17th of November 2013
In his desire to make a light and sunny dance – understandable, since he lives in foggy London town – Israeli-born Hofesh Shechter created a work called “Sun,” in the Next Wave Festival at BAM’s Gilman Opera House, November 14-16. Costumes by Christina Cunningham for the sixteen-person company – loosely fitting in mostly whites and tans – give the impression of peasants or slaves – or characters in a minstrel show.
Tall, broad Philip Hulford with dreadlocks and tall, slim blond, Kim Kohlmann, wear white clown smocks, his with big black buttons, hers with white pompoms in front. Handsome Erion Kruja in a white suit and dark, narrow tie and sometimes wielding a tambourine takes on the role of emcee/ringmaster/plantation owner. In certain sections, a handful of dancers don white Afro wigs, adding to the impression that this might be fashioned after a minstrel show.
To let us know that this 50-minute piece is meant to be “light,” Shechter’s voice makes the pre-curtain speech, assuring us that “everything will be all right in the end,” and to illustrate, the dancers do a bit of the finale. He also assures us that “no animals were harmed” in the making of the piece.
When the lights restore on the perpetually misty stage, there stands at center stage a cutout photomural of a sheep. Lights out. Then, a tableau of the whole company, sixteen strong, posing in a clump and doing gestures. All in unison, they raise their arms and flip their hands open, like antlers; they cover faces with hands and peek out at us. Then, variously they squat and lunge.
The piece proceeds in short episodes, separated by blackouts – Sometimes they’re dancing vigorously, and at others just posing or manipulating photomural cutouts. Shechter’s own sound and music collage of bagpipes, pulsing disco beats, African drumming, and snatches of old standards – Irving Berlin’s “Let’s Face the Music and Dance,” for example – accompanies the piece at deafening volume. Periodically, a woman in the audience stands up, points, and lets out a blood-curdling scream.
The photomural cutouts proliferate; at one point, the dancers manipulate eight sheep across the stage, gliding, hopping, leaping, and turning somersaults. There’s a big dog cutout (or is it a wolf?) that lurks behind the sheep, and a tall British explorer cutout, which menaces the half dozen cutouts of an aboriginal character standing on one leg. In the context of minstrel show, we wonder if these two-dimensional stereotypes are intended to be racist, or are they just accidentally so.
Our view is constantly veiled by fog, as if the spectacle were a dream. Set designer Merle Hensel has curved the rear sky cloth, so the stage has the look of a large shadow box, where a puppet show might occur. A grid of dim light bulbs forms a starry ceiling above. The lighting design is by Lee Curran, and when he bathes the stage in a warm, yellow glow, sunshine is virtually palpable. At times the little lights do their own dance, flitting around like blowing clouds.
The hyperactive events seem to be geared to produce sheer, forceful impact without any particular coherence. Shechter relies too much on his over-amplified sound and too little on dramaturgy. Still, there is an exhilarating folksiness about the movement, almost as though everybody came up with their own exuberant choices, and then the choreographer orchestrated it into occasional unison or canon.
Typically, Shechter’s work is emotionally dark. “Sun” demonstrates that darkness is his comfort zone and his gamut doesn’t yet include light and funny.
Photos by Gabriele Zucca
© Gus Solomons jr, 2013
12th of November 2013
BALLET PRELJOCAJ AT BAM
French choreographer, Angelin Preljocaj is a remarkably versatile and fluent dance maker. From his intimate 1995 duet, “Annonciation,” to remarkable, abstract composition of “Empty Moves” (2007) to the narratives of “Romeo and Juliet” (1990) and “Snow White” (2008) he attacks each new project with fresh methods and a new palate of invention.
He prefers highly technical movement – absorbed from one of his chief influences, Merce Cunningham – done in uncannily precise unisons and expertly modulated, relentlessly practiced group passages. He is a master of clever motif manipulation.
Originally created in collaboration with the Bolshoi Ballet in 2010, “And then, one thousand years of peace,” part of the Next Wave Festival at BAM (November 7-9), the piece presents a panorama of images, simple and elaborate, that were inspired by Preljocaj’s reading of “The Apocalypse of St. John.” The choreographer takes pains to clarify that the ballet is not narrative – no apocalypse in sight. But lush set pieces by Subodh Gupta, simple but sexy costumes by Igor Chapurin, atmospheric music by Laurent Garnier, and dynamic lighting by Cécile Giovansili-Vissière give the productions broad panoply of scenes an epic feeling.
At opening, ten women in decorated unitards stride in right angle patterns through a groundscape of flashing rectangles. They dance a phrase, typical of Preljocaj’s inventiveness, sticking one leg out, high to the side, and while balancing on the other, curving their torsos to the side, framed by their curved arms; then, the extended leg slashes in front of their bodies and winds up stretched behind them before returning to the ground. All this is done with immaculate precision to a steady, raucous beat.
When the music rises to a deafening crescendo, the women collapse to the ground and slither under plastic sheeting. Their male counterparts, wearing brown business suits, enter and swaddle them in the plastic until they come to life in breathy arches that flip the plastic sheets onto the men. Then the women, now in silky slips, do a brisk but delicate canonic passage, while the men slither like lizards among them.
One of several unison duets follows. Two women, whose white leotards have loops of stiff fabric attached at shoulder and waist, like wings dance together, as Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” accompanies their slow-moving, unfaltering synchronization, including sadistically difficult promenade balancing on one knee, the other leg lifted in attitude.
Gradually, pure dancing begins to add props. Another complex group section uses a checkerboard of chairs, during which fog builds behind the rear scrim. The dancers stride laterally across the stage carrying books in their hands and mouths. After the others leave, two men, one tall, one shorter, begin another side-by-side, unison duet, which evolves into a pas de deux of tender lifts that culminates in a romantic kiss.
The company enters with hoods covering their faces. It’s the first time we see color in the monochromatic gray, brown, and beige attire. Reds, blues, lavender raise the costumes to the next level. To choral music with a superimposed beat, the faceless people arrange themselves into tableaus that suggest sexual activity and tense emotional intimacy.
We enter carnal territory, as four identical women in black lingerie and blonde wigs pose suggestively against four metallic walls. The huge, rectangular “walls,” each about two feet deep and ten feet square, begin to roll around into formations, propelled by the men. Three women in metallic headdresses and platform shoes emerge from paths the massive blocks describe. Now we seem to be in futuristic territory.
During a male duet, six-foot chains being to plummet from above the stage, crashing to the floor, eighteen in all, increasing the sense of real danger to the men’s dancing. The others enter to where the chains have landed and dance with them wrapped around their necks.
We’re swept along in the dance’s wake. At one-hour-and-fifty intermission-less minutes, “And now…” strains the endurance of many of the audience’s bladders but apparently not its patience. Preljocaj’s fecund imagination keeps us engaged, eagerly awaiting the next station stop on our magical mystery tour.
In the finale, the dancers in flesh-toned briefs and bras soak large pieces of fabric in basins attached to the rear panels, and unfurl them, splashing water all over the floor. The fabric turns out to be the flags of many nations – U.N. members? When the flags are spread, two dancers carry live lambs onto the stage. They peacefully wander around their international meadow, bleating softly.
Photos by Jack Vartoogian
© Gus Solomons jr, 2013
28th of October 2013
THE FIREBIRD, A BALLEZ
Photo by Alex Escalante: Katy Pyle as Lesbian Princess in The Firebird, a Ballez
Here’s a question: does calling it “ballez” absolve a troupe from having to do the French-named steps “correctly”? Katy Pyle and the Ballez Company performed “The Firebird, a Ballez” at Danspace Project in what the program dubs a “reprisal.” Does it mean “reprise” or “revival,” since that’s ostensibly what it is? Maybe not. In a way, Pyle’s queering of the original – this all lesbian version – does, in a way, exact sweet revenge on the original.
With the 36-piece Queer Urban Orchestra, conducted by Nolan Dresden, giving full voice to Stravinsky’s score from the resonant balcony of St. Mark’s Church and bathed in Carol Mullins’s no holds barred light, Pyle, the Lesbian Princess, falls for the Firebird, Jules Skloot – in black tights and a red leather, fringed jacket, ala Tex Ritter in cowboy movie musicals of the fifties – and vies for the creature’s possession with wicked sorceress, Regina Rocke, dressed in a black bustier and bikini panties; with a sheer black cloak and a blond-tipped, modified Mohawk..
Hedia Maron’s video design, meidated by video technician Jimin Brelsford, animates the altar wall of the church with scenes of a fairyland castle, phantasmagoric landscapes, and a final conflagration, as the bird transforms into a lesbian “prince.”
Ten “princes” – all women – display varying dance skills, but in their white T-shirts and black tights, they cut some dashing poses. Though none look like trained ballet dancers, they’re well rehearsed in Pyle’s sometimes challenging patterns. After stuffing clementines into their tights, giving themselves temporary “packages,” they line up in two ranks, repeatedly toss the fruit to each other across the space, then leap, splicing lines, to the opposite side.
Photo by Angela Jimenez: Princes and Narrator (2nd from L) in Pyle’s The Firebird, a Ballez
They recline in a close-knit lineup like nymphs – or the male equivalent – and wrap their arms around each other in cascades. While Pyle and her avian conquest wrestle – or is it make out – on the floor, the corps of princes do-si-dos in a line in front of them. In pairs, they imitate the tableaus of romantic ballet couples – one kneeling, the other draped over the partner’s lap.
Photo by Alex Escalante: Katy Pyle takes the air
Pyle’s Princess has clearly disrupted the tranquility of the princes’ sanctuary, and when Sorceress Rocke enters, stepping across the pathway made by the backs of her kneeling harem of “he”s, she vows to banish the intruder. There’s a tug of war between Sorceress and Princess with the princes standing in for the rope.
Stravinsky’s music drives the action, as Narrator Sacha Yanow announces the scenes – one through eight – during the action, and at the musical climax, pandemonium erupts; princes scamper every which way, while the protagonists pursue their objectives in the midst of the fray, the space explodes in Mullins’s dynamic lighting colors and patterned textures, which intensify the kinetic orgy.
The transformation of Firebird into Prince occurs magically on the altar, masked by the princes and accompanied by Maron’s terrific video animation – and, oh yes, the music. And when the prince emerges and parades the length of the sanctuary in a red hat that has rooster-ish overtones, a black jerkin, and gossamer panels flowing behind, we’re convinced that this 50-minute “reprisal” – which premiered last year – well deserves its reprise.
© Gus Solomons jr, 2013
6th of October 2013
PALISSIMO AT ABRONS ARTS CENTER, OCTOBER 2-12
In “Endangered Pieces,” Bessie nominated choreographer Pavel Zuštiak creates another of his uniquely dark worlds, one populated by himself, his muse Jaro Viňarský, and Matthew Rogers, in the bare stage space of the Henry Street Playhouse, which is full of crusty old character. Live music by Christian Frederickson and Bobby McElver, unseen, and an uncannily articulate lighting plot by Joe Levasseur complete his tools for this imagistic collage.
As we enter the theater, the front curtain is up, a ghost light stands center stage, and on the stage floor lie three tall light booms and a naked man. As Zuštiak removes the ghost light, Rogers raises the vertical rolling door upstage to reveal behind it a wall of stacked up 2x4s, lit from the side to give it sculptural dimension.
Zuštiak and Rogers stand up the booms and Viňarský. Then, they proceed to manipulate their naked cohort like a side of beef, standing him up, laying him down, flipping him onto his back, his front, hoisting him to Rogers’s shoulder, lifting him aloft and pinning him to the rear wall over their heads.
When they leave him alone, Viňarský comes to life and puts on an undershirt, briefs, jeans, and a gray sweater, as a recorded voice booms, “Imagine an empty space.” He comes to the front of the stage and solicits out applause. The voice asks, ”Will this be the last time?” and Viňarský repeatedly strips off his clothes and puts them on again in different orders. The wall of wood strips gradually starts to collapse, as though it were eroding, then crashes down, and the front curtain slowly falls.
In front of the red curtain, Rogers strolls across the stage, then re-enters through its center. As a female recorded voice asks existential questions, Rogers does a little stand-up comedy – “the past, present, and future walk into a bar…” – takes off his sweat shirt and jeans, takes money from his wallet and counts it – eighteen dollars – sings a little ditty. The voice ponders, “Imagine the lack of misunderstanding.”
Imagine, indeed. Zuštiak paints the most vivid stage pictures, like the scene in which all three men, naked, descend from atop the tall booms, as slowly as globs of melting lard and make their way, inch by inch, to the back wall, before the lights go out. The bodies are at once abstract sculptures, emotional triggers, and political symbols. It’s a gorgeous scene, which we expand in our imaginations in our own ways.
The dense, electric bass, sound score adds tension to the physical imagery, and Levasseur’s lighting is a co-equal partner in the choreography. His choices – low side beams, harsh overhead scoops, a floating fluorescent strip, even house lights, judiciously but dramatically used, transform the space into a multitude of environments and create magical transitions.
Zuštiak’s images, arresting as they are, don’t take us to the bleak conclusion we expect and even crave. In the final scene of the hour-long piece, the men play with the wood strips like curious kids. They stack them, build skeletal frames like houses of cards, push them into a long train, pile them into a collapsing chair, catapult one to the ceiling. Their improvisational ingenuity is fascinating; it’s a game of erector set, done with deadly seriousness but ultimately frivolous. The danger here is real and physical, not abstracted like the previous scenes. What begins as potential tragedy ends as grim gaiety.
photos by Nandita Raman
(c) Gus Solomons jr, 2013
26th of August 2013
Broadway’s new “Soul Doctor,” which opened on August 15 for an open run at Circle in the Square, is chock full of powerful singing/acting performances and more than twenty infectious melodies, most of them by Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach (the energetic Eric Anderson), the title character – a world-renowned troubadour rabbi (1925-94) who became a big rock star in the sixties, especially for Jewish audiences.
At the start of Act I, after the setup scene – Shlomo singing with Nina Simone (stately, robust Amber Iman) in her famous Vienna concert – we flash back to the Carlebach family’s escaping from Vienna just before the Nazis took over. The son and brother of devoutly orthodox rabbis, Shlomo, an observant Jew – including the prohibition against men and women fraternizing in public – has a fortuitous chance meeting with Nina Simone, who exposes him to jazz at a nightclub and gospel music at her mother’s storefront church.
Shlomo and Nina discover the analogous oppressions of their respective backgrounds, black and Jewish, with respect to civil rights, and her racial activism emboldens him to renounce his bonds of orthodoxy and bring his music to the masses, wherever he finds them – Washington Square Park, the Village Vanguard, or The House of Love and Prayer, a hippie commune he founds in San Francisco.
The script details the significant events of Carlebach’s journey, but as with so many biographies translated to the stage, book writer Daniel S. Wise tries to pack in too much, which means that some of it gets superficial treatment. The flashback to the Carlebach’s in Vienna and their escape to New York take up the first half hour of the show and could be its own play. But other relationships get shorter shrift.
And as the play progresses, Shlomo’s love of music takes him where an observant Jew shouldn’t go, places where the sexes mingle freely. He becomes increasingly secular, fraternizing with a young woman he meets in the park, Ruth (the surprisingly uncharismatic Zarah Mahler) who’s hot for him in her lukewarm way. Their “affair” may be biographically correct, but dramatically, it’s schematic and superfluous.
Also, it’s apparent that Shlomo’s father’s health (via posture and grayness of hair) deteriorates each time he enters, but it’s less evident that Shlomo’s journey into rock and roll is the reason. At the father’s funeral, which Simone also attends, Shlomo’s mother gets her dramatic moment, when she accuses her black sheep son and his black lady-friend of “killing” her husband.
At times, you just want the show to get along; the pace stalls. In the recording session that ends Act One, for example, the multiple takes of his first recording session, because he can’t get it right, try our patience. Ultimately though, one technician (elfin tomboy Alexandra Frohlinger), hilariously solves the problem of his hyperactivity in the cleverest bit of staging in the show.
Iman has vocal pipes Nina Simone only wished she had. Simone was a concert-worthy pianist but a vocal stylist. Iman is a full-on mezzo, soul singer. Her Act I renditions of “I’ll Put a Spell on You” and “You Know How I Feel” are crackle with just the right taste of bluesy ornamentation. Anderson jumps up and down infectiously, in most of his up-tempo numbers, managing to support his rich baritone, while bouncing like a pogo stick.
Benoit-Swan Pouffer has been best known until now as artistic director of the reputable Cedar Lake Contemporary Ballet. But, like so many concert choreographers, he wanted to branch out to do commercial theater as well, while maintaining their concert troupes.
But unlike colleagues such as Doug Varone, Lar Lubovitch, Larry Keigwin, Bill T. Jones and others, it’s reported that his Cedar Lake contract didn’t allow him to do both. Since it’s not really a dance show, “Soul Doctor” is choreographically an inconclusive Broadway debut for Pouffer, who never really gets a chance to strut his dance making stuff. It’s odd he would choose this vehicle to make the break with Cedar Lake.
At the gospel service in the Storefront Gospel Church, despite a solid rock beat behind Shlomo’s rousing “Ki Va Moed,” the congregation doesn’t really “get the spirit,” doing Pouffer’s stock steps with added modern dance-y arm motifs. It feels inauthentic, except for the Sinner (Abdur-Rahim Jackson) who really gets possessed. Likewise, the hippie flower children at Shlomo’s “House of Love and Prayer” do some complex physical intertwining, but so briefly and perfunctorily that it barely registers. And the strutting through the aisles of the thrust-stage theater feels tacked on.
Set designer Neil Patel’s lively set backs the stage with a rough, stone wall – which at one point becomes the Wailing Wall – a platform with spiral stairways to the main stage, which allow for lively action, up and down, and houses the orchestra off to one side. In Act II, colorful Maypole streamers create the “House of Love and Peace” and hover above the orchestra seats to draw the audience further into the action.
Costume designer Maggie Morgan nicely camouflages the actors who are playing a multitude of roles. And Jeff Croiter’s lighting washes the stage with intense color and heightens textures. Running two-and-a-half hours, “Doc” could use trimming. But for a show with such a seemingly parochial premise for a Broadway musical, it does offer up expansive theatricality and some terrific tunes.
Photos by Carol Rosegg
Gus Solomons jr, © 2013
20th of May 2013
Philadelphia-based hip-hop innovator, Dr. Rennie Harris, most notably turned hip-hop movement in all its many styles into a new language for dramatic expression. RHAW, an hour-long hip-hop show at the New Victory Theater (May 14-26), mixes moves from B-boying, popping, locking, waacking, and voguing styles into a new language that is as definable as ballet but speaks to a whole new generation of viewers.
The title is an acronym for Rennie Harris Awe-inspiring Works, and Harris bills himself as “Dr. Rennie Harris,” as if to elevate hip-hop culture to academic respectability. And he calls himself the founder, director, and CEO of his company Puremovement, of which this show is kind of a subsidiary. Raphael Williams and Crystal Frazier are listed as RHAW’s artistic director and assistant.
The agile crew keeps revealing more facets of their dancing chops; they crouch low, whipping legs around like mix-masters, twirl on their back and shoulders, swing their legs high like gymnasts on the pommel horse. From a standing start, they jump into the air, spin 360-degrees, and land, catlike, on their feet; they twitch their muscles and move like mechanical robots slow as molasses and lightning fast. They flap their arms overhead in that new-fangled semaphore called voguing in startling unison.
Some of the short pieces are excerpted from larger works and some choreographed by others and staged by Harris. The New Vic presents family-friendly attractions. But Harris’s work does not talk down to youngsters and can be appreciated equally by audiences of all ages. The dozen performers – half men, half women – dance with the natural joy of kids who’ve found a passion, and their unforced joy makes it easy to see why they’re so inspirational for other youngsters seeing them.
In the opening “Continuum” (conceived in 1997), the cast members introduce themselves by showing us their personal specialties in the center of a circle of the others – the cipher, as it’s called – then they exit the stage and return for another round. Harris gave women equal stature with men in hip-hop. What had been a guy’s game with a few token women became egalitarian with Harris’s introduction of narrative and specific story telling to the form.
In the large group unison passages, six or eight dancers will be steaming along, and out of nowhere someone will do a series of aerial flips, forward or backward, or dive into a one-handed handstand with feet pumping in the air as easily as if they were arms, or do a scary slide on the top of his head. The virtuosity feels more like simply an eruption of exuberance than an applause-grabbing stunt.
The recorded music pumps so loudly you can’t even hear when the audience applauds for a spectacular moment or the end of a section. Lighting by David Todaro keeps the mood changing simply but effectively, including some mysterious specials that pick Harris and Brown out of the darkness on their journey across the stage at the start of the “Bohemian Rhapsody” excerpt, set to the famous Queen music.
A big projection tells us the title of the show, as we enter the theater, and a colorful “peace” sign announces the excerpt from “Peace and Love” in the second half of the show. In other places, the cyclorama blazes with color, silhouetting the dancers against it. And the finale is titled “R.H.A.W. Bows.” But it takes a while to realize it is the curtain calls, since the volume of the music and the steps, which now pull out all the stops, are indistinct from the rest of the proceedings.
The performers, who don’t flaunt even their most gasp-inducing stunts, each have their own particular hip-hop gifts, and they deserve all the cheering they receive. Namely, they are Amaryah Bone, Katia Cruz, Joshua Culbreath, Phillip Cuttino Jr., Neka French, Brandyn S. Harris (Rennie’s grown son), Mai Le Ho Johnson, Kevin S. Rand, Neha Sharma, Mariah Tlili, and Schafeek Westbrook.
© Gus Solomons jr, 2013
1st of April 2013
NEW YORK THEATRE BALLET
The New York Theatre Ballet, founded and directed by Diana Byer, is one of New York’s treasures. Most of the company’s young members have been trained assiduously by Byer, and they produce some of the most grammatically precise, crisp ballet dancing around; clear, musical execution supplants technical virtuosity.
In the troupe’s recent concert at Florence Gould Hall (March 22-23), the repertory is mostly sterling – Antony Tudor, revivals of two James Waring solos from the seventies, a Richard Alston piece, and a new dance by Gemma Bond. It’s a shame Victoria Miller’s lighting wasn’t better focused throughout.
Byer wisely reins her dancers in technically to do what they can do with professional confidence; they don’t outreach their grasp. And the small stage at Gould Hall means they don’t have to strain to cover space. Another inspiring aspect of the company is that it maintains works by Antony Tudor (1908-1987), whose ballets always put human relationships before virtuosic spectacle.
On this program, his “Dark Elegies” (1977) received a typically well-rehearsed, elegantly restrained performance. Set to Gustav Mahler’s mournful “Kindertotenlieder” (Songs on the Death of Children), it begins with six women in Raymond Sovey’s puritanical dresses and babushkas – done in muted tones of gray, maroon, teal – in a somber arc onstage. Another woman (Rie Ogura) enters from upstage and crosses to the center into the group. Ogura is on toe, while the others dance flat.
NYTB in Dark Elegies
Gradually, inconspicuously, other dancers enter until a community of a dozen populates the stage, eight women and four men in all. The Second Song introduces Amanda Lynch and Steven Melendez – the troupe’s most mature and physically powerful performer – as a bereaved couple. The soloists in the other songs make less impression than the first two. Marius Arhire, Elena Zahlmann, and Philip King dance assuredly but reticently.
Gema Bond is a corps member at American Ballet Theatre, who’s being eyed as the next, all-too-rare, female ballet choreographer of promise. Her “Silent Tales” is an odd affair, set to piano music by Louis Moreau Gottschalk. A rolling blackboard announces its sections – “La Savane,” “Ballade Creole”; “Tournament Galop”; “O! Ma Charmante, Espargnez Moi!”; and “Finale.” But the transitions between sections seem tentative, because each section has an inconclusive ending. The audience doesn’t know whether to clap or not, each time the music ends, because we’re not sure what just happened.
NYTB in Silent Titles
The women dance variously on toe, in heels, and in soft shoes and wear gray tutus by Sylvia Taalsohn Nolan. The tuxedoed guys keep their black shoes on throughout. The movement is cleanest, when it’s balletic, but it’s always generic – a timid exercise. Live pianist Michael Scales seems unable to hit the right notes, whether due to lack of practice or the music’s difficulty. But the clunkers make the dancing hard to love.
Richard Alston’s “A Rugged Flourish,” commissioned by NYTB in 2011 and set to Aaron Copeland’s 1930 “Piano Variations” is a formal essay for Melendez and six women, one of whom (Ogura) becomes his pas de deux partner. The six women on toe wear bright, spring-like colors (Taalsohn Nolan’s costumes again), and flurry about in tidy patterns. “Flourish” is youthful and pleasant, and with his technically crispness, serene presence, and unmannered performance, Melendez proves himself again to be the cream of the crop.
The program’s special treat is the revival of two solos by James Waring, a notable figure in downtown dance in the 60s and 70s, concurrent with the reign of the Judson Dance Theater. Waring was known as much for the colorful, mosaic-like costumes he sewed for his dancers as for the dances themselves. Although he taught ballet, his movement palette was much broader.
Steven Melendez in Feathers
“Feathers” was made in 1973 for Raymond Johnson, a fiery, black man, taken too soon by AIDS. It is dedicated to Barbette, a French, transvestite trapeze artist. Menendes, wearing a tunic dress and a feathered mask (by Taalson Nolan after Waring’s original), moves laterally in two-dimensional, archaic poses like Grecian friezes, and deep backward hinges. Danced to selections by Mozart, the solo was staged by Ronald Dabney.
Mayu Oguri in An Eccentric Beauty Revisited
“An Eccentric Beauty Revisited” (1972) is set to Erik Satie’s “La Belle Excentrique” for piano, four hands, and staged by Byer. The costume – recreated by Taalsohn Nolan after Leon Bakst’s original costume for Nijinsky – has a crown and a short, stiff tunic in gold with red and blue highlights. Mayu Oguri danced with clarity and verve. Like most of Byer’s dancers, Oguri has the potential to be vivid with more stage experience and the daring to take greater ownership of her dancing.
photos by Darial Sneed
© Gus Solomons jr, 2013
20th of March 2013
The final attraction of the Ice Hot Festival of Nordic Dance companies was Norway’s National Company of Contemporary Dance, Carte Blanche. The company biography notes percentages of ownership by the country, county, and city, which makes it seem more like a business proposition than an undertaking of artistic passion. That may help to explain the impression it gave that its dancers are not important as individuals but are simply cogs in a machine.
“Corps de Walk” is an ensemble piece for the company’s dozen dancers, which is directed by Bruno Heynderickx. It was created in 2011 by Batsheva alumna Sharon Eyal and her event producer husband Gai Behar. Twelve anonymous ciphers of varied shapes and sizes move like rhythmic automatons throughout the hour-long dance, accompanied by various selections of pulsating disco, house, and rock music by the likes of Lichuk, David Byrne, Aphex Twin, Noize Creator, Coil, and others with a little Debussy for a change of pace.
The dancers wear nude-colored unitards (designed by Eyal and Behar), have their hair plastered back and colored blond – including the black male dancer – and wear blue contact lenses. Lighting designer Torkel Skjærven articulates beams of white light with copious stage fog. The light casts the dance in a kind of miasma; we feel like we’re inside some arcane video game.
Not only does the costume concept purposely make the dancers anonymous, the program fails to include any brief biographies or photos of them. The dancers aren’t uniformly skilled or sufficiently drilled in some movement details, even though the visual exposure of their costumes makes accuracy and uniformity essential to the work’s impact.
As the title implies, the dance is a study of group walking with recurring motifs and patterns that build a kind of persistence; it can become either hypnotic or soporific. The tempo remains pretty even throughout, so the different selections of music simply put different shades of lipstick on the same old mouth. Some of the patterning is effective, if not innovative. The splicing lines, moving from opposite sides of the stage, forming and dissolving rows of threes and fours maintain the pace of action but give us little new information.
The dance has a perversity about it, whether it’s meant to or not. All that close-order unison, canons, crisp isolations, and endless walking must take a toll on the poor, anonymous dancers. And some of them, while obviously fine technicians, get perfunctory wtih their dynamic snaps and pops. Other dancers seemed unable to manage the demands for precision of the choreography. Nowadays, it’s rare that the dancers are not uniformly expert, but it would not be surprising if the combination of anonymity and monotony had sapped their morale of this corps.
Photos by Erik Berg
© Gus Solomons jr, 2013
19th of March 2013
DANISH DANCE THEATER
photo by Bjarke Ørsted
One remarkable thing about the Dansk Danse Teater (Danish Dance Theatre), directed since 2001 by British-born Tim Rushton, is that only one of the troupe’s dozen dancers is actually Danish – and she’s of African descent. Denmark’s most widely acclaimed contemporary dance company brought Rushton’s “Love Songs” to the Joyce Theater, March 11-13, as part of the Ice Hot: Nordic Dance Festival.
Rushton describes the hour-long dance as a “celebration of life” that uses jazz classics, originally sung by the likes of Ella (Fitzgerald), Louis (Armstrong), Billie (Holliday), and Sarah (Vaughan), all reinterpreted by Danish jazz artist Caroline Henderson.
`But nothing about “Love Stories,” including its title, veers far from the expectable. The movement involves sliding in socks (the new dance shoes), passionately swirling arms, crotch-baring hyper-extensions, and more than a tolerable amount of running onstage into place, doing a brief phrase, and running off again – all straight from the catalog of overused contemporary devices. An oft-repeated motif involves dancers spinning with a leg lifted to the side and crooked over an arm.
The first part of the piece involves people rising from a row of chairs, lined up across the rear of the stage under a starlit sky (lighting by Thomas Bek and Jacob Bjerregaard); they do fleeting duets that alternate with group passages. Sometimes the pairings are in unison, sometimes in counterpoint. The fleeting physical encounters aren’t long enough to establish any emotional connections. Luca Marazia is a kind of host/ringmaster, prancing his miniature frame across the stage, always trying to belong.
It’s a presentational celebration of the dancers’ considerable chops. They do fast – or slow, depending on the song – difficult steps, which would be more compelling were there a greater variety of them. Björn Nilsson gets dating advice from “the girls” in a recorded voice- over; all of the couples smooch – some fake it – to “My First Kiss.”
Then, after a curious, onstage costume change, upstage in semi darkness, there’s a change of emotional mood. The new costumes (Charlotte Østergaard) are pretty similar to the ones before it – casual wear in neutral colors – except that now some of the women have shinier, semi-formal dresses and a few of the men sport suit jackets. A series of extended duets in this part constitute the substance of the work.
In “All of Me,” lanky Milou Nuyens (Netherlands) and handsome Erik Nyberg (Sweden) toss each other around like rowdy teammates as much as lovers; she’s tall, strong, and about his height. The old chestnut “My Funny Valentine” backs an interracial encounter between Maxim-Jo Beck McGosh (African-Danish) and partner Fabio Liberti (Italy by way of Rotterdam.) He’s tall; she’s short. She repeatedly sprints across the stage and hurls herself at him into flying catches that were gasp inducing last century, but are now routine.
The only couple that ignites emotional sparks is Ana Sendas and Stefanos Bizas (Portugal and Greece, respectively.) The heartbreaking song “Lilac Wine” by James Shelton inspires the most eloquent choreography of the evening. The two might be wrestling with a disintegrating love affair or reconciling after a split. She scales his body in a series of simple but meaningful, aspiring lifts.
Despite the talented cast, the piece lacks the emotional impact we’d like from such a nicely concise dance evening, a jazzy, jukebox suite that’s as pleasantly bland as the term “international” implies. A strenuous running-in-place section to “Thanks for the Memories” creates rousing, if predictable, finale. But it must be said, the Joyce audience ate it up.
© Gus Solomons jr, 2013
9th of February 2013
SPLICE: NEAL BEASLEY AND BRADLEY TEAL ELLIS
SPLICE (February 6-10), one of an impressive array of presentations offered by Dance New Amsterdam, presented works by Bradley Teal Ellis and Neal Beasley. Their show alternates scenes by each choreographer. The audience is free to wander throughout the space, and stand or sit on the floor and a few chairs clustered around the posts in the space. Certain audience members have received tokens upon entering, and – in a throwback to the sixties – “audience participation” is once again more the rule than the exception in downtown productions.
Ellis, a cordial, young, Brooklyn-based improviser greets us and chooses three of the pre-chosen audience members to represent his family for a photo portrait. First, there are the conventional shots – smiling family in different poses. Then, Ellis puts black velvet cones over the heads of his ”parents” and a red S&M hood on his “brother,” who happens to be portrayed by a woman this evening. The black cones are disturbingly reminiscent of KKK hoods.
Family portrait from (american guilt)
With a bouquet of flowers in Mother’s arm, Old Glory in the hand of Father, and a picture frame held by Brother, the picture takes on sinister overtones. In harsh silhouette, Ellis improvises on the floor in front of his ersatz family. The fact that we can barely see the movement in Mandy Ringger’s bright back lighting only adds to the bizarreness of the scene.
Ellis calls his piece “(american) guilt.” In its three other vignettes, he, David Rafael Botana, and John Hoobyar, dress in variations of white underwear, and all wear shiny, fabric hoods (by costume designer Bobby Frederick Tilley III) that split the difference between S&M and Kabuki.
Inspired by the practice of DJs to demarcate life from performance by wearing masks, a program note explains, “…the performers are masked, [their] identities concealed from the viewer,” giving them permission, “to act out their own guilty conscience, pleasures and habits without judgment.”
Ellis in (american) guilt
In the first vignette, assisted by an audience volunteer, whom they dress in a shimmery, black cloak and royal neck ruff that’s held up by helium balloons. While he watches, the masked men, they bind and unbind themselves with a fat, golden rope that pussyfoots around the notion of bondage. At one point, the pair winds the rope into a coil, in and out of which they suggestively pulse the free end of the rope. Then, they fashion the rope into a crude noose. That’s about as “guilty” as consciences get. But the vices of this anonymous trio are pretty tame.
Beasley in his “every adam belonging to me” drags on a child’s red wagon, strews clothing on the floor from a big tote, strips naked, and puts on a fake beard and overalls that give teasing glimpses of his nudity underneath. He wraps a ball of twine around two of the theater’s posts and an A-ladder to form a triangular cage, lit by a naked lightbulb.
He’s accompanied by his own recorded voice, mixed with Beethoven’s Larghetto from the Violin Concerto in D major and ambient natural sounds. Beasley speaks in a resonant announcer’s baritone text by him and Elizabeth Gilbert about the “history of America,” in which frontier heroes like Pecos Bill lose their pioneer spirit and become as civilized as Europeans.
Beasley in every adam belonging to me
In the next part, Beasley dons a parka, white briefs, and a wig. He clings desperately to the ladder, sliding at Butoh-like pace to the ground. This time the recorded voice is garbled and angry; all that’s intelligible are frequent curse words. And in the final section, Beasley again changes in full view into jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers and does the closest thing he’s yet done to a dance, while the recorded voice, over rain and thunder, describes a violent sexual attack. The contrast between the text, which sounds autobiographical, and his gentle, angular movement is truly poignant.
Beasley in every adam belonging to me
Both these young artists are dealing with issues of taboo sexuality and danger, but Beasley moves us because he lets us relate to him as a human, and his intention seems more specific and clearly articulated. In Ellis’s final section – a series of contact duets, rotating partners – the hoods come off; we finally can see them as people, not just sexualized avatars.
photos by Ian Douglas
© Gus Solomons jr, 2013