New York City Ballet: All Wheeldon
February 11, 2012
New York City Ballet in Christopher Wheeldon's "Polyphonia", photo by Erin Baiano
From 2001 to 2008, Christopher Wheeldon was New York City Ballet’s first-ever resident choreographer, providing him with a home for creating dances (not to mention a company of talented dancers) and offering NYCB new work from the man that many considered a promising heir to Balanchine. Though Wheeldon departed in 2008 to start his own company, Morphoses, he returned to NYCB often. On January 28th and February 4th, the company honored him with an all-Wheeldon program.
This is the first time that NYCB has created such a program, but it has popped up elsewhere in the past. Miller Theatre presented three of his works (all set to music by Gyorgy Ligeti) in 2005. Each ballet on that program was fascinating on its own, but when placed side by side, certain choreographic habits became apparent. NYCB’s program suffered in a similar way: by the third ballet, there was repetition in his choice of movement and shapes. Angular arms that carve through space and women held aloft with spread limbs make frequent appearances in his work. Last week’s program was further proof of this, and it revealed Wheeldon’s limitations – making each piece look less striking on a Wheeldon triple bill.
Les Carillons, a world premiere this season, is chock-full of movement – particularly arm gestures – that seemed detached from the music. The endless footwork and changing formations were too excessive for Georges Bizet’s regal score. Although the choreography tapped into the principal women’s individual strengths (Tiler Peck’s musicality, Sara Mearns’ lyricism and supple back, and Maria Kowroski’s long limbs), the ballet suffered from a “more is better” mentality and appeared thematically disjointed. Wearing brown costumes with a hint of color, the corps of ten swept on and off the stage between solos and duets for the principals in a dizzying rush of movement.
New York City Ballet in Christopher Wheeldon's "Les Carillons", photo by Andrea Mohin
Even though Les Carillons felt chaotic, it looked rather calm compared to DGV: Danse à Grande Vitesse, a 2006 work for The Royal Ballet that was making its NYCB premiere. Set to Michael Nyman’s propulsive but eventually repetitive score, which was created to commemorate the 1993 inauguration of the north European train line known as TGV, twenty-four dancers were on a journey of their own that rushed from one place to the next. Jean-Marc Puissant’s thin sheets of metal peeled upward from the stage, creating a sense of motion. Arms and legs carving through space; bodies suspended in geometric shapes; and countless lifting of women overhead – the dancers’ lightning-quick bodies were part of DGV’s powerful but frustratingly busy engine.
Sandwiched between the two works – a smart choice – was the spare and haunting Polyphonia, to a piano score by Ligeti. With architecturally rich movement set within an environment that shifted from tense to meditative, the ballet looked as inventive as it did when it premiered in 2001. The four couples, in simple purple costumes, are sublime. Sara Mearns was poignant in her slow duet with Craig Hall, and Tiler Peck and Gonzalo Garcia’s waltz was quietly profound. Wendy Whelan, performing in the role she originated, was otherworldly. In her second pas de deux with Jared Angle, the final image of Whelan rotating overhead and crawling underneath one of Angle’s legs to end in a sitting position, was chilling. She looked so at home in the choreography, filling every shape and line with spectacular dimensionality. On a program with two large-scale, fast-moving works, Polyphonia is even more gratifying for its minimalism and severe beauty.
Davis Freeman’s Too shy to stare
January 10, 2012
Megan Harrold and Matthew Morris in "Too shy to stare", photo by Ryan Jensen
No need to check personal baggage at the door. Davis Freeman’s Too shy to stare, performed at the Old School as part of Performance Space 122’s COIL Festival, is all about the viewer. Nine other audience members and I took turns entering seven rooms and witnessing private performances. In each one, a photograph of the viewer was plastered to the performer’s face, forcing you to stare at yourself and encounter whatever it was that the dancers were doing. Themes of loneliness, vulnerability, desire, and aging were evident throughout this eerily voyeuristic experience. Some made me laugh, others made me sad, and one made me shiver. Staring at yourself for two hours forces you to contemplate your own personal journey, and different shades of the same person.
My experience started several weeks ago when I visited PS122 to have my photograph taken for the performance. One photo required a neutral face with eyes open, and the other with eyes closed. At the Old School, the “home base” of Too shy to stare was a small, dimly lit space with tables, wine, and popcorn. Seven curtained rooms were situated off of two long hallways. Entry into each of the rooms was a two-step process: a red light meant that you could pass a card through the curtain to an invisible hand; a green light allowed you to enter and sit in a comfortable armchair for the performance.
The first room that I entered featured a man (Edward RosenBerg III) playing the clarinet and operating a soundboard. A framed photo of me (eyes closed) was placed on a candlelit table. It was soothing but funereal, and I wondered whether the rest of the performance would unfold as my life in reverse chronological order.
Laura Hicks in Davis Freeman's "Too shy to stare", photo by Ryan Jensen
The other rooms included solos, a duet, and a trio. A woman – with my face – slowly re-ordered several photographs on a magnetic wall to make a circle. One showed an old woman, another showed a young couple. Another room featured three dancers in nude undergarments moving like apes and occasionally groping themselves. And in another, a man and woman – again, both with my face – sat on a long sofa, shifting between formal manners and primal urges.
It was all too easy to get lost in the performative qualities of the experience. Rather than seeing myself – that is, my own full being in charge of my actions – I often saw the performers as just that: performers who were wearing my photo as a mask. Looking beyond this was challenging, but the waiting period between each room (there were seven rooms for ten people, so at least three were always waiting) allowed for some much-needed reflection and whispering with others to find out which rooms they had already visited.
The most evocative experience occurred with a heavily tattooed man (Matthew Morris), who stood at one end of a long, narrow room, mirroring my movements. When he placed my hand on his chest, with his face – or rather, my face – just inches from mine, it was unsettling and surreal. The pairing of an unrecognizable body with a very recognizable face forced me to question who I was staring at, and who was staring back at me. He mirrored my movements, but the person staring at me was a stranger.
At the heart of Too shy to stare is a question: how well do we know ourselves? And how well are we willing to better understand ourselves? The performers know what we look like, but it’s up to the audience members to stare back at them – at ourselves – and find meaning. It can be terrifying, funny, strange, and eye opening.
A Farewell to Cunningham
December 26, 2011
Merce Cunningham Dance Company in "Roaratorio" at BAM, photo by Julieta Cervantes
One of my college professors told me that letting your eyes focus in different ways while watching dance can offer endless enlightenment. Zoom in on something, then zoom out, or let everything blur together and then come into focus. I tried this approach many times while watching Merce Cunningham Dance Company perform Roaratorio on December 7th at BAM. Whether everything was crystal clear or swirling together, I was mesmerized from start to finish. The company’s Legacy Tour comes to an end on December 31st, but this was my very last Cunningham performance. I was clinging to everything on stage – the colors, the sounds, the dancers’ gorgeous lines and shapes and patterns, the eerily beautiful, disorienting score by John Cage. It was momentous, riveting, and then all too soon, over.
I haven’t enjoyed everything I’ve seen by Cunningham, and the first few performances I saw by his company several years ago left me confused, perhaps even irritated. But with every performance that I’ve watched, I’ve felt more and more certain of two things: 1. These dances are extraordinary and unlike anything else, and 2. Cunningham is the most groundbreaking choreographer of our time, and absolutely brilliant. On the 7th, it was exciting to witness such a monumental performance, and simultaneously heartbreaking to witness the end of the company at a time when I’m so eager to see more of Cunningham, to keep reveling in his brilliance.
Created in 1983, Roaratorio pulls from Irish step dancing and is inspired by James Joyce’s “Finnegan’s Wake”. This lively, textured work shows couples coming together for festive social dancing featuring rapid footwork fused with dramatic tilts of the torso. The stage was busy yet clean, with dancers moving at different tempos or joining others to build something new altogether. John Cage’s richly layered 1979 score, ”Roaratorio: An Irish Circus on Finnegans Wake,” is remarkable on its own, but even more beautiful when paired with Cunningham’s choreography. Sounds from everyday life – a crying baby, traffic, a leaky faucet – blend with traditional Irish music. I strained my ears at times to identify the different sounds, to determine where one sound ended and another began. Running through the mesmerizing soundscape was text from “Finnegan’s Wake”, adding yet another dimension. Like Cunningham’s movement, the score was busy but never messy. It felt like a long, hazy memory – or strands from many memories – that was strikingly reflected in the lighting design by Mark Lancaster and Christine Shallenberg. At one moment the dancers are bathed in sunlight, at another shadows are cast across their faces. Whether encompassing a whole day, a week, or a year, Roaratorio reflects the passing of time.
Merce Cunningham Dance Company in "Roaratorio" at BAM, photo by Julieta Cervantes
Pina in 3-D
December 20, 2011
Pina, Wim Wenders’ beautiful new film that captures the dance world of German choreographer Pina Bausch in 3-D, arrives in NYC on December 23rd. I was lucky enough to catch a preview screening of the film at BAM in October, and as a BAM intern, I happily wrote about it for BAM’s December staff pick. You can read my thoughts on Pina here. Watch the trailer below, and check out the Facebook page for more info on screenings.
Weekend Review: Kyle Abraham & Gallim Dance
December 14, 2011
Kyle Abraham's "Live! The Realest MC", photo by Paula Court
Choreography from two young, emerging choreographers – Kyle Abraham/Abraham.In.Motion and Andrea Miller/Gallim Dance - was on display over the weekend, and both offered compelling, deeply personal works.
At the Kitchen, Kyle Abraham’s Live! The Realest MC was a coming-out story inspired by the tale of Pinocchio and the tragic death in 2010 of Tyler Clementi, a victim of bullying. As a black, gay man immersed in the hip-hop community, Abraham’s journey is a quest for acceptance. Although a cast of six supports Abraham, he is clearly the star. Wearing a gold sequined shirt, he rises from the floor in a self-conscious, awkward solo of spasms, jerkiness, and tension. Later, set against a film of a dusty sidewalk in an urban neighborhood, Abraham’s movement shifts fluidly – not to mention brilliantly – from anger and anxiousness to a place of calm.
The other dancers are strong performers, but the choreography for them lacks the entrancing quality of Abraham’s solos. And the work’s structure – solo, ensemble, solo, ensemble – is frustrating. A trio for Abraham, Chalvar Monteiro, and Maleek Malaki Washington, however, is intriguing, suggesting how forced masculinity and femininity can be. Yet the most powerful part of the piece was a gripping monologue for Abraham, in which he plays both the victim and the attacker. “He hit me…they held me down!” he repeatedly shouts while sobbing with shaking arms. It was startling and painful to watch after some of the piece’s funnier moments that addressed gender roles in hip-hop. In the end, Abraham reaches acceptance on his own terms, removing a black jacket to once again reveal a shirt of sequins.
Arika Yamada rehearsing Andrea Miller's "Mama Call", photo by Emily Terndrup
At the JCC in Manhattan, Gallim Dance, led by artistic director and choreographer Andrea Miller, presented two works that marked the culmination of the company’s year-long residency at the JCC. Seven Circles, a work in progress that will be developed into a full-length piece at the Joyce in 2012, was a refreshing addition to the company’s repertoire. It tackled intimacy, limitations, and vulnerabilities – themes explored in some of Miller’s previous works, but this new piece did so in a more experimental and improvisational vein. The dancers move slowly and gawkily against the stage’s back wall, entangle with one another, and perhaps test to what extent they can trust one another. Later, Francesca Romo and Troy Ogilvie shout gibberish without understanding each other.
In Mama Call, Miller reworked excerpts from previous repertoire to examine the idea of home. A community comes together and dissolves, a couple yearns for something out of reach, and an individual emerges from a processional march (inspired by the processionals that Miller has witnessed in Spain, as explained in a post-performance Q&A), reborn and renewed. All of these vignettes demonstrate the rawness and emotionally charged physicality of Gallim, along with the uniqueness of each of the company’s skilled movers.
