Dwight Rhoden’s “Star Dust”
Photo by Sharen Bradford

I cannot overemphasize how extraordinary Rhoden’s choreography and the dancers’ performances were. Acting a character is one thing; recreating one that so successfully evokes and amplifies Bowie’s various stage personae, is quite another. Each one (or group of them), for each song, delivered mind-blowing surrogate Bowies, beginning with Gray, and continuing with Craig Dionne, Jared Brunson, Haynes (who, according to the program, once danced with Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo, and it shows), Tim Stickney, and Plant – and at one point even Davis took a brief turn representing Bowie. And the company as a whole, which accompanied the Bowie stand-ins through nearly all of the song skits (like background dancers in a music video or concert, though they can hardly be considered “background”) lent extraordinary character and energy of their own, distinctive for each song. Aside from those already mentioned, they include Larissa Gerszke, Daniela O’Neil, Miguel Solano, Eriko Sugimara, and Candy Tong.

Among the small group of contemporary ballets that I could never tire of seeing, I’ve now added Star Dust. And according to the program, Star Dust is intended to be the first installment of a full evening-length ballet tribute to Bowie. I suggest keeping abreast of the company’s schedule to ascertain if and when such an expanded evening-length work is completed, and the dates and times its performances are scheduled: tickets for will likely go faster than … for a Bowie concert.

The post Complexions: From Then To Now appeared first on CriticalDance.

Heather Desaulniers

• Berkeley Rep – Paradise Square
  Roda Theatre, Berkeley

• Diablo Ballet – Balanchine & Beyond
  Del Valle Theatre, Walnut Creek

• ka·nei·see | collective & Cat Call Choir – Nevertheless
  Z Space, San Francisco

January 10th – I think it’s fair to say that when it comes to new musicals these days, many are based on popular film, television or franchises. Not all, but certainly more than there used to be. And this trend just isn’t for me. So when a new musical comes along that has found its source material elsewhere – in history, in music, in the evolution of movement genres, in exploring the human condition – I’m all in.

Jason Oremus, Jacobi Hall and company in Paradise Square
Photo courtesy of Kevin Berne/Berkeley Repertory Theatre

If you have a chance to go and see Paradise Square, directed by Moisés Kaufman at Berkeley Rep, take it (the run, which officially opened Thursday night, was recently extended until the end of February). The penetrating story, by Marcus Gardley, Craig Lucas and Larry Kirwan, grabs you from the very beginning and doesn’t let go. The characters entertain in one scene and haunt in another. Combining adaptations of Stephen Foster’s music with original material, Jason Howland and Kirwan’s score, with Nathan Tysen’s lyrics, confronts while it stirs. And the movement! Bill T. Jones’ choreography strikes the perfect balance – innovative, hard-hitting and energetic while still propelling the narrative forward. Because there’s nothing worse in a musical than dance that feels like an unrelated break in action.

As the lights rise on Act I, the audience is immersed in the Five Points neighborhood in 1863 Manhattan, a primarily African American and Irish American community. More specifically, most scenes unfold in and around the Paradise Square saloon, run by Nelly Freeman (a potent performance by Christina Sajous). This gathering spot is a perfect metaphor for this special place. A place where race, culture, gender, money, personal circumstance (or personal demons) dissolve, to be replaced by togetherness, love and empathy. The message of the Paradise Square saloon is that it is for everyone – those seeking shelter, seeking safety, seeking reinvention and seeking a new life. But as the Civil War rages on and the draft is announced, this utopian ecosystem is challenged, and faces permanent upending due to fear.

There was much to love in Paradise Square – so many venerable performances, outstanding designs and of course, the throughline of Foster (portrayed by Jacob Fishel) and his controversial music. Though as one might guess, I had come to see the choreography and the dancing.

Front: Sidney Dupont and A.J. Shively
Back: Jacob Fishel, Daren A. Herbert and Madeline Trumble in Paradise Squa
Photo courtesy of Kevin Berne/Berkeley Repertory Theatre

African and Irish cultural dance forms are introduced into the space right from the start and would remain at the forefront until the final blackout. The two are of course striking from a visual perspective, especially danced by this stellar cast. One considers the distinct center of gravity in each, the groundedness, the ballon and marvels at the high-speed footwork and syncopated percussion. But as this dancing is set within a musical, I was more intrigued in how it informed the narrative. Jones did not disappoint. During “Camptown Races,” Sidney Dupont (as William Henry) and A.J. Shively (as Owen) engaged in a kind of dance conversation, the two traditions being showcased side-by-side. An atmosphere of simultaneous camaraderie and lively one-upmanship pervaded the stage. The steps and performances impressed, but as the scene continued, you realized that something deeper was underfoot. A fugue was materializing, or with it being two lines of inquiry, I suppose invention is more accurate – the two dance genres were remaining wholly independent and yet experimenting with their interdependence at the same time. There was a sense of sharing and an air of pedagogical exchange, each teaching the other about their dance’s history and syntax. What might emerge from this dialogue?

Sometimes the choreography was less about the steps and more about the stage architecture. Near Paradise Square’s beginning, Jones had the entire cast threading and lacing in intricate patterns during “The Five Points,” symbolizing how their lives and existences were similarly woven together. At other times, the movement fueled an emotional dynamic that was happening onstage, like when the rhythmic percussive dances were used in a more aggressive, confrontational manner to emphasize fighting or violence.

Online Paradise Square is listed as being two hours and fifteen minutes long. I’m not sure that was the case because we left the theater almost at eleven. Though perhaps with it being opening night, intermission may have gone over, and there was a significantly late start. In any event, even if the show clocks in at two and a half hours, that’s a very reasonable length for a two-act musical. Yet even still, the first act could use some editing, because, save the finale, it lagged quite a bit during its final third. And the dance competition that happens towards the end of Act II, when danger, panic and brutality are rising, felt out of place. I read in the program materials that the plot point of the dance contest was historically accurate and all the dancing in the scene was phenomenal. But in that moment, the theatrical container is so weighty and it felt like the story had been transported to a totally different tonal plane. Although maybe a modicum of escape was the whole point, something that the characters needed in order to face the reality of what was happening to each other and to their beloved Five Points.     

Jackie McConnell and Michael Wells in From Another Time
Photo Aris Bernales

February 1st – Diablo Ballet, under the Artistic Direction of Lauren Jonas, is currently marking a major milestone – their silver anniversary. Twenty-five epic years of stellar dance and community engagement, all while building programs that both inspire and challenge audiences. Friday night’s opening of the Balanchine & Beyond program certainly continued this trend. And what a shining, winning program it was! With a classical excerpt from the mid-1800s, an early neo-classical work and a contemporary quintet, the mixed repertory bill showed terrific choreographic range. I thoroughly enjoyed the two historic ballets, though the standout piece of the night for me was From Another Time, created in 2013 by Diablo Ballet alumna Tina Kay Bohnstedt and set to Justin Levitt’s original piano score, which he performed live.

An abstract work for two women and three men, From Another Time invited the viewer into a flowy, ethereal space of blues and grays. Levitt was poised at the piano and from the first notes and the first movements, it was clear that this piece was going to be special. Special in a number of ways. First was the marvelous performance by the entire company. And the marriage of movement and sound – pulsing chords were met with strong extensions, while lyrical melody lines were paired with flowy, partnered spins and breathy arms. But there was something deeper about how the score and the physicality meshed. Together, the two disciplines created an almost cinematic quality, even though the piece didn’t appear to tell a particular story. Sadness and joy emanated from the stage, as did uncertainty and assuredness. There was such a complex mosaic of tones and moods (like that in a good movie); it was just beautiful. From Another Time also used a favorite dance configuration of mine, the pas de cinq. It is so rich, format-wise, and Bohnstedt utilized all the possible iterations. Duets and solos abounded, as did trios and unison work, including a gorgeous unison promenade in arabesque.

From Another Time was sandwiched between two iconic ballets, George Balanchine’s Apollo and sections from Marius Petipa’s Paquita. I think the biggest surprise for me every time I see Apollo is its premiere date. Balanchine choreographed the work almost a hundred years ago (world premiere 1928), and yet, it feels like it could have easily have been crafted this century. Many of the movement phrases, poses and postures are so modern (though the gender roles/relationships are indeed not): bourées on the heels, parallel jumps, that memorable spin from standing into grand plié on pointe. Raymond Tilton impressed in the titular role, as did Jackie McConnell, Rosselyn Ramirez and Amanda Farris as the three muses who visit him. Tilton had total command over the space, every step and position radiating power, strength and precision; even his walking double frappés felt formidable. In their solos, McConnell as Calliope, muse of mime, had such loft and forward motion counterpointing emotive contractions that were sharp, yet pliable. The muse of mime, Polyhymnia’s variation features a series of fast turns and directional changes all while holding the index finger in front of the mouth. Ramirez handily navigated through this difficult phrase with enviable skill and confidence. And Farris as Terpsichore, muse of dance and song, brought intricate pointe work and swiveling hips to the table, as well as whisper soft landings. The jumps themselves were sensational, but the landings, wow, by far the quietest of the entire night. And kudos to Tilton and Farris for handling a tricky moment when the music cut out; true professionalism at its best.

Diablo Ballet’s Balanchine & Beyond program closed with the oldest work on the bill, Paquita. From the first solo entrances to the ensemble finale, musicality and elegance reigned supreme. Jillian Transon and Jacopo Jannelli’s grand pas de deux had such calm and assured partnering, particularly in the supported turns. The variations that followed were imbued with ample batterie, multiple pirouettes and grand allegro, all of which were approached with that same refinement and finesse. Paquita provided a graceful cadence to the night, though I do wonder if it might have been better suited to a different spot on the program. While it does conclude with a full cast finale, it really reads more as an opener than a final act.   

March 8th – I couldn’t think of a more ideal occasion than International Women’s Day to attend Nevertheless, a collaboration between ka·nei·see | collective and Cat Call Choir, that casts a wide, unflinching lens on gender-based harassment and abuse. Conceived by dancemaker Tanya Chianese and vocal director Heather Arnett, the work opened to much acclaim last year at CounterPulse and has just returned for an encore run at Z Space. Though I missed Nevertheless’ world premiere, I did see an in-process iteration a couple years back at Shawl-Anderson Dance Center. At that moment, I recall being moved not only by its candid honesty, but by its breadth. Yes, there was an abundance of shocking(ly accurate) imagery but there was also a deep sense of kinship and sisterhood. A feeling of shared reality, shared experience and shared power. These potent themes abounded in the full, sixty-five minute piece, as did Chianese and Arnett’s impressive Dance Theater acumen.

Madeline Matsuka in Nevertheless
Photo Robbie Sweeny

In vignette after vignette, Chianese, Arnett and the twenty-three member-cast unpacked Nevertheless’ narrative threads. Full throttle choreographic sequences saw the cast being pulled/dragged across the space against their will and being shoved downward toward the ground. Multiple scenes found the ensemble dealing with touch and attention that was both uninvited and without consent. Performers backed away from dangerous altercations in one moment and over-apologized in others when they clearly had nothing to apologize for. But as mentioned above, there were also ample reflections of strength and mutual support. Grounded, low positions – deep pliés in second and broad lunges – felt powerful and mighty; while unison phrases spoke to a collective understanding. And the music. Not only was the Cat Call Choir vocally impressive, but the use of familiar children’s, camp and holiday songs in the score was absolutely brilliant (the melodies remained the same but the lyrics had been changed to include harassing language and body shaming commentary). So often we hear things like, “it was an innocent comment,” or “he didn’t mean anything by it.” To intersect that kind of ugly language with music that has an air of innocence felt particularly poetic.  

Not to downplay or detract from Nevertheless’ urgently topical message, but its structural achievements also must be part of the discussion. Because as a work of Dance Theater, Nevertheless is not just good, it’s stunning. The work has just the right level of abstraction – go too far abstracting a concept and the impact gets lost. One could point to many examples throughout, though one that particularly stuck with me was a duet where facial muscles were slowly and deliberately manipulated into large, forced smiles. There was also plenty of purposeful absurdity and humor, which is a huge Dance Theater trope. Like the stylized self-defense class that felt plucked from an 80s aerobic VHS tape. Nevertheless had repetition, which can both emphasize and anesthetize in the same moment. And with song, movement, text and scenework, it utilized multiple theatrical disciplines. But most important, Nevertheless doesn’t wrap things up in a tidy bow, which for me, is the primary tenet of Dance Theater. The work ends with a soloist alone on the stage, having just experienced a barrage of unwanted and unwelcome touch from the rest of the cast. She stares blankly ahead and doesn’t move a muscle. With this final image, Chianese and Arnett are candidly exposing the dark side of humanity and challenging the audience to sit with it, without resolution. I think it’s safe to say that many Dance Theater ancestors were looking down on Z Space last night, inspired by where the form is headed and who is taking it there.  

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Hubbard Street Dance Chicago
The Joyce Theater
New York, New York

March 6, 2019: Program A (All Naharin) – Decadance / Chicago
March 12, 2019: Program B (All Pite) – A Picture of You Falling, The Other You, Grace Engine

Jerry Hochman

Hubbard Street Dance Chicago, one of the country’s premier centers for contemporary dance, returned to the Joyce Theater last week for a two-program, two-week engagement. Program A was devoted to choreography by Ohad Naharin, Artistic Director of Israel’s Batsheva Dance Company from 1990 to 2018 and now its House Choreographer, and Program B to choreography by Crystal Pite. Although neither included any New York premieres, the programs as assemblages of their component parts, like choreographed combinations of steps, were not previously seen here. As it became quickly apparent, the programs as a unity were at least as significant, if not more, than their individual components. Also quickly apparent was the reason both these choreographers are prior winners of the Dance Magazine Award.

I was prepared to dislike Program A from the outset. Having seen several of Naharin’s dances previously, and as much as I admired their quality, with one exception (Tabula Rasa, presented just two months ago at the Joyce by Cuba’s Malpaso Dance Company), I rebelled at the seeming constant negativity. Moreover, the program consisted of excerpts from larger pieces, apparently gathered together to create a Naharin evening. Under the umbrella title Decadance / Chicago the program promised bits and pieces from nine Naharin dances, separated by a single intermission. I generally find excerpts, unless they’re meant also to be performed as standalone dances, to be inadequate on their own merits or as representative of the larger whole.

Hubbard Street Dance Chicago
in Ohad Naharin’s “Decadance / Chicago”
Photo by Todd Rosenberg

As has been the case of late with increasing frequency, I was wrong. The program is not just a compilation of excerpts. Decadance / Chicago is a collection of excerpts – segments, as they’re called in the program, is a better descriptive term – that, without regard to the disparate nature of the pieces represented, creates an entirety that makes unified visual, if not thematic, sense. Far more than that, and whether the credit goes to Naharin or Hubbard Street or both, the program was high quality entertainment, and a great deal of fun – and not just because, as I’ll explain in more detail later, I briefly became a part of it.

Decadance / Chicago may be new, but its concept isn’t. Naharin has presented evening-length compilations of pieces from his creations, many of which come under the umbrella “Deca Dance,” since roughly 2000. [One Deca program was presented in New York in 2007.] The components of Deca Dance programs have been modified over the years, so one Deca series performance (seen live, or as captured on YouTube) will likely not be identical in content to the Deca performed at another point in time. The compilation known as Decadance / Chicago premiered in Chicago last year.

Hubbard Street Dance Chicago
in Ohad Naharin’s “Decadance / Chicago”
Photo by Todd Rosenberg

And there’s another wrinkle – or two or ten. Figuring out the “title” of a particular piece from which the segment is excerpted is difficult, since some segments at different points in time formed parts of differently named dances. If that doesn’t sufficiently complicate things, the nine dances from which the segments in this Deca were drawn (Anaphase, Zachacha, Naharin’s Virus, Three, Telophaza, George & Zalman, Max, Seder, and Sadeh 21) are listed in creation date order, from 1993 to 2011, which is not necessarily in program order. For these reasons, the most accurate way to identify a segment, at least to me, is by referencing the accompanying music. But even the ability to identify a segment doesn’t help, because unless one is familiar with the particular Naharin dances from which the segments were drawn, or with the segment itself, one wouldn’t always know where the excerpt began and ended or if it had been modified for the Deca presentation, and whether the various “transition” scenes that made the presentation appear as seamless as it did were part of an excerpt or a standalone intermezzo.

But the seeming difficulty identifying Deca’s component parts is the point – or part of it. This isn’t Naharin’s Greatest Hits: It’s a sampling – significant though it may be – of Naharin’s choreography. If you try to figure out what’s what and where it came from and whether you’ve seen it before and what it all means – that is, if you try to dissect it either choreographically or thematically, you lose it – or at least the “Deca” aspect of it. It’s not so much what it, or any part of it, makes you think, but how the Deca makes you react to it, or feel. If the choreographic language that Naharin created, Gaga, is in generalized terms an attempt to free the dancer and his/her body from restrictions, these collective programs can be seen as efforts to free the audience in similar fashion.

Alicia Delgadillo and Andrew Murdock
in Ohad Naharin’s “Decadance / Chicago”
Photo by Todd Rosenberg

Based on Decadance / Chicago, which has been staged brilliantly by Ian Robinson and Rachael Osborne, if there’s a universal thread to Naharin’s choreography, and I’m not sure there is, it’s that his movement appears driven by a flailing upper torso propelled by arms that seem to be everywhere at once, and a “pop” exclamation that punctuates movement at the apex of a phrase – not overly exaggerated, as similar choreographic punctuations are, and certainly not exaggerated muscle pops, but a point that makes … a point. Of at least equal significance is that what comes across initially as anger is really emphasis (sometimes with anger as an ingredient), and what I initially thought was stylistic orthodoxy is anything but – whatever orthodoxy there may be is delivered as a sort of anti-orthodoxy.

Hubbard Street Dance Chicago
in Ohad Naharin’s “Decadance / Chicago”
Photo by Todd Rosenberg

Even these generalized observations, however, cannot synthesize every one of the segments, each of which has an ebb and flow independent of the seamless flow of the entire presentation. My favorites: the “chair” dance (how many dances can be instantly recognizable just by one descriptive word?), to Echad Mi Yodeah, is a model of ritual and passion and anger and loss. If anything can be said to be a signature Naharin piece, it’s the “chair” dance – although it’s hardly representative of his body of work. Whether it’s directed at Israeli society, life as an Israeli soldier (or civilian), a condemnation of orthodoxy (religious or otherwise) in Israel and beyond, or an exercise (one of many in the program) that examines the visual and aural impact of increasing incremental phrasing in a choreographic context … it’s unforgettable. I’ve seen Echod Mi Yodeah before – as, apparently, has much of the world – but I’ve never seen it performed better than it was on this program by the remarkable Hubbard Street dancers.

And speaking of incremental, Naharin’s take on Bolero, while choreographically consistent with everything else, adds the qualities of sultriness and sensuality that are imbued in Ravel’s score but rarely emphasized (most productions focus on the repetition and create variations on Ravel’s “theme”), making the two-woman duet as mesmerizing in its way as was the repetitive movement in the “chair” dance. It instantly became one of my favorite Bolero incarnations. In another segment, this quality of sultry sensuality is converted into a stunning and passionate pas de deux to David Darling’s Stones Start Spinning, while the incremental additive phrasing is the guiding force for the choreography for five women to an incrementalized version of Charles Bukowski’s poem Making It, read by former Batsheva dancer Bobbi Jene Smith, which is grafted onto Arvo Part’s Fur Alina. And for sheer internal variety amid internal consistency, as well as a little Decadance decadence, there’s the low-decibel but powerhouse conclusion that begins with Na Tum Jano Na hum (by Kaho Pyaar Hai) and ends with You’re Welcome (by The Beach Boys).

Hubbard Street Dance Chicago
in Ohad Naharin’s “Decadance / Chicago”
Photo by Todd Rosenberg

And, of course, there’s the “audience participation” section that I subsequently discovered has been a component of many Deca presentations (and doubtless was awaited by many members of the audience with enthusiastic apprehension). To the strains of Somewhere Over the Rainbow, members of the cast pass through the audience to select a partner to invite on stage, and once there, the assembled pairs dance to the accompanying music (Hooray for Hollywood, then Dean Martin’s Sway) before being escorted off stage. And it’s an interesting psychological observation that the last woman (from the audience) standing – and dancing – with a partner exhibited the same movement quality, even facial expression, at this performance as can be seen in every YouTube video of this segment that I’ve since seen. It’s that way not because it’s rehearsed, but because, given its structure and choreography, there’s no other way that the segment’s final image could end. Naharin’s father was a psychologist. It’s in the genes. He knew it would always be that way.

But from the outset, one became aware that Decadance / Chicago has a character beyond what can be observed and absorbed from the assemblage of choreographic segments themselves, and which may be different from other Decas. An additional quality of humor, and of human nature, added to what would subsequently also be apparent in Naharin’s choreography. Instead of the usual disembodied announcement to turn off cell phones, etc., a tall thin man in a black suit, white shirt, no tie, and a hat pulled down to nearly cover his eyes (a “typical” Naharin ultra-orthodox – Haredi – costume), emerged from the wings to deliver the same message – in a deadpan voice and with impeccable comic timing.

Florian Lochner and Andrew Murdock,
and Michael Gross (background)
in Ohad Naharin’s “Decadance / Chicago”
Photo by Todd Rosenberg

The same dancer returned later, as part of what I assumed was a between-segment pause to allow dancers to rest and change costumes. He’d ask certain members of the audience to rise or sit based on their responses to certain pseudo private questions. When everyone was finally seated, instead of segueing directly into the next dance segment, he asked anyone with a birthday that day to stand. No one did. Then he asked a person with a birthday the previous day to stand. I did. I expected a round of “Happy Birthday” to end this seventh inning stretch, but instead was invited to the stage.

I won’t go into blow by blow detail, but I soon realized (it took awhile – I’m a little slow) that I was expected to follow what those wearing the black-suit costumes seated on chairs on either side of me would do. [For one fleeting moment, I had horrifying visions of being recruited into a mini “chair” dance. More Decadance decadence.] When it dawned on me (another year … a little slower), I did, or tried to. But I realized afterward that I could have done the opposite of what those seated next to me – and other cast members – would do, and it wouldn’t have mattered. It was what you (I) felt at that moment, and whatever it was would have been right. Which is a neat little way to understand Decadance / Chicago. It’s constantly fascinating, a little unnerving, undeniably entertaining, technically demanding (especially getting that leg to cross in “my” scene), not quite as cerebral as it might appear, awesome fun, and free spirited. If Deca in any of its incarnations, or in a new one, returns to New York, it’s a must … experience.

Hubbard Street Dance Chicago
in Crystal Pite’s “Grace Engine”
Photo by Todd Rosenberg

Program B, the all Pite evening, was initially presented in Chicago in 2017. Though no less choreographically accomplished and executed than Decadance / Chicago, it proved somewhat less powerful and entertaining because instead of being a part of the stage action (by feeling it, as well as, in some cases, by being part of it), one could only observe and admire from a physical, and emotional, distance.

The three Pite dances were connected very obviously by a similarity of style which,  based only on these pieces, seemed more programmed than the Naharin “style,” with limbs, upper or lower or both, propelling (almost literally) movement forward, and with sudden periods of stop action incremental movement (like a strobe light effect without the strobe light). That’s not the case – the Naharin pieces are coordinated down to the last twitch or tremor or snap also, but they don’t look that way, and these Pite pieces aren’t as rigid-looking as I may be making them appear. Regardless, based on these three pieces and the segments in Decadance / Chicago, there’s also a subtle similarity of style that connects the two programs – as if they were created by distant choreographic cousins two or three times removed. I suspect that it’s no accident that Hubbard Street and its Artistic Director since 2009, Glenn Edgerton, elected to present these programs in the same engagement.

Elliot Hammans and Jacqueline Burnett
in Crystal Pite’s “A Picture of You Falling”
Photo by Todd Rosenberg

The first two dances had another common denominator beyond Pite’s apparent choreographic style: in A Picture of You Falling and The Other You, both duets, the focus is on “You.”  The former, created in 2008, was originally a solo danced by Pite, but was modified into an alternative format, a duet, that Pite’s company, Kidd Pivot, premiered in 2010 as part of a program called “The You Show.” The latter piece premiered in 2010 on that same program.

In A Picture of You Falling, Pite examines a relationship that begins, happens, and ends, with scenes, as well as much of the movement quality, portrayed incrementally – to accompanying music (more like the ebb and flow of sounds) by Owen Belton, and incrementally additive phrases and sentences written by Pite and spoken by Kate Strong. [“This is a picture of you…This is your voice…This is you falling…This is how you collapse….”] Although the subject – meeting, ‘falling’ in love, ‘falling’ over each other, ‘falling’ out of love’ – is well-worn, here it’s given remarkable expression through the dancers’ (Jacqueline Burnett and Elliot Hammans) impeccable execution of Pite’s choreographic style, which in addition to what I’ve already described, looks at times like the dancers are being buffeted by forces from within and/or without that make the incremental and staccato movement twist, with the dancers becoming moving stop-action corkscrews. And having seen it as a duet, I can’t conceive of it as a solo – even though I saw and reviewed a solo version, performed by Hubbard Street at the Joyce in 2015. As a duet, it’s as much a dual psychological / choreographic portrait as it is a structural form of events and time condensed and shattered and then reassembled in bits and pieces of its original form.

Andrew Murdock and Michael Gross
in Crystal Pite’s “The Other You”
Photo by Todd Rosenberg

A dual psychological / choreographic portrait is also evident in the program’s second piece. In The Other You, to Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 14 in C Sharp Minor, Op. 27, No. 2, Michael Gross and Andrew Murdock portray two sides of the same person – or maybe two distinct persons who seem to be almost, but not quite, mirror images, but with – almost but not quite – distinctive personalities. Although the movement quality is similar to A Picture of You Falling, here the overall impact is more cerebral – less what happened when, then who this person is (or these people are). As with the first program piece, the synchronization, and the variations from it, is astonishing.

Grace Engine, created the following year, is a larger piece in terms of the number of dancers (the full company), but it has the same movement characteristics – only more of them and in larger form. The common denominator is fragmentation. A story is being told, but it’s more cosmic than the two duets and filled with startlingly crafted group images that appear to illustrate stages of … something. And that’s my problem with it. Other than being some sort of life engine, and having fantastic and gripping images (groups and the solos / duets that spring from them), I don’t know what, if anything, Pite is trying to say here. But the piece is galvanizing, and what I perceive as an absence of thematic clarity, if there is indeed a theme, is not critical to appreciating its richness.

Hubbard Street Dance Chicago
in Crystal Pite’s “Grace Engine”
Photo by Todd Rosenberg

As described, these three Pite pieces illustrate a relative unity of style. But where the Naharin style as distilled from Decadance / Chicago is something that one becomes aware of after absorbing a seeming endless movement variety that spanned Naharin’s oeuvre, the Pite “unity” is relatively force-fed through these three pieces. On exiting, I overheard one man addressing his companion with respect to the dances’ common movement qualities: “Well, that must be her style.” To an extent it is. But wouldn’t it have been far more valuable if that Pite style, assuming there’s a common thread to it, had been gleaned from a greater variety of Pite’s work? Where, for example, do pieces like Solo Echo (a 2012 piece presented by Ballet BC at the Joyce in 2016), The Statement (presented by Nederlands Dans Theater at City Center in 2016) or Emergence (created in 2009 and presented by Pacific Northwest Ballet at City Center in … 2016) fit in? I think the opportunity to present something more definitive here, as was the case in Decadance / Chicago, was lost.

My focus here has been on the choreographers, partly because the individual dancers in the Program A segments were not identified, and partly because the programs are set up that way. But each of the dancers deserves individual recognition: they’re a fabulously accomplished group. In addition to those already mentioned, they include Craig D. Black Jr., Rena Butler, Alicia Delgadillo, Kellie Epperheimer, Alysia Johnson, Myles Lavallee, Adrienne Lipson, Florian Lochner, Ana Lopez, David Schultz, Kevin J. Shannon, and Connie Shiau.

The next time Hubbard Street, or a piece by Naharin, or one by Pite, comes to town, which doubtless will be soon, go.

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New York Theatre Ballet
Danspace Project
St. Mark’s in-the-Bowery
New York, New York

March 14, 2019
REP Program: Scramble, The Elements of Style, The Seasons

Jerry Hochman

The venerable New York Theatre Ballet began its 40th Anniversary year with a program designed by company Founder and Artistic Director Diana Byer to be representative of the NYTB “family tree.” By presenting pieces choreographed by Merce Cunningham, Matthew Nash, and Sir Richard Alston (NYTB’s Resident Choreographer for the next two years), each of whom has contributed, directly or indirectly, to the company’s success over the years, Byer accomplished her goal. And the sense of “family” was augmented by the overarching presence of David Vaughan, Cunningham Company archivist (as well as dancer, author, and dance historian, among a host of other accomplishments), who died in 2017, and who was in large part NYTB’s Cunningham connection.

It takes a lot for a company, particularly one as understated as NYTB is, to be described as “venerable.” When I first became acquainted with it, a mere five or six years ago, I wrote that if NYTB didn’t exist, it would have to be invented. What the company does so well, based on many of its past programs, is to present dances that may have been overlooked by major companies, to provide a showcase for emerging choreographers, and to make ballet and contemporary dance accessible.

What it also does is make those dances it elects to perform look good – maybe better than they did originally. I’ve mentioned previously that, from what I’d seen of his work (and I don’t pretend to be an expert in it), I haven’t really liked Cunningham. I can understand the appeal to many of what he created, and appreciate his position in the dance pantheon, but what I’d seen was too dry, too distant, too conceptual, and not at all entertaining. It might be “pure dance,” but to my eyes what I consistently saw appeared ascetic and sterile. It took a 2015 NYTB revival of a Cunningham piece, Cross Currents, to show me things in Cunningham’s choreography I’d not previously observed, and to appreciate his work – at least more than I had previously.

New York Theatre Ballet dancers
Giulia Faria and Joshua Andino-Nieto
in Merce Cunningham’s “Scramble”
Photo by Julie Lemberger

Much of what I saw in Cross Currents I saw also in Scramble, the program’s opening piece, and one that Vaughan thought would be a good fit for NYTB. It is. These performances were dedicated specifically to Vaughan.

Perhaps it’s the time period – Cross Currents was created in 1964; Scramble in 1967. Maybe what I perceived as his orthodoxy was more relaxed during this period, or maybe what I’d previously seen was not representative. Regardless, the version of Scramble that was danced on the opening night of the three performance run at NYTB’s home stage was powerful – which is not a word I thought I’d ever use to describe a Cunningham piece – and brilliantly executed by NYTB’s eight dancer cast: Alexis Branagan, Joshua Andino-Nieto, Giulia Faria, Monica Lima, Dawn Gerling Milatin, Erez Milatin, Sean Stewart, and Amanda Treiber.

As originally conceived (and as described by Vaughan), Scramble’s contents were selected by chance from among eighteen short segments that Cunningham had choreographed. Twelve of the eighteen were the usual number performed, and the specific sections for each performance, and their order of presentation, would vary from program to program. At times the Cunningham dancers didn’t know what would be included in a given performance until several hours in advance, and had to … scramble.

The segments themselves vary by the specific movements involved and by the number of dancers per segment, but stylistically it all fits because the style is the same (it’s like changing the order of sentences in a paragraph) and because the music, Activities for Orchestra by Toshi Ichiyanagi, allows for a measure of variation from segment to segment. The musical segments (performed to a live recording) don’t suggest anything specific, and Cunningham’s movement suggests nothing specific either. You don’t “see” the music in the choreography; at most, the music provides a frame into which the choreography fits.

Like other Cunningham pieces I’ve seen, and regardless of the segments’ order of presentation, there’s no emotional involvement between the dancers in any particular segment or between the dancers and the audience. It’s all very detached. But what can be appreciated, particularly as presented, is the variety within the seeming absence of variety. One may not be able to isolate one segment from another all the time, but there are differences between them – some subtle; some obvious – that carry the movement far beyond being movement for movement’s sake. One may not like that there’s no apparent purpose to the dance beyond exploring the parameters of movement, but the segments that comprise Scramble share an economy of presentation and a simple purity that, if not compelling, is at least not boring.

And in some of these Scramble segments, there’s considerably more afoot than being “not boring.” Within the context of Cunningham’s style, Scramble brings something missing from other pieces I’ve seen: elements of surprise. The constant movement and generally rapid pace may appear choreographically simple, but within segments Cunningham augments an initial quality that might initially appear repetitious and … boring to watch, with others, cuts and pastes one set of movements into another, and has the dancers entering and exiting the stage area in different combinations in a process that, to an audience, looks unpredictable. And while there remains no emotional component, one or more of these segments include actual physical contact and partnering between the dancers as well as solo bravura execution – that make some segments or parts thereof exciting (another word I never thought I’d use to describe a Cunningham piece). The iciness I sense when viewing what I considered to be a typical Cunningham dance; the posing in points in space without awareness that several dancers may be in the same performing space at the same time, is not at all the prevalent ambiance here. Indeed, that there is some semblance of a prevalent ambiance here is thrilling.

New York Theatre Ballet dancers
Sean Stewart and Dawn Gierling Milatin
in Matthew Nash’s
“The Elements of Style”
Photo by Julie Lemberger

This sense of variety is amplified by the costumes, with each of the eight dancers assigned a particular color, and the set – a series of “banners” of varying widths, lengths, and color combinations that are bound to the tops of support poles, giving them the look of footrace finishing line markers – from time to time are moved to varying positions during the course of the dance for no apparent reason than, maybe, to signify the end of one segment and the beginning of another. The sets and costumes were originally designed by Frank Stella, and reconstructed here, respectively, by Will Viera and company member Carmella Lauer.

Although each of the eight NYTB dancers executed superbly, three had moments that made them stand out more than others: Lima and Faria, neither of whom I recall seeing with the company previously, and Erez Milatin, all imbued their roles with a sense of the individual that I’d not previously seen in a Cunningham piece, and Milatin, an Israeli émigré who joined the company last year after several highly reviewed (by me) seasons with Gelsey Kirkland Ballet, visibly injected qualities of animation and individual accomplishment into Cunningham’s choreography that made him stand out. Simply put, he had an intensity, the precision, and the buoyancy to make Cunningham’s choreography, grounded as it may be, fly.

New York Theatre Ballet dancers
(l-r) Dawn Gierling Milatin, Sean Stewart,
and Amanda Treiber in Matthew Nash’s
“The Elements of Style”
Photo by Julie Lemberger

You’ve got to love a piece choreographed to seven of the Rules set forth in Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style – or at least be inclined to overlook its flaws. With tongue only partly in cheek (writing style is serious stuff), Matthew Nash, a frequent choreographic contributor to NYTB over the years, created the music, as well as the choreography, to seven of Strunk and White’s stylistic principles. Created in 1981 for a NYTB program at the Riverside Dance Festival, it’s a little unfocused, and not nearly as concise as Strunk and White, but it’s fun.

Each of Nash’s Rule visualizations includes some examples from Elements, and these examples form the bulk of the choreography, which is supposed to provide visual commentary to the Rules and Examples. I confess that at times I couldn’t see any connection between the choreography and the principles being expressed, but I also confess that just seeing a dance that celebrates writing principles I grew up with, some of which I defend in the face of serious threat to life and limb (Rule 1: “Form the Possessive Singular of Nouns by Adding Apostrophe S” – even when the singular noun ends in “s”), and some of which I can’t help but ignore (Rule 6” “Omit Needless Words”) proved irresistible. If nothing else (and there’s a lot “else”), Nash’s effort impresses with its audacity to even attempt to convert writing style rules into a piece of dance theater. Elements is many things, but it’s not Shakespeare.

Treiber carried the laboring acting oar, portraying a multitude of put-upon characters weighted down, or effectively impaled, by rule breakers, while Dawn Milatin overcame a tendency to look bland, and fortified her genteel ante-bellum-ish character with vivacity and coquettish charm. Stewart’s characters were more difficult to define – mostly they were comic foils – but he handled the assignment well. And Guest Artist Dirk Lombard delivered the narrative (which, commendably, was provided to the audience in a program insert) crisply, giving the piece an added touch of class – and he handled his dancing assignment with aplomb.

New York Theatre Ballet dancer
Dawn Gierling Milatin
in Sir Richard Alston’s “The Seasons”
Photo by Julie Lemberger

The program’s final component, Alston’s The Seasons, was a bit disappointing, but not through any choreographic fault. With that title, I anticipated something more lighthearted (something more akin to Jerome Robbins’s The Four Seasons), and having seen other Alston pieces, I didn’t expect one as obviously Cunningham inspired.

But not all is lost – instead of seasonal set pieces, Alston and the music (John Cage’s 1947 eponymous piece) provide a continuous flow and an appropriate sense of circularity to the subject, including not just the seasons themselves (expressed in solos, duets, and groups of varying composition), but also transitions in between. Andino-Nieto was a dominant Winter, Faria and Stewart a lively Spring, Branagan and Erez Milatin a sultry summer, and Andino-Nieto, Treiber, Steward, and Faria danced a fresh Autumn, with Dawn Milatin, a group of women, and a group of men providing the inter-season preludes. And as in reality, there’s considerable overlap – characters representative of one of the seasons will linger into the next, or briefly join another season’s representatives. Even though the movement quality is less engaging than I’d have liked, there’s no denying that seeing Winter portrayed primarily in powerful, outstretched poses (by Andino-Nieto), and seemingly to be present even when he’s no longer in command, has particular impact in the context of this year’s winter that won’t die.

Like The Seasons, the program flowed seamlessly from one piece to the next with the inclusion of live instrumental “Interludes.” In the first, Music Director Michael Scales on piano, and Guest Artist Ron Wasserman on bass, delivered an appropriately jazzy and finely executed performance of Duke Ellington’s Pitter Patter Panther, Take 1 (composed in 1940). [Scales and Wasserman also provided live accompaniment for The Elements of Style, and Scales alone accompanied The Seasons.] In the second Interlude, Scales performance of Henry Cowell’s The Snows of Fujiyama (1924) was both mesmerizing and riveting.

I look forward to NYTB’s continuing its mission in the future, including revivals of neglected dances and ballets, and the nurturing of new choreographic talent. But this kick-off to the company’s fortieth anniversary year, and its recognition of the Cunningham Centennial celebrations, was both an apt undertaking and a successful one. The company remains one of New York’s venerated gems.

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Ballet Hispánico
The Joyce Theater
New York, New York

March  26, 2019
El Viaje, Sombrerisimo, Homebound/Alaala

Jerry Hochman

Ever since Twyla Tharp choreographed Push Comes to Shove for American Ballet Theatre, other dances featuring bowler hats have become, by comparison, second (or third or fourth) best. And ever since . . . forever, dances about leaving home / arriving at a new home / yearning to return home (collectively, “home”) have been commonplace. That essential prop, and that subject, were presented in Ballet Hispánico’s three-dance program for its annual Joyce Theater season. Flying bowler hats are still inevitably remindful of Tharp’s piece, and “home” is still a hackneyed subject, but the program, enlivened by the company’s highly accomplished dancers, proved more interesting, and far more enjoyable, than anticipated.

One of these dances stood out over the others because its treatment of the subject of “home” was so different, and such great fun to watch. Although it was the program’s final offering, I’ll consider it first.

Ballet Hispánico dancers
in Bennyroyce Royon’s “Homebound/Alaala”
Photo by Paula Lobo

Prior to Tuesday’s performance, Bennyroyce Royon was a name unfamiliar to me. Not any more. His Homebound/Alaala, which celebrated its world premiere at this opening night performance, is a riot of action, color, and community, and it bathes its audience in its exuberant ambiance. Even though its subject – according to the program note, the intersection of Latino and Asian cultures and the quest for home – is nothing new, Royon and the Ballet Hispánico dancers breathe new life into it. Without being overwhelmed by its originality, it’s one of the most original-looking treatments of the subject that I’ve seen.

Chris Bloom and Ballet Hispánico dancers
in Bennyroyce Royon’s “Homebound/Alaala”
Photo by Paula Lobo

A Brooklyn-based Filipino-American dancer and choreographer and Juilliard graduate, Royon has pieced together a paean to yearning for the familiar, discovery of the new, and community that is more celebration for what’s happened than nostalgia for what’s been lost. In the process, he’s also changed the focus from the literal to the metaphoric. Large rectangular boxes fill the stage, and sandals (apparently, from my research, particularly significant in Filipino culture) are ubiquitous, and at one point are lined horizontally downstage.  The boxes are not only suitcase surrogates; they act also as barriers to cross, mountains to climb, and places to hide (as well as convenient stage dividers). The sandals are symbols of cultural memory. The boxes are moved initially from a starry-skied departure point and then from place to place on stage during the course of the dance, to me symbolic of moving from one “home” to another until the immigrants find some permanent location to hang their hats (or to put on their shoes).

Ballet Hispánico dancers
in Bennyroyce Royon’s “Homebound/Alaala”
Photo by Paula Lobo

The boxes serve another function as well. Some have words or images on them, and some open to allow an occasional dancer to open them wistfully (and maybe insert or remove cherished sandals). These boxes, some of which are emblazoned with the word “Fragile” (and some with another images that I was unable to discern, possibly Filipino words) – are the repositories of “fragile” memories. [“Alaala” is Tagalog for “memories.] I’ve also been advised by a colleague that boxes similar to those in Homebound/Alaala, called “balikbayan boxes,” are used by Filipinos living outside the Philippines to ship gifts back to people still living “home,” but this does not appear to be the purpose of these boxes.

Ballet Hispánico dancers
Gabrielle Sprauve and Dandara Veiga
in Bennyroyce Royon’s “Homebound/Alaala”
Photo by Paula Lobo

As all this is happening, Royon’s musical choices, all Filipino songs, provide the more obvious “memories” connection. The music is at once lilting and haunting; gentle and persistent. Island music from a different island. After a (not surprisingly) wistful beginning (to 10-string classical guitarist Perfecto De Castro’s evocative “Hatinggabi – Midnight”), the dance continues on a steady pace (those boxes keep moving) through two Filipino folk songs (“Apat na dahilan,” sung by Pilita Corrales, and “Dandelon,” sung by Nora Aunor), then, in a change of pace, to “Ay, Leng,” by Grace Nono, and finally explodes with energy to “Anti-wana” by Pinikpikan, from a film soundtrack.

As interesting as the metaphors and music are, however, the dance wouldn’t work as well as it does without Royon’s choreography. It’s fluid, but it’s not ballet, and it has a contemporary feel, but it’s not the form of contemporary dance dominated by pervasive and rigorous corkscrew or angular movement. If there’s a connection here to Filipino folk dance (and I suspect there is), I didn’t see it, and it’s done so subtly that even if I’d been able to recognize Filipino folk dance I might not have noticed it. I can’t describe any particular “style,” and don’t know if there is one. What it is, however, is “big” movement. Dancers gulp space moving back and forth across the stage as they push, pull, throw, or tug boxes, and as they celebrate in what might be a local playground (a good natured “South-East Side Story”; dances at a different kind of gathering).

Ballet Hispánico dancers Raúl Contreras and Omar Rivera
in Bennyroyce Royon’s “Homebound/Alaala”
Photo by Paula Lobo

At one point (to “Ay, Leng”), the dance changes focus, presenting two male dancers who, at first tentatively, then exuberantly, discover homosexual inclinations. Shortly thereafter, the pair is “caught” by other community members, but instead of the anticipated scorn, they find acceptance. At first I felt that it was out of place here, particularly as, to my recollection, it’s the only “relationship” depicted in the dance – and even if there’s a reason for its presence that’s personal to the choreographer. But the point is consistent with the thrust of the dance as a whole (the contrast between the “new” culture and the “old,” expressed by the new community’s acceptance of differences), so in that sense, it fits well.

As difficult as cultural assimilation appears to be, and although interrupted from time to time by memories of the culture they left behind, Royon’s piece is fun. I suspect there’s a measure of culture clash depicted here between the Latinos in place and the arriving Filipinos (occasionally one box-laden dancer is chased by another; “fights” break out between one subgroup and other), but that’s not the dance’s point, and it’s all handled deftly so that whatever conflict there may be translates into a comic interaction that passes quickly. And when the community clearly unites and the Filipino music becomes more celebratory, the feeling becomes infectious. Homebound/Alaala confronts a serious subject with such good nature that one find it necessary to pinch oneself to make sure it’s real. And by minimizing any obvious limitation to the Filipino / Latino experience (aside from the Filipino music), the result is a dance with a cosmic consciousness that can appeal to anyone unable or unwilling to let homebound memories evaporate in the context of creating a new, different, vibrant multicultural community.

Melissa Verdecia and Ballet Hispánico dancers
in Edwaard Liang’s “El Viaje”
Photo by Paula Lobo

El Viaje (The Trip) is about emigration / immigration, rather than a meeting of cultures. That’s fine, but the result is more limited as well: apprehension and determination rather than celebration or, alternatively, fear of cultural loss. It’s also significantly different visually from Homebound/Alaala and many other dances that address the subject. A former dancer with New York City Ballet, Edwaard Liang here has crafted a lovely ballet, filled with lush movement quality to match the lush, dreamy score (Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis, by Ralph Vaughan Williams, recorded by the Academy of St. Martin in the Fields). The choreography is lyrical – almost lyrical to a fault – befitting the music, and what there is is well crafted. But as good as the choreography is, and as brilliant as the Ballet Hispanico dancers are in executing it, looking lovely isn’t enough to elevate El Viaje into anything distinctive or profound. There’s no real conflict here; no real expression of inner turmoil; no real apprehension; no elaboration on the yearning for the old culture or the temptations of the new. It’s all fairly low key.

Far more concerning is that, other than singing the praises of the Chinese emigration to Cuba, Liang’s purpose isn’t set forth clearly. I don’t know whether the focus is on the emigrant going on a “voyage” to a new life, or on an immigrant’s experience (another kind of “voyage”) trying to be assimilated into that new culture. They’re opposite sides of the same coin, and the emotions involved are similar – but the confusion, at least in my mind, could have been easily cured.

Ballet Hispánico dancers
Melissa Verdecia and Lyvan Verdecia
in Edwaard Liang’s “El Viaje”
Photo by Paula Lobo

The ballet begins with a highlighted sole dancer, Melissa Verdecia (f/k/a Melissa Fernandez), wearing a red dress, standing downstage center with her back to the audience, and apparently slowly waving at an assemblage of dancers grouped upstage center. The piece closes with a similar picture, except Verdecia’s character is facing downstage right at the assemblage of dancers closer to the downstage right wings, with the area illuminated in sunlight as if all were embarking on a voyage to an unknown future. I saw this initially as the woman in red waving goodbye, at least symbolically, to her past culture and at the same time expressing her yearning for it (that that past culture may have been Chinese is not, to me, in any way apparent), and then being transported to the new one. Seen this way, what happens in between are the pressures to leave or not – with the ultimate decision being to leave for a better life, symbolized by the change of positions, with the dancers now heading into the sunset (or sunrise) on a golden path to a new beginning.

Ballet Hispánico dancers
Eila Valls and Jared Bogart
in Edwaard Liang’s “El Viaje”
Photo by Paula Lobo

But it may also have been that the woman in red is at first greeting, and being greeted by, the “new culture” residents, and then being encouraged by the new culture’s representatives (the other dancers) to join them – with the accent being how wonderful these Cubans were to welcome this stranger (and by extension, the Chinese emigrants as a group) into their community. In hindsight, I suspect that this was Liang’s intent. In any event, the distinction isn’t really critical here. The central character is different (obviously by her red dress), and recognizes she must leave, or is different, and tries to blend in. In between, the memories of her “previous” culture, and the possibilities of her “new” culture, push and pull in various directions.

But although it’s admirably simple and straightforward visually, what there is raises questions beyond whether the woman in red is waving goodbye to her old culture or hello to her new one. Why is she in a red dress, while the other dancers are attired in more simple, relatively dull costumes? If the intent was just to single her out as the new arrival, couldn’t it have been done in a way that didn’t make her look not just different from the others, but more elegant? And if the thrust of the dance is how she’s being welcomed by the native Cubans, what does this say about Liang’s vision of the Chinese culture from which the woman in red came and the Cuban culture which, presumably, is welcoming her with open arms? Is this what Liang intended – to picture the Chinese culture as sophisticated and the Cuban culture as more earthy and common?

Ballet Hispánico dancer Dandara Viega
in Edwaard Liang’s “El Viaje”
Photo by Paula Lobo

All this being said, the absence of clarity here isn’t fatal to the dance. Much more significant is the movement quality. El Viaje may not be a memorable ballet, but it’s a lovely piece of work to watch: silken smooth, with some indelible images – e.g., the woman in red hurtling herself onto the outstretched arms of the “community” (representing either the cultural foundations that she’s leaving or the welcoming buoyancy that she’s receiving) – and, not surprisingly given Liang’s background, with a pervasive fluidity. Gentle even in conflict (one male dancer from the group, Lyvan Verdecia, is singled out to convince the woman in red to stay, or leave, or to accept him (or by extension, his culture), and their pas de deux is a dance highlight. Melissa Verdecia has been a standard bearer for Ballet Hispanico at least since 2016, when I first saw the company. In addition to her technical ability, she infuses her performances with an aura of drama that would make her the center of attention even if she weren’t already, as she is here as the woman in red. And in terms of passion, Lyvan Verdecia is her equal.

In between these two comments on the immigrant experience and cultural assimilation, the company presented Annabelle Lopez Ochoa’s Sombrerisimo. Originally choreographed in 2013 for an all-male cast, what made this incarnation different was the execution by an all-female cast.

Ballet Hispánico dancers
in Annabelle Lopez Ochoa’s “Sombrerisimo”
Photo by Paula Lobo

Inspired by the surrealist paintings of Rene Magritte and intended, according to the program note, to reference “the iconic sombreros (hats) found throughout the world to help represent culture,” to me the piece has no connection to Magritte’s paintings beyond featuring bowler hats, and the use of bowler hats in a dance titled Sombrerisimo is emblematic of cultural clash rather than being representative of cultures around the world. Bowler hats evoke a stiff upper lip and the kind of insouciance personified by Mikhail Baryshnikov in Tharp’s dance; “sombrero,” even if it technically is translatable as “hat,” is not generic, and evokes images that are a lot more … macho. And if a “hat” is representative of cultures around the world, why only use a bowler? That tossing bowler hats into the air has been done before (see Tharp, above) doesn’t help.

But approaching Lopez Ochoa’s dance intellectually misses the point. Sombrerisimo isn’t a cerebral dance – it’s fun, a little outrageous, a lot audacious, and absolutely pointless beyond that. In its original incarnation, I suppose it was greeted by audience as a beefcake dance, albeit fully clothed, designed to highlight macho manliness and male virility (which I suspect, to some, is redundant). I never saw that version, but having now seen it danced by women, I suspect that the impact is similar. If some members of the audience may have swooned at the sight of men preening and posing and tossing their hats in the air in its original Fall for Dance presentation, I don’t doubt that many in the audience for this performance felt similarly about women preening and posing and tossing their hats in the air. These women (Shelby Colona, Jenna Marie, Eila Valls, Gabrielle Sprauve, Dandara Veiga, and M. Verdecia) all looked like they were having a blast doing what the big boys did, without the testosterone factor – and, consequently, probably a lot more sensually. And if nothing else, it fit with the rest of the program, since anyplace one hangs, or hurls, one’s hat is home.

The post Ballet Hispánico: Home is Where the Hat is appeared first on CriticalDance.

Heather Desaulniers

• San Francisco Ballet – The Sleeping Beauty
  War Memorial Opera House, San Francisco

• Rogelio López & Dancers – Dicotomia Del Silencio
  Shawl-Anderson Dance Center, Berkeley

• Deborah Slater Dance Theater – The Sleepwatchers
  ODC Theater, San Francisco

March 10th – In my February 2018 CriticalDance column, I reviewed San Francisco Ballet’s The Sleeping Beauty at length. Choreographed by Artistic Director and Principal Choreographer Helgi Tomasson (after Marius Petipa), the ballet premiered back in 1990, but last year was my introduction to this particular version. And so I had thoughts aplenty – about the set, staging, choreography and the overall grandeur of this three-act narrative ballet. Beauty has returned as part of SFB’s 2019 repertory slate and just opened over the weekend. Though many of my observations held true from last year, there was still newness to behold in this first matinee performance.

San Francisco Ballet in Helgi Tomasson’s The Sleeping Beauty
Photo © Erik Tomasson

An infant princess. A curse. A prophecy. A long nap. A kiss. A wedding. Simplified and distilled, these are the main plot points of Beauty. Though clocking in at close to three hours, clearly other chapters and episodes factor heavily into the action. During the (extensive) Prologue, we meet a mélange of mortals and fairies, all of whom have come to pay tribute to the new princess, Aurora. And it’s the fairies who are the stars of Beauty’s opening segment. With delicate, graceful and floaty movement tropes, I quite enjoy the choreography for all six main fairies. Though occasionally, things do look a little busy. And with the sheer number of steps and transitions packed into every phrase (something which befalls much of the ballet), many of the sequences feel in constant pursuit of the downbeat in Tchaikovsky’s score. Having said that, several notable moments impressed. Ellen Rose Hummel’s Fairy of Courage variation commanded with its piercing feet, pointed fingers and staccato ball changes on pointe. Jasmine Jimison’s whimsical Fairy of Playfulness solo is one of the briefest dances in the lot, but in that short stay, Jimison, an apprentice with the company, captivated with her presence and technical clarity. I would even go so far as to say that she was the standout star of the afternoon, but more on that later.

Then the ballet has a time lapse and we finally (at least thirty-five minutes in) meet Aurora, danced by Mathilde Froustey. This second half of Act I features a number of stunning technical feats, famous moments (the Rose Adagio) and ends with the onset of the hundred-year slumber after Aurora is pricked by the dreaded spindle.

Act II continued to be both curious and elusive for this viewer, because while some important events transpire, on the whole, it feels extraneous. Yes, it introduces Prince Desiré (Vitor Luiz), connects the Prince and Aurora through a lengthy vision/dream scene and concludes with the kiss that awakens the Princess. But I’m not convinced that this chain of events a) has to take this long or b) couldn’t be folded into Beauty’s other acts, assuming they too had had some editing. The six-year-old who attended the performance with me remarked as follows, “This sure is a long dream.” Indeed.   

While the middle act is not my favorite, I did find Beauty’s third act to be a lot of fun. More fairies appear, as do some special feline guests, all in celebration of Aurora and Desiré’s marriage. Many lovely moments unfolded throughout, but by far, the highlight was Jimison and Esteban Hernandez’s Bluebird pas de deux. They were absolutely sensational. I saw Hernandez as the bluebird last year and it’s no surprise he has been cast again. His theatrical quality, exuberance and jumping prowess are the perfect match for a role replete with complicated batterie, bravado turns and pas de poisson. And Jimison, as the enchanted princess, had it all. Flawless technique, inviting stage presence and artistry to spare. Her face radiated joy in every instant and her movement had balance, intricacy, placement and heart. I wouldn’t be at all surprised she ascends swiftly through the SFB ranks.

March 23rd – Costuming is definitely something that I am pulled to in dance performance, though I don’t often give too much thought to the specific materials involved. But watching Dicotomia Del Silencio, the newest full-length work from Rogelio López & Dancers, I was haunted by the black brocade fabric used for the pants and sleeveless tunics. It was layered, weighty and significant, and as the night went on, would prove to be an ideal mirror for the quintet’s heavy narrative threads.

Silencio was a dance of heady, raw themes, which were unpacked through a mosaic of scenes and vignettes. And at the center of them all was the oft painful and lengthy journey of personal processing. As Andrew Merrell, Alexandria Whaley, Kevin Gaytan, Rebecca Johnson and López moved from chapter to chapter, several penetrating lines of inquiry emerged. How does care, attention and the passage of time affect past experiences? How do we try and help each other through challenging discoveries? With those overtures, are we actually providing comfort or just trying to make ourselves feel better? Are we allowing each other the freedom and time to truly process grief and trauma? When is it the right moment to reach out and when is it time to let go?

Rogelio Lopez & Dancers in Dicotomia Del Silencio
Photo Ryan Kwok

Aptly, the idea of embrace factored heavily into Silencio’s choreography. Traditional hugs abounded as did more abstract musings on the motif. Dancers would wrap around each other’s legs and gently cradle another’s head in the palm of their hand. In contrast, there were several solo statements counterpointing this sense of togetherness. Dancers backed away from the group; legs swam through the air, like they were treading water; López unhurriedly traversed the outside perimeter of the Shawl-Anderson studio space. The message: sometimes trudging through emotions and events is benefitted by the presence of others, and sometimes it isn’t. Much of Silencio’s phrase material was slow, methodical and ritualized, which matched well with its focus on processing and healing. But there was also plenty of intense, high-throttle movement: energetic rebounding, precarious cantilevered balances, bodies collapsing onto the floor. In these instants, pain, desperation, anger and disbelief washed over the room.

An integral trope in Silencio was the use of hand-held LED lights, which illuminated each dance episode, primarily from above. This lighting design (also by López) had a very powerful and intriguing dual effect. On one hand, it intimately emphasized all of emotional work that was playing out on stage. At the same time, because the handheld lights were utilized throughout the hour-long work, they had an anesthetizing quality as well, which fit like a hidden narrative fiber. Navigating extreme seasons and remembering unimaginable circumstances often requires a little anesthetic. Framing Silencio was a score composed and performed by David Franklin. Chimes, gongs, guitar, piano, even keys affixed to a long, wooden board contributed musical melodies and sound effects. While the music felt like a good fit for the piece, I did wonder if maybe the overall volume could have been adjusted. At times, the music was too loud for the studio venue and ended up pulling focus from what was happening onstage.  

March 29th – A search for understanding, for explanation, for relief – these themes and more lie at the heart of Deborah Slater Dance Theater’s The Sleepwatchers, co-directed by Deborah Slater and Jim Cave. Sleepwatchers processes these questions by taking the concept of sleep, or rather sleep disorder, into the Dance Theater sphere. The 2001 work, currently remounted as part of the company’s thirtieth anniversary, is chock-full of Dance Theater elements, expertly woven into a rich artistic tapestry: text, characters, scenework, set, sound, humor and movement. And by simultaneously mining these disciplines, Sleepwatchers makes some penetrating physical, psychological and emotional statements about the mysterious process of sleep.

Deborah Slater Dance Theater in The Sleepwatchers
Photo Robbie Sweeny

Slater, Cave and their collaborators did a terrific job creating a sense of place. A bed was positioned center stage; movable flats (by Jack Carpenter) doubled as room dividers and as educational whiteboards. Much of the cast was costumed (by Jeanne Henzel) in pajamas and lingerie, others were dressed as medical professionals. David Allen, Jr.’s score and Teddy Hulsker’s sound design included some well-known sleep-themed tunes layered with mechanical whirs, maybe a sleep apnea machine or a ventilator.

Different personas wandered through Sleepwatchers’ ever-changing scenes, which included medical lectures, sleep studies, nightmares and memories. One woman was trapped between adulthood and youth. Her brother was an integral part of the story, as were a number of Doctors and other characters conjured during sleep. Together, they all went on an investigative journey to discover why sleep was elusive for her. Eventually, they do find the answer, but along the way, encounter a myriad of issues, primarily around control. There is commentary about the need for answers; the obsession with figuring things out; the tendency to protectively reframe circumstances; and the discomfort we often feel with an “I don’t know” posture.

Choreographically, Sleepwatchers has a varied physical language – gesture, contact-improv syntax, capoeira inspirations and of course, modern vocabulary. Dance factors more heavily in the second half. In fact, for the first thirty minutes, I wondered if physical theater was a more apt description for the work than Dance Theater. But again, dance does play a significant part, just later on. Broad extensions of the arms and legs embodied searching. An ensemble sequence found all six cast members lifting and interacting with each other – a metaphor for the intersection of their experiences. And there was a postmodern pillow dance to “Mr. Sandman.”

There is much to love in Sleepwatchers, it’s a winning piece of contemporary performance. But it does face a couple of challenges, or maybe, it’s more accurate to say one two-pronged challenge. Clocking in at more than an hour (with a late start, it’s hard to guess the exact run time), Sleepwatchers is too long. Having said that, it isn’t inherently too long. It’s too long because there’s so much repetition, too much for me. As each character navigates the story, recurring motifs were everywhere – in their interactions with each other, their scenework and their movement phrases. For example, there’s a sleep ogre character threaded into much of the dance: half impy leprechaun, half creepy gremlin. The role was communicated well and the choreography was very fitting. But every time the character was onstage, the same things would play out and play out at length. Repetition is indeed a tenet of Dance Theater, though finding the right balance can be tricky. Too little and there isn’t enough narrative impact; too much and the potency is lost.            

The post SF/Bay Area Round-up March 2019 appeared first on CriticalDance.

Ariel Rivka Dance (with Guests slowdanger and Alison Cook Beatty Dance)
Baruch Performing Arts Center
New York, New York

March 28, 2019

Ariel Rivka Dance: Rhapsody in K, She, Mossy, Ori
slowdanger: memory 6
Alison Cook Beatty Dance: Magnetic Temptations

Jerry Hochman

Ariel Rivka Dance presented its annual New York season last week, inviting additional companies to join them on each night of the four-program run at the new Baruch Performing Arts Center. I saw the opening night program, which included pieces by slowdanger and Alison Cook Beatty Dance. The evening demonstrated, yet again, that unexpectedly interesting and well-crafted dances can be found in nooks and crannies everywhere in New York.

With the exception of those ARD pieces I’ve previously seen and reviewed, which I won’t comment on further, I’ll consider the dances in order of presentation.

As a choreographer, Ariel Grossman’s craft turned a corner several years ago with her presentation of Ori, and continues to show noteworthy growth, including successfully choreographing subjects that might be considered beyond the boundaries of dance craftsmanship or audience interest. Last year Grossman presented She, a dance about post-partum depression largely accompanied by the sound of a breast pump. To my surprise, I found it to be a compelling and insightful piece of work.

Members of Ariel Rivka Dance
in Ariel Grossman’s “Rhapsody in K”
Photo by David Gonsier

This year, Grossman, whose recent choreographic efforts have centered around her two children, was based on movement qualities observed in one of them – her 4½ year old daughter. Wonderful, I sarcastically thought to myself: a dance with a lot of jumping up and down, running around, and unfocussed limb flailing, and reflecting a two minute attention span to boot. Well, Rhapsody in K certainly has a lot of jumping up and down, running around, and unfocussed limb flailing. But there’s more to it than that, and except for one crotchety critical observation, it’s one of Grossman’s most accomplished dances.

Members of Ariel Rivka Dance
in Ariel Grossman’s “Rhapsody in K”
Photo by David Gonsier

The dance begins almost too cute, with one of ARD’s female dancers, outfitted like an overgrown 4 ½ year old and moving like an overgrown 4½ year old to a child’s recorded words and sounds (presumably those of Grossman’s 4½ year old daughter Eva). When that segment ends, the “real” dance begins. To a composition by Stefania de Kenessey (the same composer who created the score for She) and company Executive Director / Composer David Homan (who is also the choreographer’s husband), played effervescently by violinist Rebecca Cherry, Grossman takes those initial themes that her daughter provided and creates a series of themes and variations for a company of seven super-sized kindergartners (which, presumably, is where the “K” in the dance’s title came from). The style – the movement, expressions, and attitude – is child-like, but the choreography is coherent and engaging, and never takes the 4ish exuberance too far over the top — on the contrary, it relies on the fact that many in the audience have seen this movement before, and that part of the appeal of Rhapsody in K is its trip down memory lane. The “children” assemble and reassemble in distinctive lines and patterns, “perform” sequential movement (or sequential variations on a basic movement), break out into smaller subgroups and into dance solos that not only fit appropriately but that serve to cleanse the visual palette. The movement quality, while clearly based on her daughter’s “improvisations,” looks far more natural than many pieces of contemporary dance that I’ve seen. Marianna Tsartolia’s costumes successfully embrace childish klutz and adult/child kitsch (or maybe it’s the other way around), and with the violin played from a level above the stage area echoing against the theater’s bare walls, the dance’s atmosphere is bathed in a sort of heavenly musical glow. All in all, it’s not only a hoot – which is the best that I’d expected – but a highly accomplished piece of work.

Members of Ariel Rivka Dance
in Ariel Grossman’s “Rhapsody in K”
Photo by David Gonsier

That crotchety criticism: it goes on too long, with too many false endings. Just when you think that, when Hana Ginsburg Tirosh’s child character does her solo dance and announces “All Done,” that “all done” means “all done,” the dance continues through another segment or two before a final group of oversized children announces “all done” in unison. Some parts of it could have been cut – but I recognize that choosing to eliminate part of an artistic creation may be roughly equivalent to choosing from among one’s children.

I can’t think of a more contrasting piece to follow Rhapsody in K than slowdanger’s memory 6. There are no program notes, so my only knowledge of the dance is from what was presented on stage. But after burying my head in my hands for the first few minutes of it, I ended up being thoroughly impressed.

slowdanger dancers (l-r) taylor knight
and anna thompson in “memory 6”
Photo by David Gonsieer

slowdanger is a “multidisciplinary performance entity” based in Pittsburgh, co-founded by co-artistic directors anna thompson and taylor knight. memory 6 is performed by thompson and knight, to music by thompson and knight, with costumes by thompson. I confess that I have a prejudice against companies or individuals who insist on presenting themselves with a lowercase initial letter – I assume it’s done to emphasize that in their minds they’re no more significant than anyone else, but it has the effect of accomplishing just the opposite – drawing attention to themselves.

Be that as it may, memory 6 begins with one standing dancer, back to the audience and dressed in what appears to be a woman’s black dress, writhing in apparent agony.  I assumed it was thompson, until a body emerged from the darkness stage left, and I saw it was a woman wearing a similar black dress. thompson approached the standing person, who turned (and, not surprisingly at that point, it was knight), and the pair then began a dance that explored the duality symbolized by their almost identical costumes.

slowdanger dancers (l-r) taylor knight
and anna thompson in “memory 6”
Photo by David Gonsier

Portraying two sides of one individual, or suggesting that there’s no difference between genders, or displaying the agony of being born one sex and believing oneself to be the other, or exploring the nature of an unusually confusing but emotionally powerful relationship, or permutations of any or all of them, has been done before. [Or maybe, given its title, the dance is about breaking away from the memory of a relationship, or the memory of a prior life.] But after getting over the intentional deception and focusing on the choreography, exactly what thompson and knight are trying to portray becomes less important than how they’re doing it, and the choreography here – the passion and pain of this relationship, whatever the nature of that relationship may be – is so intense, and so well-executed, that ultimately the reason behind it doesn’t matter. That being said, it would have been nice to have had a clue.

Members of Ariel Rivka Dance
in Ariel Grossman’s “She”
Photo by David Gonsier

Following a reprise of Grossman’s She, which on second view looks even more accomplished and powerful than it did previously, ARD presented the evening’s second world premiere, Mossy. To another composition by De Kenessey, Grossman here creates a duet that, according to the program note, “reflects the physical, emotional and intellectual consequences of constant interruption,” from a mother’s perspective. While I enjoyed the piece as a relatively abstract expression of dependence and independence, I was less sanguine about the communication of Grossman’s intent. I could see the emotional turmoil, but I couldn’t see the cause of it; I saw nothing that I could connect to a mother’s constant interruption. Indeed, the presence of two women in the piece makes little sense (with respect to Grossman’s stated intent) unless one posits that the two women are really depictions of the same woman whose life and personal identity has been torn apart, in which case the cause of the inner turmoil might be considered irrelevant. But if the turmoil is to be considered in a context, something more is needed. Again, however, as an expression of two women’s inexplicable inner turmoil, the dance was very well crafted, and very movingly executed by Caitlyn Casson and Casie O’Kane.

Members of Ariel Rivka Dance
in Ariel Grossman’s “Mossy”
Photo by David Gonsier

Before the evening concluded with ARD’s reprise of Grossman’s Ori, Alison Cook Beatty Dance, a company I’d not previously seen, presented Magnetic Temptations, a powerful though not entirely successful piece of work danced magnificently by the company’s eight dancers. There’s nothing wrong with the Artistic Director Alison Cook-Beatty’s choreography – in fact, much of it is quite impressive, with a combined lyrical / balletic and contemporary edge, but it’s too repetitious (which is caused by the nature of the subject) and too long (which is caused by the score).

Members of Ariel Rivka Dance
in Ariel Grossman’s “Ori”
Photo by David Gonsier

Without knowing more than what was presented on stage, I saw Magnetic Temptations as a mystical dance that explores the ability to overcome destructive emotional forces, like tempting sirens, through the power of prayer. To me, the accompanying music sounded Buddhist, or maybe Islamic, since the sound was vaguely Middle-Eastern – something like an extended call to prayer or to battle inner demons, or both. I believe I’m right as to the first part of that – in my view, that kind of spiritual battle against “magnetic temptations” is what Cook-Beatty was choreographing, but I was completely wrong about the musical source.

Following the program, I found that the score selected by Cook-Beatty, Grá agus Bás, by Donnacha Demehy, is an example of historic Irish melismatic music that Demehy, a contemporary Irish singer / composer / musician, and associate artists created, at least in part, to both rekindle and celebrate the style. In melismatic music, vowel sounds are carried over two or more musical notes that vary in pitch and duration. And it does have a connection to religious music – it’s a characteristic of sacred songs of Middle-Eastern origin (Islamic; Jewish), as well as Gregorian chant.

Members of Alison Cook Beatty Dance
in Alison Cook-Beatty’s “Magnetic Temptations”
Photo by Paul B. Goode

I’m not a music scholar, but to my ear, where some melismatic music sounds uplifting either by itself or in connection with dispassionately conveying a narrative, other examples can sound musically one-dimensional and aurally irritating (which may be how it’s supposed to sound), with minimal sound variety, no rhythm, and little in the way of melodic development. I suppose that one’s reaction to it depends, to a large extent, on one’s cultural background and exposure. That’s a long-winded way of explaining why, although many commentators have found Grá agus Bás to be not just an attempt to resuscitate a mostly forgotten Irish style (“sean-nos,” which means “old style”) and an extraordinary accomplishment, I found it withering. I’ll grant, though, that it grows in texture and timbre as it approaches its end – it just takes a long time (over 25 minutes) to get there.

Translated, “Grá agus Bás” means “Love and Death.”  I didn’t find a translation of the lyrics, but that title, combined with the music’s sound quality, is certainly sufficient to inspire the visualization of psycho-religious battle for the soul. I found much of Cook-Beatty’s choreography to be thrilling to watch, with an emphasis on images of the central character, Timothy Ward, confronting and battling forces that adhere to his body, and by extension his soul, like magnets. These forces are primarily, to me, depicted as sexual temptations (ergo, the dance’s title), a conclusion difficult to avoid since much of the dance consists of the company’s female dancers hurling themselves at Ward like sirens, or furies, or a plague of attractive locusts, and wrapping their bodies around his until he fights them off – only to have them regroup and attack again. They’re relentless. I suspect that Cook-Beatty didn’t intend to limit the temptations to that one temptation – the pervasive sirens are probably visual metaphors for a host of destructive impulses.

Except for the choreography for Ward, which I found relatively uninteresting (he’s possessed by these destructive forces, tries to run from them, runs backward in circles a lot for reasons not at all clear to me, occasionally reaches up as if praying for some supreme being’s assistance, and otherwise appears as a victim of persistent and unyielding tempting assaults), the choreography for the remaining seven dancers is imaginative and visually fascinating to watch – to a point. After awhile, however, one tires of seeing the same movement, however interesting it may be, repeated over and over (or appear to be), for no apparent reason beyond the fact that the music doesn’t end.

And when, finally, Grá agus Bás reaches its minimalist crescendo, the dance finally ends – with Ward stomping into the ground and the furies that controlled him thereupon disappearing. All he had to do was stomp his feet? It took 25 or so minutes for him to figure that out? Of course that’s not fair – it often takes people lifetimes to overcome inner demons and temptations that they find impossible to ignore. But the audience shouldn’t have to wait that long before a dance’s hero, or “everyperson,” conquers the personal demons that torment him.

The company’s dancers are a solid and engaging group, but I must admit that my focus was almost constantly on the women, who seemed in continual, feverish motion and to be everywhere at once. That they’re also very good at what Cook-Beatty has them do is a bonus. In addition to Ward, the company’s dancers included Carolina Rivera, Fiona Oba, Vera Paganin, Sasha Rydlizky, Niccolo Orsolani, Jacob Brown, and Richard Sayama. While I have quibbles about Magnetic Temptations, Alison Cook Beatty Dance is now on my radar.

Finally, I must again commend ARD for sharing its program with companies of such high caliber. It not only enhances the evening for the audience, it enhances ARD’s pieces by association. And I must also salute the eight companies that joined ARD on these programs, particularly since each had only one performance opportunity. Based on this program, they made the most of it. The other guest companies included Tina Croll + Company, 277 Dance Project (both on Friday’s program), Beth Liebowitz/Beth & Artists, Kyleigh Sackandy, and mignolo dance (on Saturday’s matinee program), and Amma/Amanda Krische and Valerie Green/Dance Entropy (on Saturday evening).

The post Ariel Rivka Dance & Guests: Childs Play, Adult Turmoil appeared first on CriticalDance.

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

March 28-30, 2019

Carmel Morgan

For three evenings in a row I sat and watched the Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane Company perform distinct works that together form the Analogy Trilogy. I was skeptical given the divergent subject matter that the three works would feel like they fit under one umbrella. I remained skeptical after the first two nights. In the end, in my view, Analogy Trilogy did come across as a trilogy, and I was glad I was able to experience it that way.   

The first night featured Analogy/Dora: Tramontane, based on interviews conducted around 2002 between Jones and his mother-in-law Dora Amelan about her life as a young French Jewish woman during WWII. This first section of Analogy Trilogy, which premiered in 2015, certainly tears at the heart. Amelan’s stories are sympathetic and compelling, and the parallels between the internment camps in Vichy France where she volunteered, and the detention of asylum seekers crossing the border into the United States are haunting. In both, families suffer separation. Dora’s observations about children and parents being ripped apart resonate. They are one of the reasons sharing personal narratives is so important. History tends to repeat itself, including, maybe especially, the bad stuff.

Analogy/Dora: Tramontane begins with voices. (“Tramontane,” as defined in the program notes, means “beyond the mountains,” and the term further names a powerful dry, cold wind that occurs in southern France). Microphones and a pair of empty stools sit in an isolated pool of light on an otherwise dark stage. Dancers in pedestrian clothing enter the stage and maneuver large lightweight puzzle-like pieces, designed by Bjorn Amelan, whose mother provides the work’s inspiration. Some of the pieces have a blood red side, others only white or pale gray. Things unfold slowly as nine dancers cooperate to form various shapes. They rotate, bend, kneel, peek over edges, and eventually, a structure with a window and a door appears. The movement is repetitive, not random, and it complements Dora’s words without being a mere pantomime of the actions about which she speaks. The emotions of the dancers adhere to the narrative, even if their individual gestures don’t always closely mimic the scenes described. There’s great beauty in witnessing dance that’s consonant with the dialogue and offers sincere empathy.  

Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane Company, Analogy Trilogy, Analogy/Dora: Tramontane, photo by Paul B. Goode

Dancers take turns taking on Dora’s voice, and this technique works well, although it’s slightly disorienting at first. A stoic sort of sadness permeates many of Dora’s tales, and the dancing tends to match this tone. There are lot of languid sweeps. The arrival of war, however, is depicted by staccato hops, jumps, and flinging arms. I exited the theater thinking that humans are sometimes incredibly fragile, and sometimes incredibly brave and strong. Also, some wreak havoc and cause pain, while others, like Dora, are a source of calm and act as a partial antidote to despair.

Another family member of Jones, his nephew Lance Briggs, is the focus of the second installment of the trilogy. In Analogy/Lance: Pretty aka the Escape Artist, from 2016, once again there’s a spotlight on an empty stage. The audience is welcomed to “The Pretty Show.” Dancers in hoodies move to text based on interviews between Jones and Briggs. I found Briggs to be a more challenging, less sympathetic personality than Dora. He struggles to deal with himself and his alter-ego “Pretty.” The two battle. Dancers strut on a catwalk, stopping to pose. There are bunch of jumps with one leg deeply bent behind, foot almost to rear.

Early on we learn that Briggs, who is African-American, was once a promising young scholarship student studying at the San Francisco Ballet School until drugs and sex work intervened. Although he was still a child then, Lance labeled himself a “predator,” explaining that he preyed on older men, even resorting to threats of blackmail, to obtain money. We also learn that Lance later loses movement in his lower limbs. In between ballet school and the rehabilitation facility, Lance squanders several opportunities to “make it” and often succumbs to harmful addictive behaviors. He comes out with a popular song, travels and works overseas, is occasionally embraced as a performer and model, but he stumbles nonetheless. Lance commits robbery, lands in jail, and continually relapses. These ups and downs are accompanied by some colorful costume and music changes.

Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane Company, Analogy Trilogy, Analogy/Lance: Pretty aka the Escape Artist, photo courtesy of the Company

There’s definitely something lonely about Lance, about his proclamation that he’s not a loser.  The dancers capture the highs of his high times, playfully gyrating, and also his lows, lying and writhing on the floor. As in Dora, dancers at times sharply lean as if carrying a heavy burden. The love and pain are palpable. Jones encourages his nephew to tell his story to a larger audience, to write it down, but Jones is the one who gets around to tackling the storytelling, and he’s very masterful at it.

The final night brought the conclusion, Analogy/Ambros: The Emigrant, based on “Ambros Adelwarth,” who is not a relative of Jones, but a character in the The Emigrants by W.G. Sebald. I couldn’t conceive in advance how this third section could possibly relate to the first two, but it’s the glue that binds them. Right away, I saw familiar objects on the stage — a puzzle-piece from Dora and a projection of a rotating rectangle from Lance. Soon thereafter I also recognized familiar choreography. In fact, much of the choreography appeared to have been recycled from the first two parts of the trilogy. While this third installment isn’t told via interviews with Jones, it similarly depicts personal history through the significant life events of someone else, as discovered by someone else (in this case Sebald) investigating relatives.  

The story of Amrbos has to do with the narrator’s great uncle who emigrated to the United States from Germany, his service to a wealthy family, a possible homosexual relationship, and confinement in a mental institution, including electro-convulsive therapy (ECT). Some of the dancers are interviewed on film talking about their reactions to the material. Subsequently, with regard to the dancing itself, there are flashes of light, and the dancers freeze. This happens over and over and over, perhaps representing ECT and/or the fragmented nature of memory generally.      

Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane Company, Analogy-Trilogy, Analogy/Ambrose: The-Emigrant, photo by Paul B. Goode

One thing that’s markedly different in the final Ambros section is the projection/video design by Associate Artistic Director Janet Wong. In the first two pieces, the projections and videos don’t overwhelm and are kept quite simple, but here they play a much greater role, and dancers even interact with them. However, the simplicity of the costumes by Liz Prince and the brilliance and effectiveness of the score by Nick Hallet is relatively constant throughout.  Plus baritone Matthew Gamble and pianist Emily Manzo, performing live, were always superb. 

I know Analogy Trilogy has a lot of deep, philosophical things to say about the human journey and the desire to unearth and revitalize memories, but in this final section, I got lost. I thought I was keeping up intellectually, and then the threads I thought I’d figured out unraveled. That’s not to say that Jones or the dancers have failed, just that I ultimately felt a little bit left behind, and that’s ok. My inability to grasp the entire big picture doesn’t mean it wasn’t conveyed well, although I could sense that some others similarly felt befuddled, frustrated and/or a little bored. One man stuck his feet out into the aisle and reclined far back in his seat as if to take a nap, one woman played on her cell phone, several others fidgeted in their seats, and one woman left the theater and didn’t return. Yet Analogy Trilogy absolutely deserves to be seen and pondered.   

The post Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane Company: Analogy Trilogy appeared first on CriticalDance.

[pending receipt of additional performance photographs]

Dorrance Dance
New York City Center
New York, New York

March 29, 2010
Program B: Jungle Blues, Three to One, Basses Loaded, Lessons in Tradition, Harlequin and Pantalone, Jump Monk

Jerry Hochman

There may have been someone in Friday night’s City Center audience who didn’t love the Dorrance Dance program, but with the possible exception of some who didn’t want it to end, I doubt it. Simply put, the program I saw (the other two were substantially similar) was one of the finest and most joyous evenings of dance in recent memory. The standing ovation that greeted the company after the final dance’s conclusion extended beyond the orchestra into the theater’s upper levels, and could have continued far longer than it did after the curtain came down, but that’s not a City Center thing. On exiting, there was not a frown to be found.

If there is anyone who has not yet heard of Artistic Director and choreographer Michelle Dorrance and her company of dancers and musicians, suffice it to say that in less than a decade Michelle Dorrance Dance has revitalized tap as a dance art, broadened its scope with choreography that places it on par with that of other forms of theatrical dance, and expanded its boundaries by marrying tap with other forms of dance, and with music not usually associated with it. As I initially observed when I first saw the company, if you think you know tap, think again.

That’s not to say that everything that Dorrance has touched since I became acquainted with the company has turned to gold. At times in recent programs I thought Dorrance, in her zeal to demonstrate tap’s roots and to integrate tap’s cousins into the mix, became too didactic, and in her efforts to take tap into the 21st century and beyond, was pushing an agenda that sounded good on paper, and maybe in rehearsals, and that no doubt appealed to many, but which to me seemed less of a partnership than a shotgun marriage. And I found her recent foray into choreographing for American Ballet Theatre last fall inscrutable and somewhat disappointing.

I say all this to put my reaction to Friday’s program in context. Abetted by two guest choreographers and a guest musician, the program was stunningly well-conceived and executed. Everything worked: the introduction to Dorrance’s choreography represented by a couple of early pieces, Jungle Blues (2012) and Three to One (2011); a smashing world premiere piece, Basses Loaded (a City Center commission); two dances buoyed by the choreography, and the presence of super-clown Bill Irwin, Lessons in Tradition and Harlequin and Pantalone (another City Center commission); and a marvelous dance, Jump Monk, choreographed by legendary tap master Brenda Bufalino. Some may consider the program retro, and perhaps that’s why I found it so appealing. But even if it is, it’s retro with a forward-looking edge.

Dorrance Dance
in Brenda Bufalino’s “Jump Monk”
Photo by Stephanie Berger.

Tap has a long and distinguished heritage, which Dorrance throughout her career has not just acknowledged, but emphasized. But unless one is a scholar of tap, if you think about it, tap is usually associated by an average dancegoer with individual or pair performances as one act among many (e.g., Vaudeville), or as a divertissement in the context of a film or musical theater, or a tv sketch or variety show. The inventiveness and virtuosity was always clear, from Bill “Bojangles” Robinson to the Nicholas Brothers to Astaire and Kelly and Sammy Davis Jr. and Gregory Hines, and especially in those rare situations in which a tap dancer would present a solo evening-length show (a la Savion Glover), but regardless of the particular tap style, to me it seemed more something to appreciate than get enwrapped in. Not surprisingly, the exception, to me, was Agnes de Mille’s use of tap to further the narrative in Rodeo.

Imagine the shock, then, upon seeing those early Dorrance Dance pieces that were choreographed to entertain, and that looked, structurally, a lot like ballet and the best of contemporary dance. There was a broader context of which virtuosity was one component among others, and there was a narrative of sorts. The first audiences to see Jungle Blues and Three to One must have been blown away by the freshness of the experience, and including those dances in this program provides particular insights.

In Three to One, Dorrance is flanked by Byron Tittle and Matthew “Megawatt” West, obviously drawing knowledge and inspiration from the tap experience that they transmit to her. It’s not copycat; it’s more cerebral than that. At the end, the two men depart, leaving Dorrance’s character to make the most of what she’s been given. Even more than the tap dancing itself, the look on Dorrance’s face – a look of both abandonment and opportunity – is universal, and elevates the entire dance to something greater than its tap components.

Jungle Blues is a more complete introduction to the qualities that make a Dorrance Dance performance memorable. Choreographed to the composition of the same name by Jelly Roll Morton, the dance isn’t only an example of tap virtuosity (although there’s plenty of that), it’s a “real dance,” with a defined structure within which are enmeshed the virtuosic solos and dueling duos that seem to an inevitable component of the art form. There’s a “corps” that provides a continually shifting background, featured groups that shuffle in and out of the main area of focus, sub-groups of varying size and composition, and a sense of musicality that makes the choreography an adjunct to and expression of Morton’s multi-faceted composition. In other words, it’s “seeing the music,” except its vehicle is tap rather than ballet or contemporary dance.

(l-r) Warren Craft and Bill Irwin,
with Gregory Richardson on Bass,
in Bill Irwin’s “Harlequin and Pantalone”
Photo by Stephanie Berger

It seems that improvisation goes with tap territory, but it’s clear that even with improvisation, Dorrance’s choreography allows for it rather than either smothering or being dominated by it. And I suppose it’s a credit to both Dorrance and the dancers who improvise that you can’t tell from performance to performance what’s improv and what’s not. But in Jungle Blues, Christopher Broughton is specifically recognized for his solo improvisation, and his solo was audacious and impeccable. Tittle, West, Dorrance, Ephrat “Bounce” Asherie, Warren Craft, and Nicholas Van Young similarly excelled with less extensive solos, whether what they danced was improv or not. Carson Murphy, Claudia Rahardjanoto, and Leonardo Sandoval completed the effervescent and highly capable cast.

These two dances were the evening’s aperitifs. With the world premiere of Basses Loaded, the inventiveness took a step in another dimension.

One of the hallmarks of Dorrance Dance – at least of those pieces I’ve seen – has been the company’s adventurous use of music to inspire and power the dances. It doesn’t always work to my satisfaction (although I must emphasize that audiences have gushed), but with Basses Loaded, it did. The “Basses” of the title are instruments: Double Basses and Electric Basses. Here, to a composition by company musicians Donovan Dorrance and Gregory Richardson, the four dancers (Elizabeth Burke, Luke Hickey, Craft, and Tittle) tap to the varying rhythms and tempi of the score, with the instruments being an increasingly significant part of the stage action. With the musicians initially arrayed upstage left (the Dorrance siblings on Electric Bass, guest musician Kate Davis and Richardson on Double Bass, and Richardson occasionally also on Electric Bass), the dancers at first are driven by the music (with Burke and Hickey particularly memorable), and then, gradually, the musicians change their positions such that they frame some of the action, and then become moving component parts of it, with Davis and Richardson hauling their Double Basses back and forth across the stage (from opposite directions). Instrumentalists have been incorporated into dances before, but I can’t recall seeing anything previously that’s quite like this. If any part of Basses Loaded had been less than stellar, the entire piece might have fallen flat. But the score, the choreography, and the execution (by both the musicians and the dancers) were as flawless as the concept was ingenious. Basses Loaded hit a home run.

(l-r) Michelle Dorrance, Kate Davis,
and Bill Irwin in “Lessons in Tradition”
Photo by Stephanie Berger

The presence of Bill Irwin on the program was a stroke of genius. Without him the program would have been sufficiently rich. With Irwin’s particular gifts – his connection to tap, his history of rich comedic theater, his performance quality, and the choreography he contributed – it overflowed with talent and good cheer. I did not see Irwin in his legendary Broadway appearances, but somehow, I feel as if I had – by osmosis if nothing else. Irwin’s rare quality of intelligent zaniness penetrates the senses and reveals clowning to be the extraordinary performance art form that it is.

Lessons in Tradition, which Irwin co-choreographed with Dorrance (Michelle), was a 2016 Vail Dance Festival commission. This engagement was its New York premiere. The thin “story” of sorts is the contrast between old-school tap (Irwin) with new tap (Dorrance), but that statement provides no clue as to the piece’s scope and ingenious humor. Any attempt to describe it couldn’t possibly do it justice, so I won’t try. Suffice it to say that Irwin and Dorrance, abetted by Kate Davis and Naomi Funaki, delivered a smashingly entertaining piece of theatrical genius. And although the audience was already well aware of Dorrance and Irwin’s multi-faceted talents, Davis’s multi-dimensional talent (musician, singer, actress, and even hoofer) was a huge, and pleasant surprise.

Warren Craft
in Bill Irwin’s “Harlequin and Pantalone”
Photo by Stephanie Berger

If Lessons in Tradition is “about” the tap tradition. Harlequin and Pantalone, the program’s second world premiere, is “about” the comedic theater tradition. Featuring Irwin’s choreography and libretto, and immeasurably enlivened by his narration, the piece is a non-stop smile — not one of belly laughs, but of recognition that what was being presented was comic genius. Harlequin and Pantalone is a take-off on the standard commedia dell’arte Harlequin story, but it’s limited to the two title characters, and elevated to high art by Irwin’s choreography and libretto, and by the astonishing antics of Warren Craft. Craft has performed in every Dorrance Dance program that I’ve seen, and his tall, thin, bald, ghost-like visage belied the superb quality of his tap execution. But nothing I’ve previously seen from Craft prepared me for his comedic tour de force dual character performance here, providing yet another example of the multi-dimensional talents of the members of this company. While it may be a little short on the dance component, Harlequin and Pantalone is a gem.

Dorrance Dance
in Brenda Bufalino’s “Jump Monk”
Photo by Stephanie Berger.

And it was succeeded by yet another gem: the evening’s closing piece, the company premiere of Bufalino’s Jump Monk. Like the earlier Dorrance choreography on this program, Bufalino’s choreography here proves what Dorrance herself has been saying so emphatically: that boundary breaking as her choreography is, it is built on a foundation established by others. Jump Monk was choreographed in 1997 for the North Carolina Youth Tap Ensemble, and my understanding is that this is its first performance by a different company.

Trying to describe Bufalino’s choreography, like attempting to describe Dorrance’s, is an impossible task. It could easily have become a jumble of movement to Charles Mingus’s jazzy, percussive, exuberant music, but it’s not. On the contrary, it’s a coherent dance that, as Dorrance did with Jungle Blues, uses tap as a vehicle for seeing the music, but presents it in a form that provides a definite structure of lines and patterns within which the tap creativity explodes with energy. Like everything else on the program, Jump Monk is a celebration, and a joy to watch.

Just as tap is far more than slamming one’s metal-augmented feet to the floor, this Dorrance Program was far more than an evening of tap. At the risk of abusing an already abused metaphor, it was the grandest of grand slams.

The post Dorrance Dance: A Grand Slam appeared first on CriticalDance.

[pending receipt of performance photographs]

Natalia Osipova’s Pure Dance, with David Hallberg
New York City Center
New York, New York

April  3, 2019
The Leaves are Fading (pas de deux), Flutter, In Absentia, Six Years Later, Ave Maria, Valse Triste

Jerry Hochman

As might be expected in an evening of dance featuring two of the finest ballet dancers of this generation, there was nothing less than stellar about their performances, those of the two other dancers with whom Osipova and Hallberg shared the program (Jonathan Goddard and Jason Kittelberger), and many of the six dances in which they appeared. It might not have been the kind of “pure dance” that the program’s title implies (not a single piece on the program lacked at least some emotional or thematic component), but to me this was a positive. As good as most of it was, however, until the evening’s final piece, something was missing – those very qualities that make Osipova and Hallberg the great dancers they are.

One of these qualities is the capacity to make ballet movement sing. Perhaps that’s why I so admired their execution of Alexei Ratmansky’s Valse Triste – and perhaps it’s also because Ratmansky choreographed this ballet on them (it premiered with the initial performance of this program, at Sadlers Wells in London on September 12, 2018). Ratmansky’s pieces often require more than one viewing to fully appreciate their complexities and wit, and maybe that will be the case with Valse Triste. But on first view, the piece is the joyful song in movement that I’d looked forward to seeing throughout the evening, and that I’ll look forward to seeing again to fully appreciate. But for now, its presence as the concluding piece on the program made the wait to get there worthwhile.

To Jean Sibelius’s eponymous 1904 composition, the piece, like the music, is a study in pleasant contradiction. “Valse Triste” means “sad waltz,” but there is nothing sad about the music. The contradictions arise from Sibelius’s subject – the arrival of death, and the furious attempts to escape its grasp that precede it. That aspect of the piece does not exist in Ratmansky’s ballet – what’s there is a delicious and enchanting duet that begins (as does the music) reflectively, but soon is overwhelmed with exuberance. Instead of an annunciation of death, the music here becomes a celebration of a relationship rescued from the depths of … something (whatever it was that prompted the initial image) to, ultimately and literally, soar. As the piece begins, Hallberg stops to think about …something, and Osipova playfully pulls him out of it. They glide through the air and across the stage, they entertain each other with solos, they inspire each other – all through silken smooth choreography that characteristically looks far simpler than it is. It’s a magnificent little piece, and it was a magnificent way to end this program.

Some of what came before it was quite good; some not; but all the dances were high caliber. For me, the finest were the two solos, In Absentia, danced by Hallberg, and Ave Maria, by Osipova.

I’ve only seen one dance choreographed by Kim Brandstrup, Jeux, a piece he created for New York City Ballet. As undeniably well-crafted as it was, I found it muddy, with images that, though interesting in a cerebral way, were inscrutable. In Absentia is a much more focused piece, and far more successful both in concept and in execution.

The extensive program note, however, almost scuttled it. There Brandstrup relates the title to two things: the way in which a dancer, having absorbed the music to a particular piece, “absents” himself from the world around him and focuses his attention on making the music flow from within. The other sense of “absence,” according to Brandstrup, relates to the way he says Hallberg reacted in the studio while creating this piece, resulting in a sense of solitude that infused the room.

David Hallberg,
here with Stella Abrera
in Alexei Ratmansky’s
“Whipped Cream”
Photo by Gene Schiavone

I saw none of that, although I don’t doubt both happened as the dance was being prepared. Choreographed to J.S. Bach’s Chaconne in D-minor, Part 1, In Absentia is far simpler, and far less cerebral and mystical. Hallberg is seated in a chair slightly downstage right, facing a light emanating from that corner of the stage, as if hypnotized by it. But there’s a difference between being catatonic and being totally absorbed in whatever it is that’s commanding his attention, and Hallberg definitely communicated the latter. The mysterious, somehow pervasive beam of light serves another function – emanating from below and in front of Hallberg, it casts his huge shadow against the back stage scrim (lighting design by Jean Kalman). The image of a brooding Hallberg literally overshadowed by the echo of a brooding Hallberg is emblematic of the power that this “force” has over him, and the Herculean effort it might take, in his mind, to relieve himself of this shadowy burden.

Following this initial period of blank-faced concentration, Hallberg lifts himself from the chair, and, still possessed by that dominating “force,” responds to it in movement, as if, having been presented with some scenario, he was – seemingly mindlessly – working through whatever the experience was. Another way to see it, equally valid I think, is that he was exploring impulses of his own that no longer existed, having been subsumed by the spell that this force had over him. Either way, Hallberg’s performance as a man who isn’t there, but is, is as magnificent in its own way as was his portrayal of the tormented, emotionally imprisoned victim of totalitarian excess, with the unseen image of Stalin looming over his shoulder, in Ratmansky’s Chamber Symphony, from his Shostakovich Trilogy. [And how appropriate it would have been for American Ballet Theatre to have returned this masterpiece to their repertory this coming Met 2019 season.]

In the end, unable to escape the force that has captured him (or having worked through whatever moribund inclinations he may have had), Hallberg returns to his chair, and to staring at that light – which now clearly is emanating from some screen (either television or a computer monitor) to which he has yielded his mind and body.

So, if it’s not sufficiently apparent, In Absentia is “about” a person who absents himself from community, a zombie-ish prisoner of a a different sort of totalitarianism. In someone else’s hands, this piece might have been as commonplace as the dance’s subject would lead one to believe. But in Hallberg’s, it cut like a knife.

Natalia Osipova,
here in Russell Maliphant’s
“Silent Echo”
Photo by Bill Cooper

To balance Hallberg’s solo, Osipova danced one of her own: Ave Maria, choreographed by Yuka Oishi. I’m not familiar with Oishi’s work, but this solo was highly accomplished, although with limited movement variety. That being said, it relied more on Osipova’s infusion of character than on steps.

The dance opens with Osipova, in a simple but stunning white dress (costume design by Stewart J. Charlesworth), with her back to the audience. As she begins to move to the strains of Schubert’s composition, she, uncharacteristically, looks weighted, as if burdened, or broken. Oishi stresses in a program note that the piece is not religious, but about a woman’s “strength of love and sensibility.” I disagree. While there’s certainly evidence of strength, it’s the strength to cope, to survive, and to overcome adversity. She’s not lamenting (this is not akin to Martha Graham’s Lamentation); she’s overcoming. And a religious element is produced not just by the nature of the music, but in images of Osipova reaching upward as if in prayer, even if it’s praying only to some unknown force, and for more strength. It’s a mystical quality that infuses the dance, which has an Asian, maybe Indian, feel. With an included sense of ritual, Ave Maria brings to my mind’s eye a solo that Nikiya might have danced in La Bayadere. That being said, Osipova makes the most of the limited movement, seething with passionate resolve to overcome whatever it is that is beating her down, and saving it from being an overly saccharine tribute to a woman’s inner strength.

The two contemporary dances had moments, but didn’t really gel. Flutter is choreographed by Ivan Perez to music by Nico Muhly (“Mothertongue: 1. Archive, II. Shower, IV. Monster”), a composition comprised of a soundscape of women’s voices speaking the numbers of addresses where Muhly had lived. Some of it sounds angelic, but most of it comes across as just a very strange, and affected, take on Julio Iglesias’s “To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before.”

Flutter is almost as strange. Osipova and Goddard are crazy for each other – their fluttering arms and legs seeming to propel them to more fluttering arms and legs. Every once in awhile, the couple retreat upstage to the back scrim, but do not disappear in the darkness (the program note says they do; they don’t). They just retreat as if regrouping, and then return to center stage. And every once in awhile, Osipova will be drawn toward the front of the stage, looking down briefly at where the orchestra pit might be, looking increasingly nervous about what’s there.

Natalia Osipova and Jason Kittelberger,
here with James O’Hara
in Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui’s “Qutb”
Photo Bill Cooper

As this dance progresses, the significance, and the time devoted to, Osipova’s peering into this abyss of sorts and being impacted by it increases, until it almost destroys the relationship – but it doesn’t. What purpose does this serve? Perez doesn’t say in the program note, but the only explanation that makes sense is that the abyss is what Osipova sees when she looks into an uncertain future. I suppose, as visual metaphors go, it’s as good as any, but between the fluttery choreography, the meaningless retreats upstage, and the growing significance of this abyss, it all borders on the sophomoric.

Osipova and Goddard make the most of the fluttering choreography (as I watched, I thought of a Dancing With the Stars “quick step,” zapped with a continuing electric charge that made the dancers’ limbs flail uncontrollably), but as good as their execution was, nothing could really save this piece.

Six Years Later is better, but it’s a close call. This dance is about is a different kind of “abyss” – the abyss of memory, and the persistence of it, real or imagined. Its narrative of sorts, according to the program note, is a casual encounter, which may or may not have been so casual, and which spawns memories of presumed past encounters, which may have happened, or maybe didn’t, or maybe followed the opening encounter, or maybe happened many times. The piece is filled with passion, artificial excuses for disagreements, break ups, reunions, passion, artificial reasons for disagreements … you get the idea. It also featured, choreographically, a lot of head-pulling and manipulating, which beyond the obvious sensation of the characters playing with each other’s heads, made me uncomfortable.

What saves the dance is the superb job that Osipova and Kittelberger do in investing their characters with a touch of humanity despite the contrived silliness of what they’re doing. Don’t misinterpret that – this kind of situation – memories built on memories that get rekindled or re-remembered repeatedly – is not an unusual phenomenon. It awaits a more intelligent rendering than choreographer Roy Assaf gave it. But Six Years Later has the music (Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata), and more of a purpose than a generalized fear of some unknown abyss. And Kittelberger, who I last saw in another Osipova program (with Sergei Polunin) in 2016 at City Center, in Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui’s Qutb, and who I described then as being very good as somewhat of a stone in motion, here displayed considerable emotional involvement – but it was undone by the choreographic artificiality.

This brings me all the way back to the program’s opening piece: to me, the evening’s one major disappointment. Antony Tudor’s The Leaves are Fading is one of my favorite ballets. From the first time I saw it, it struck a chord – and not just because I saw it at its premiere performance. It was the subject of my first review (not a formal one; an assignment for a class I was taking at the New School). I remember everything about it vividly – including most memorably the central pas de deux with Gelsey Kirkland and Jonas Kage. Somehow, it made my heart soar and melt and explode at the same time. I’ve seen it many times since, including danced by Amanda McKerrow and John Gardner, who staged this presentation and who were in the audience for this opening night, and I have very strong feelings about it.

Taking this pas de deux out of context exemplifies why I react negatively to excerpts from larger pieces that are presented out of context. It may be a scene apart, but it’s a part of a whole, without which it becomes a simple, lovely pas de deux without a reason for being. In context, within a woman’s autumnal memories, it’s a reimagining of what it was like to be young and in love. Several smaller duets precede it, each very nice but each somewhat surface, like a summer romance. And then the Kirkland / Kage duet became the focus, beginning like the others, but gradually becoming something considerably more. The change in character, all within the context of a woman’s memory, from what may have been a summer fling to the couple’s recognition that this love was going to last and endure, is in Antonin Dvorak’s skillfully assembled music and Tudor’s choreography, and epitomizes why Tudor is the master of being able to see inside a character’s head and make them not just real, but compelling. And, of course, it requires performances capable of expressing those emotions primarily through the choreography, but also through the soul – with a minimum of emoting. Kirkland had it with Kage and later with Ivan Nagy, as did Amanda McKerrow, who performed it together with John Gardner, both of whom staged this performance. It’s soul.

But that soul, that connection, was absent from Osipova and Hallberg’s performance. Their execution was first rate, but it was steps. The emotional growth, the recognition and the communication that this relationship was different from the others, wasn’t there. It wasn’t their fault – it couldn’t have been communicated as an excerpt. It left me appreciating their performances, but feeling unmoved.

Which returns me, now, to the end, and the beginning. Had I not seen the relationship built between Osipova and Hallberg during the ballet’s closing piece, Ratmansky’s Valse Triste, I might have wondered about the quality of their reportedly legendary relationship (despite the undeniable quality of their Giselle with ABT a couple of years ago). I still doubt that theirs is anything close to the stage relationship between Diana Vishneva and Marcelo Gomes, but at the end of Valse Triste, when Hallberg lifts Osipova horizontally overhead, her body facing the sky, arms and legs extended upward, both joyously acting as one, this gave me some hope that they will return, together, in a vehicle that can more suitably reveal the character of their stage relationship.

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The Print Room at The Coronet
London

21st March 2019

Stuart Sweeney

Saburo Teshigawara’s distinctive work has garnered for him a worldwide reputation as a dancer, choreographer and teacher. It was noteworthy at the opening night of The Idiot that so many of the celebrated names of the London dance world were in attendance. In 2013, Teshigawara founded Karas Apparatus a combined studio, gallery and performance space for up to 60 attendees with post performance discussions part of the routine. It was there that The Idiot was first performed in 2016 and it is fitting that his first visit to England with this production should be in the intimate setting of the Print Room.

It’s confession time: I haven’t read Dosteovsky’s The Idiot, but a quick look at a plot summary was helpful before the performance. The novel, considered one of the author’s finest, charts the life of Prince Myshkin, a young man who has spent several years in a sanatorium and as a result is awkward and inexperienced in dealing with his peer group. Although possessing intelligence and high moral principles, he is sometimes called an idiot by those who do not see below his surface.

We first see Teshigawara framed in a pool of flickering light, standing with knees slightly bent, expressing his vulnerability. As he depicts Myshkin’s physical disability, his movement quality is arresting – a whole body experience with hands, arms and legs apparently with a life of their own as he move with staccato rhythms. In another section, Myshkin’s illness is portrayed with Teshigawara’s hands fluttering like frantic butterflies.

Rihoko Sato and Saburo Teshigawara in The Idiot
Photograph by Elliott Franks

Teshigawara is partnered by Rihoko Sato, playing the role of Nastasya. She is an elegant and precise dancer and we see Myshkin immediately enthralled by this vision. Their duets see Myshkin dancing in his most integrated style, but in her absence he reverts to the earlier, awkward, hectic style.

In the novel, Myshkin is betrothed to Nastasya and on their wedding day, his best friend runs off with bride to be and then kills her. The murderer invites Myshkin to visit and after seeing the body, the Prince descends into madness. On stage, we merely see Nastasya’s body stretched out, which would have lacked resonance for anyone without a knowledge of the tragic circumstances of the original plot. However, Myshkin’s anguish is movingly portrayed by Teshigawara, collapsing onto the his knees with his legs splayed out in hopeless despair.

Saburo Teshigawara in The Idiot
Photograph by Elliott Franks

Overall, Teshigawara and Sato present snapshots of the huge novel with imaginative choreography. I have one caveat: Teshigawara’s disturbed dancing does becomes repetitive and even at only one hour, the performance would be stronger with a 10 minute edit.

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Round My World
Hand Dance
Eight Women
Runes
Caught
Whirlaway

George Mason University Center for the Arts
Fairfax, VA

April 20, 2019

Carmel Morgan

The audience assembled to see Parsons Dance at George Mason University on the night before Easter Sunday was on the smaller side, not close to a full house, but the enthusiasm for the dancing was robust. Well-deserved spontaneous shouts and claps burst forth, and I overheard a few gasps of amazement, too. The dancers, particularly the indefatigable Zoey Anderson, recent winner of the 9th Annual Clive Barnes Dance Artist Award, gave a rousing performance worthy of the warm reception.

The night opened with Round My World, choreographed by Parsons in 2012 to music by Zoe Keating. The dancers wear light blue costumes by Emily DeAngelis — pants with a darker blue belt for the three men (and no shirts), dresses with knee-length flowy skirts for the three women. The demeanor of the dancers leans toward icy coldness like the pale blue of the costumes, but there are moments of surprising affection, too. Parsons strictly adheres to his roundness theme. The arms of the dancers frequently form rings, ovals above their heads or larger circles when grasping the hands of another. All of the arms opening and closing becomes tiresome. The music tends to repetitively pulse as well. I might have appreciated Round My World more if the work had been shorter, rather than being comprised of so many permutations of the same circular theme. Round My World is nonetheless detailed and pretty. It succeeds most when it strays further from its theme. When a couple with conjoined hands jointly tug and pull, their circle violently rippling, I was enrapt.   

I had not previously seen Artistic Director and Co-Founder David Parsons’s signature work Caught performed by a woman. There’s no reason why this challenging solo can’t be ably done by a female, and Anderson proved this to be true. In this must-see work, the dancer, via clever strobe lighting by Co-Founder and Resident Lighting Designer Howell Binkley (who recently won a Tony Award and Sir Laurence Olivier Award for the lighting design of Hamilton), seemingly floats in the air for extended periods of time. Caught could come across as gimmicky, but it never does, thanks to its strong choreography and mesmerizing lighting effects. Caught perfectly captures the magic and joy of dance, and Anderson exuded these qualities while also showing off her enviable musculature and technical prowess. As Anderson soared and glided like a winged creature or hovered above the stage like a mystic figure, people in the audience whispered with awe and reverence, “Wow!” and “How’d she do that?”      

With no more time than to quickly change costumes, and with no hint of diminished energy, after Caught Anderson roared back to the stage in the evening’s closing work, Whirlaway, choreographed by Parsons in 2014. She impressed with her grooving to iconic New Orleans musician Allen Toussaint’s funky rhythms. Her sly shoulder rolls and flirty smiles accentuated the coltish choreography. Yet this tribute to beloved music of a bygone era echoed too closely another work on the program, Trey McIntyre’s Eight Women, from 2019.

In Eight Women, eight dancers (but only half of them women — the title, I assume, comes from the songs of Aretha Franklin that accompany the work), reside inside the music but don’t transcend it. The costumes by Sylvie Rood resemble wide-legged jumpsuits, but the bottoms have billowy sheer layers, whose fullness makes them look like skirts. In this way, the men embody women. In general, Eight Women is a spirited, crowd pleasing work. McIntyre isn’t his sometimes silly self here. The choreography reaches for depth and meaning. In solos and groups, on their knees or upright kicking, the dancers, in haze that enveloped the first three works on the program, were engaging. However, although at times the dancing was moving, more often it seemed to merely scratch the surface of the music’s emotional content. Because the work is brand new, maybe it’ll take more time to become rooted in the dancers before it really gels.   

I’m not sure which choreographer, McIntyre or Parsons, prevailed in the battle to highlight heartfelt music through dancing. Honestly, I think the music may have won. The powerful music in both Whirlaway and Eight Women at times overwhelmed the dancers.             

Like Caught, Hand Dance is another popular and relatively brief work by Parsons featuring clever lighting design by Binkley. Undeniably entertaining, Hand Dance is light and humorous, more of a dance appetizer than a meal of a dance. Five dancers (who aren’t named in the program) stand in a line. Their hands, and only their hands, are brightly lit, the rest of the stage is shrouded in black. Hands flutter, join and break free, and fluidly form shapes between synchronous rises and falls. Also like Caught, Hand Dance relies heavily on perfect timing and avoids being a mere gimmick. The length of Hand Dance is just right, allowing the hands to explore multiple amusing configurations without overstaying their welcome. The unidentified five dancers pulled off the work without a hitch.  

After intermission came the company premiere of Runes, which was first performed in 1975 by the Paul Taylor Dance Company. Parsons once danced in this Paul Taylor piece, and I imagine he wanted to see it performed by his company because he has fond memories performing it. The subtitle of Runes is “secret writings for casting a spell,” and there’s definitely something spooky about it. Gerald Busby’s clanging musical composition includes some static in the recording. The lighting by Jennifer Tipton makes conspicuous a large round blue moon, which slowly ascends as the work unfolds. George Tacet’s costumes, tight-fitting nude outfits with dark fur along the back of the shoulders, lend the dancers an otherworldly, but still human air. The dancers, using repeated hand gestures, surround a body lying face-up, flat on the floor. Subsequently, the prostrate dancer stands and someone else takes his or her place on the ground. These odd rituals are performed with utmost seriousness. The dark, rather abstract drama is interesting at first, but I started to shift in my seat after a while. I enjoyed seeing this vintage Paul Taylor work, especially witnessing some spectacular lifts (a man crosses the stage holding two women aloft — one on a hip, another on his shoulder), but Runes is not among my favorite Taylor pieces.

Parsons Dance will be at the Joyce Theater in New York City from May 14-26, 2019.  Despite some minor reservations, I do recommend attending. The current company is quite strong, and Anderson, in particular, is a brilliant standout performer.

The post Parsons Dance appeared first on CriticalDance.

Heather Desaulniers

• San Francisco Ballet – Program 6 – Space Between
  War Memorial Opera House, San Francisco
• Cal Performances presents
  Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater – Program A
  Zellerbach Hall, Berkeley
• Alonzo King LINES Ballet – Spring Season
  Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, San Francisco
• Post:Ballet – Lavender Country
  Z Space, San Francisco

April 6th – In danceland, many musical scores end up being inexorably linked to particular choreography. When I hear the first notes of Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for Strings in C, I anticipate the corps de ballet dressed in light blue for George Balanchine’s Serenade. The whistles and unexpected intervals at the beginning of West Side Story make me crave Jerome Robbins’ signature relevé in second. But I also love it when dancemakers break with convention and posit new, different, unexpected language with such scores. That’s what Justin Peck did with Rodeo: Four Dance Episodes, the opener on San Francisco Ballet’s sixth program, Space Between. The 2015 work takes Aaron Copland’s stirring music, originally composed for Agnes de Mille’s 1942 Rodeo ballet, and asks what it has to say some eight decades later.

San Francisco Ballet in Justin Peck’s Rodeo: Four Dance Episodes
Photo © Erik Tomasson

And the answer is, a lot. While Rodeo: Four Dance Episodes certainly pays homage to the past with nostalgic western tropes and old-school musical theater motifs, its choreographic syntax is undeniably twenty-first century. Pedestrian motions are seamlessly combined with highly technical phrases, making the work approachable and fresh. In one instant, the ensemble runs full speed across the stage; in another, they execute perfectly timed unison pirouettes. Peck isn’t afraid of stillness and uses it well throughout the ballet. Impactful, frozen postures of waiting and searching abound: palms splayed, long lunges and expectant upward glances. And the sense of camaraderie amongst the cast of fifteen men and one woman is palpable – they looked like they were having so much fun. But it is the sole female role, danced by Sofiane Sylve, that is most intriguing. From the moment Sylve appears through her pas de deux with Carlo Di Lanno to the final blackout, one is struck by incredible self-assurance. She enters partway through Rodeo: Four Dance Episodes, and so, is indeed joining an ongoing, in process conversation that the men have been having. But with every step, every glance, it is clear that she feels no need to adjust her reality or fit into some perceived mold. Not only is this embodied in her solo work, but also in the primary duet. Peck imbued this pas de deux with abundant counterbalances – shapes and positions requiring equal force from both dancers – and at several points, it was Sylve who was providing the base of support for the partnering. And no discussion of Rodeo: Four Dance Episodes is complete without some bravura highlights. Hansuke Yamamoto wowed with his series of brisés cabrioles, and Esteban Hernandez’ purposely slowing fouettés were met with uproarious applause.

As the lights slowly warmed on Liam Scarlett’s new work for SFB, Die Toteninsel, it was clear that Program 6 was nowhere near done exploring the relationship between movement and music. Die Toteninsel impresses on many levels. Narratively, it has a real Rite of Spring vibe to it, minus the sacrifice part. There’s a community; there’s a feeling of ritualistic purpose; and there’s a definite ominous undercurrent. But the ballet’s shining glory is in its mirroring of Sergei Rachmaninoff’s music. Both have an air of unpredictability and morph from one space to another in a deliciously porous wave. Rachmaninoff’s compositions are known for having a wonderful quality of surprise and change, really transcending genre. In a single piece, you might hear the virtuosity and rubato of the Romantic era, the tonal ambiguity of the Impressionists, Baroque counterpoint and 20th Century chromaticism. And the genius is that it all works together. The same is true of what Scarlett created with Die Toteninsel. Defying a particular sense of time, the piece looked futuristic, biblical and mythological all at the same time. Its tone was concurrently determined, worshipful, passionate and foreboding. Partnerships were constantly in flux as the cast navigated their relationship to David Finn’s large circular light sculpture (which itself also shifted and pivoted throughout the work). Choreographically, Scarlett mined a range of styles and dynamics – pedestrian walking, classical arabesques, contemporary inverted lifts and serpentine twisting. And while there were plenty of large poses and vast extensions, Scarlett spent ample time with low positions. Low arabesques, low passés and turns in ¼ relevé felt a metaphor for being on a journey. A journey that, like those positions, hadn’t reached its final leg yet. A journey through a tunnel of moods, tones and atmospheres, that, even if you weren’t quite sure what was happening, you wanted to watch.

Space Between closed with one more chapter celebrating the choreography/sound connection: the return of Arthur Pita’s Björk Ballet, which debuted last year as part of SFB’s Unbound Festival. A tribute to the musical artist, Björk Ballet takes a very typical compositional form – the dance suite, a larger work comprised of multiple consecutive choreographic chapters, each one usually accompanied by a different musical selection. Pita followed the formula, with nine episodes set to nine songs. But other than that framework, there was nothing typical about Björk Ballet. There were characters, costumes and masks aplenty. We met fire soldiers, a sparkling butterfly, an army of chess pieces, a warrior Queen and a masked fisherman. Visual spectacle was everywhere: mirrored Marley floor, ardent make out sessions, fiber-optic palm trees falling from the ceiling, dancers standing atop a bright red platform, a giant fishing pole. Pita pulled from many movement genres including jazz, figure skating, yoga and acrobatics; I half expected aerial artists to make an appearance at some point. The piece was definitely entertaining. It moved quickly, was visually engaging and thoroughly inventive. Having said that, there were a number of sections that looked bizarre simply for the sake of being bizarre, which doesn’t speak to this particular viewer. And there was a missed opportunity near the end. One of Björk Ballet’s later chapters sees the large cast funneling on and off the stage in a jumping, pulsing staccato flurry. It felt like the conclusion, and because it did, the scenes that followed were a bit of let down.

April 9th – For four days a man had been presumed dead. A miraculous healer arrived to tell his friends and family that this was not the end. It was hard for them to imagine. Yet, his tombstone was removed and there he stood alive.

So many threads run through the Lazarus parable. Themes of faith and hope. Themes of believing in the face of seemingly impossible circumstances. Themes of rising from quietus. And themes of porousness – the porousness between life and death, and the porousness of time.

All of these strands come together in Lazarus, choreographed in 2018 by Rennie Harris for Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater. The two-act work, which Artistic Director Robert Battle shared in his opening remarks was a first for the company, takes its audience on a journey. A journey through the African American experience, a journey through history and a journey through space and time. Within these larger narratives, Harris also weaves tributes and remembrances to both to Alvin Ailey and to AAADT on the occasion of their sixtieth anniversary. This gripping work saw its Bay Area premiere Tuesday night as the troupe opened its annual weeklong residency at Cal Performances (Lazarus was also co-commissioned by Cal Performances).

Lazarus doesn’t seek to be a literal rendering of the biblical story. Instead, it applies the broader themes to three different eras, and unpacks them through movement and scenework. First Harris takes the viewer back in time, to the horrors of slavery. Potent, disturbing images of forced labor, human cruelty, even lynching, pervade the stage: dancers trudged through the space, heads down, arms drilling toward the ground. Mouths contorted in silent screams; hands shook, desperately praying for justice; torsos wailed in grief. Several phrases saw the cast running full speed away from something terrifying. Yet, amidst all that terror, Harris also injected glimpses of hope. A deep sense of community underscored this entire first scene, as did a recurring physical motif. Dancers would traverse the stage with suspended, slow motion strides coupled with expectant, lifted gazes and longing expressions. These vast lunges weren’t running out of extreme fear, they were all about moving forward, toward something or someone. I couldn’t specifically say what that thing or person was, though the tone undeniably spoke of resilience, of rising like Lazarus.

Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater in Rennie Harris’ Lazarus
Photo Paul Kolnik

The connection to the source material was far from over as Lazarus shifted into its next chapter – the mid-twentieth century. As the first act came to its close, what struck was the porousness of time. Lazarus had indeed morphed to a different era, no question. Plain, rural clothing had been replaced with costume designer Mark Eric’s take on 1960s stylings. And Harris added a more sinewy expression of the upper body to the traditional African percussive footwork. Though much (good and bad) was the same, despite the time lapse. The feeling of community was still unmistakable. But so was the violence and bloodshed. Bodies flung and crumbled all over the space, as if hit by gunfire. After intermission, Act II of Lazarus once again took us to a new place and time. Jeweled-toned tunics, trimmed with gold had a definite 1980s vibe and the high-throttle, pulsing, free choreography added a note of celebration. This felt like heaven, maybe even the heaven that welcomed Mr. Ailey after he passed from this world in 1989. But at the same time, you couldn’t be sure it was heaven. As the lights fell on Lazarus, that line between life and afterlife had been left purposely uncertain.

Lazarus is a powerful work that fires on all cylinders – design, music, movement and narrative. And it was brilliantly interpreted by the entire Ailey company. Though the piece’s formal structure did spark a question. The dance clearly has three parts to it, but is divided into two acts. The middle section (tacked onto the end of Act I) felt a little rushed and less developed than the other two segments. I wonder what Lazarus would look like as a three-part ballet, with an expanded middle section and one act dedicated to each separate scene.

And of course, the evening closed with Ailey’s 1960 masterwork Revelations. As with so many, I never tire of seeing this transcendent dance suite. Highlights at this viewing included the unison port de bras and port de corps during I Been ‘Buked and the urgent yearning that Jacqueline Green and Jamar Roberts brought to the spellbinding Fix Me, Jesus pas de deux.

April 12th – A gift of any Alonzo King LINES Ballet performance is the opportunity to see the company’s stunning dance artists. Even if the individual choreographic works don’t necessarily speak to you, their technical bravura, exceptional eloquence and authentic grace are indisputable. And the dancers were absolutely on fire Friday night as LINES opened its spring season at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts. I can’t stress enough the gift and privilege it was to witness them in motion.

The program itself, a double bill featuring the return of 2016’s Art Songs and the world premiere of Pole Star, also impressed. Both pieces mine the dialogue and exchange between movement and music – a rich line of inquiry that was central to the troupe’s fall offering, which included a nod to Baroque musicality and a collaboration with Kronos Quartet. Six months later, LINES continued that foray into the sound/body connection.

In music, counterpoint is a compositional tool, where motifs, lines or voices are experienced as simultaneously independent and interdependent – independent, in that they certainly can stand on their own, and interdependent, in that they also work together to create a sumptuous aural palette. In Art Songs, Artistic Director/Founder/Choreographer Alonzo King looks to that concurrency, and places movement as a counterpoint to Baroque, Romantic and contemporary composers. Costumed by Robert Rosenwasser in whites, silvers and black velvet, the company contributed an additional artistic line to the recorded instrumental and vocal selections, and in doing so, added a riveting tone of desperation and passion. While there were a few ensemble sequences, the majority of the work was expressed through six chapters of pas de deux (and one trio). And the drama was intense. Relevés were informed by frenetic urgency, as were surprising contractions in the head and upper back. Dancers rapidly slid across the floor and then stamped their feet to the ground, as if trying to extinguish a fire. LINES’ sky-high extensions, super flexion and attitudes in second were abundant, though keeping with Art Songs’ intensity, dancers quickly crumbled after hitting one of those extreme postures. Recorded music can sometimes be tough in dance performance, but here, because the choreography was having an active contrapuntal conversation with J.S. Bach, Robert Schumann, George F. Handel, Henry Purcell and Lisa Lee, the atmosphere felt very alive.     

Madeline DeVries and Shuaib Elhassan in Pole Star
Photo Manny Crisostomo

But if you were craving live music as a frame for dance, Pole Star, King’s collaboration with famed Vietnamese musician/composer Vân-Ánh Vanessa Võ, fit the bill – a forty-minute work of intersecting textures, layers and moods. From the orchestra pit, Võ’s hauntingly beautiful zither rose, occasionally interspersed with text and ambient sounds. Billowy smoke poured into the space. Projected on the back cyclorama was a film (by Jamie Lyons) of bright green rolling hills, their color matched by Rosenwasser’s wispy, flowy costumes. Adding to that lush environment was King’s evocative choreography. Pole Star didn’t read as narrative, but it wasn’t abstract either – charged emotions were unmistakable and potent imagery, ever present. As in Art Songs, LINES’ signature choreographic positions were aplenty, though, here they were also infused with unexpected movement practices and traditions. Some sections were clearly inspired by military drills, others by martial arts. Twisted, serpentine torsos abounded, as did vignettes of falling and catching oneself. Grounded, percussive footwork unison spoke of a shared experience while aggressive phrases conjured confrontation. Such a broad collage of tones and qualities! But for me, what was most impactful in Pole Star was the juxtaposition of the body and the projection. Seeing the company against the mountains (and later blades of grass) brought an interesting question of corporeality to the table. The sense of place had become transitory and fluid. At moments, it felt as though the dancers had actually been transported to those natural settings and were dancing amidst them.

LINES spring program definitely tackled movement and music from two distinct vantage points – Art Songs and Pole Star were very different from each other. No question. But having said that, within the body of each piece, there was a strong sense of sameness. From the first light cue to the final blackout of both dances, their energy, quality and dynamics were very similar. Too similar for this viewer. And a side effect of remaining at one energetic level is that the work ends up seeming long. Neither Art Songs nor Pole Star actually were too long, but unfortunately, they felt that way.    

April 27th – One of the (many) things to love about Z Space, an industrial, warehouse performance venue in San Francisco, is its chameleon nature. With a huge stage, mobile seating, high ceilings and cavernous grandeur, it can transform into any number of theatrical containers. In fact, every time I’m there to see a dance show, I have no idea what may await as I enter the house and turn the corner.

This past Saturday, what I saw when I walked in was a captivating cabaret setting. Bar tables and chairs were scattered about and a piano was situated up right. Sparkling bulbs adorned the surfaces, disco balls hung from the light grid and a black curtain hid an internal stage. Six cast members unassumingly sauntered into the space, greeting one another with knowing nods and fond embraces. The back curtain began to part revealing a six-piece band in full country western finery, led by Patrick Haggerty. Bright footlights spelled out “Lavender Country,” the title of Haggerty’s 1973 release, known as the first gay country music recording. The scene was clear – a show, a concert was imminent.

Post:Ballet in Lavender Country
Photo Natalia Perez

And what a show it was – the remounting of Post:Ballet and Haggerty’s 2017 collaboration, Lavender Country, a full-length ballet named for its musical inspiration. With direction by Robert Dekkers, choreography by Vanessa Thiessen, music by Haggerty, costume design by Christian Squires and lighting/set by David Robertson, Lavender Country checked all the boxes. Over eighty minutes, Haggerty and the ensemble journeyed through the album’s original tracks, music and movement meeting in a rich dialogue. The piece’s return to the stage was such a marvelous addition to Post:Ballet’s current milestone season, which toasts a decade of artistic innovation and choreographic mastery.  

Haggerty’s powerful messages of LGBTQ history and experience were captured through catchy country melodies, toe-tapping rhythms and evocative storytelling. Themes of intimacy, familial relationships, LGBTQ lineage and community sang and sailed through the air, ranging in tenor from horrific to humorous, tender to triumphant, political to poignant. Thiessen, Post:Ballet’s resident choreographer, skillfully expressed these narrative threads through a series of movement episodes set in front of the recessed stage. Full throttle fervor was ample. Falls and dives blasted at high speed; contractions were attacked with frenetic force; partnering was desperate and urgent, sometimes conveying obvious frustration, sometimes deep, enduring connection. But neither the score nor the dance remained solely in that charged quality, which would have given a sense of sameness to the work. Instead, tones of hope and promise were equally present: the torso had a freedom and lightness, long lines of reaching arms and extended legs spoke of possibility. And in keeping with the musical style and genre, social/contradance motifs were plentiful, as were square dance inspirations and a hearty helping of stomping footwork.

Lavender Country was a terrific event, filled with contagious energy, caring humanity and great country music. One could speak to many standout elements, though for this viewer, there were two of particular note – one structural, one choreographic. Movement-wise, the embodiment of the musical selections impressed. The six dance artists were not simply executing steps to the various tunes or “acting out” the lyrics, but instead conversing with Haggerty’s compositions and responding to their spirit. And from a formal perspective, Lavender Country blurred the line between performer and viewer with an unexpected layer. Every audience member was a guest at the cabaret, taking in the heady mix of visuals and sound. In addition, every cast member was a patron too. All six had several instances throughout the ballet where they watched their colleagues dance, listened to Haggerty’s penetrating words and could spend time contemplating their own experience. It was a show within a show, where the cast was afforded time and space to behold as well as respond. In a final nod to egalitarian participation, the show closed with the album’s title track, and the audience was invited to join the company onstage. In those few minutes, the space between viewer and performer was completed demolished and Z Space morphed from cabaret into a full-blown dance party – the ebullient scene vibrated with pure joy.     

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