Archives for April 2004

Martha Graham Dance Company / City Center, NYC / April 14-25, 2004

If a long winter—meteorological or psychological—has scuttled your courage, you might want to check out a couple of terrific Martha Graham dances now being performed in repertory at the City Center. Cave of the Heart and Hérodiade are part of the Greek cycle that Graham created in the 1940s, spurred by the period’s newly awakened appetite for a psychoanalytical view of classical mythology. Both pieces present a pair of women, each tremendously strong in her own way, who oppose and complement each other. One is clearly the star of the show, the other secondary but essential. (It’s pertinent that both characters are female. Graham was certain her gender ran the world; men were necessary, of course, but auxiliary.) Respectively, the juxtaposed women represent the impassioned renegade and the voice of reason that attempts to dissuade that reckless iconoclast from her dire purpose.

In Cave of the Heart, revived this season, Medea, her ferocious jealousy ignited when her husband, Jason, transfers his affections to an ingenuous young princess, devises a hideous death for her rival and murders her own—and Jason’s—two young sons. (Though the latter deed is not actually shown, Graham could assume her audience knew these stories.) The Chorus, in the form of a single stately woman, tries at length to deflect her from what she has resolved to do. And fails. Not for lack of trying. Not because the Chorus is wrong; it’s not; it has reason—and all of civilization—on its side. The Chorus fails because there is no stopping the raging spirits Graham embodied. The whole point of them is that they’re beyond reason, incapable of being contained. If a little self-immolation is involved, a female hero of this ilk says to herself, so be it. She is, in Graham’s words, “doom-eager.” Graham probably knew, too, if only in her secret heart, that wreaking disaster is a form of self-expression.

Hérodiade reduces the nature of the two women and their relationship to its essence. The pair constitutes the cast in its entirety, and ties to the St. John the Baptist narrative are all but abandoned. The Hérodiade figure is simply a daring soul in crisis, examining herself—laying her bones bare, as the set’s anatomical “mirror” sculpture suggests—and deciding to commit herself to a fateful action. The other woman fills the role of confidante and counselor, servant and protector. She personifies the wisdom of the world on how one may live placidly, which is all most people ask of their existence. Don’t embark on that path, she seems to be saying. Think of the consequences. The Hérodiade figure, of course, stands for the life lived fully, in defiance of good sense, in accordance with one’s deepest impulses. Hérodiade falters—Graham deepens the character as well as the drama by showing us that—then repossesses her resolve and goes to her destiny, radical and intrepid. Talk about role models!

Having created such female heroes for herself—not only on her own idiosyncratic body, in a vocabulary she invented for the purpose, but also from her own ecstatic mindset—Graham inevitably set up a succession problem. What dancer was dynamic enough to inherit these parts and inhabit them as they deserved? A glorious few live in the memory of veteran fans. Today’s answer to the question is Fang-Yi Sheu, who, this season, is reanimating the title role in Hérodiade.

Born and initially trained in Taiwan, Sheu is a small, delicately boned woman with powerhouse strength and laser beam concentration. Her face has the theatrical impact of a Noh mask. In all of this she resembles Graham. One hardly knows what to marvel at first—the sheer technical command (her ability, for instance, to spring from one shape to another without any visible transition), the psychic capacity that enables her to maintain intensity even in stillness, or the dramatic power, which draws the viewer inexorably into the world of her imagination and holds him there, riveted, until at the end of the dance she lets him go, shaken and quite possibly changed forever.

Wisely, the company confined the repertory chosen for the current season almost exclusively to the great works of Graham’s early and middle periods. This strategy ensured that nearly all the sets on view would be the stunning sculptural inventions of Isamu Noguchi—an added advantage. Nevertheless, management decided to revive Circe, a later and lesser affair—perhaps to show off the bodies beautiful of the men it now has on hand. Ulysses, who sails into the realm of the evil enchantress (ironically in a Noguchi set recycled from an earlier, failed, dance), was played by Kenneth Topping as a straight arrow, while his Helmsman (David Zurak) appeared uncomfortably undecided as to his own erotic inclinations. But the crew, already transformed by the lethal lady, when we encounter them, into Snake, Lion, Deer, and Goat—well, my dear . . .

The Graham legend, a mythology in its own right, contends that she combined the Puritan and the sensualist in her makeup; ostensibly this made her an authority of sorts on forbidden games. Today, forty years after the premiere of Circe, its would-be sexy parts seem dopey to the point of embarrassment. The hero’s choosing to couple up with the ostensibly seductive witch bitch (a gimcrack figure in a gold maillot and firehouse-red cape) appears downright illogical; surely the extended soft porn shenanigans are setting him up for a frolic with the Helmsman. Snake, Lion, Deer, and Goat (Martin Lofsnes, Whitney Hunter, Christophe Jeannot, and Maurizio Nardi, respectively, the night I went), clad only in bikini trunks and face paint, were indeed ravishing to ogle. I’m happy to report that they danced with a grave beauty their circumstances hardly encouraged.

A third revival, The Owl and the Pussycat, proved, for any newcomer to Graham’s domain, that the choreographer had no gift for entertainment in the blithe gaiety mode. She could be mordantly witty—as in Acrobats of God, where she played herself, only slightly exaggerated, in the role of a driving ringmaster who has brought the cult of her own personality to the same fever pitch as her dancers’ skills. But the lightweight and the lighthearted lay beyond her.

Like Maple Leaf Rag, also included in this season’s repertory, presumably to leaven the dark psychological turbulence of Graham’s finest works, O&P was resurrected with André Leon Talley—Mr. High Style—speaking the familiar Edward Lear verse that the choreography illustrates with suffocating whimsy. A gentleman of impressive height, bulk, and panache, in still more impressive clothes (tweeds, cape, spats—contrived by Ralph Lauren), he was a sight to see, as were some charming moves the choreographer contrived for a trio of mermaids. (Unmentioned by Lear, these delectable, bipedally challenged creatures are viewed by the dance’s protagonists from their “beautiful pea-green boat,” contrived, in Noguchi-lite mode, by Ming Cho Lee.) Still, this is not the sort of concoction you want to encounter more than once in a decade. As for Maple Leaf Rag, I went home before its forced good cheer could be foisted upon me.

Photo credit: Arnold Eagle: Martha Graham (left) and May O’Donnell in Graham’s Hérodiade. Set by Isamu Noguchi.

© 2004 Tobi Tobias

North Carolina Dance Theatre / Joyce Theater, NYC / April 13-18, 2004

“It’s a puzzlement,” says the monarch in The King and I. Having witnessed one of North Carolina Dance Theatre’s rare New York performances, I can only agree with the king. The company is led by a pair of former New York City Ballet principals, Jean-Pierre Bonnefoux and Patricia McBride—the latter one of the great dancers of the twentieth century, the originator and/or brilliant interpreter of many a Balanchine role. Why, I wonder, did this energetic and engaging troupe ignore this heritage and offer a program comprising three pieces of middling worth only obliquely related to classical dancing?

My plaintive why is only intensified by the fact that NCDT’s repertory features a goodly number of Balanchine’s major works—all of them staged by McBride. The programming for New York is baffling—and frustrating. Even more so since, in the same week, Edward Villella—another star for the history books and frequently McBride’s partner at NYCB—is bringing his Miami City Ballet, consistently praised for the vitality of its Balanchine productions, within commuting distance of inner New York and essentially keeping the visit a secret. (Friday evening, April 16, at the Tilles Center on Long Island, MCB will offer the Rubies section of its excellent production of Jewels and two new additions to its sizeable Balanchine rep: Ballo della Regina, staged by Merrill Ashley, and Stravinsky Violin Concerto, staged by Maria Calegari and Bart Cook. Further information is available at www.tillescenter.com.) As far as I know, not a word of this appearance has been breathed to the dance press.

At any rate, there we were at the Joyce, watching NCDT in The River—vintage Alvin Ailey, to be sure, but hardly a piece that showcases classical prowess; Bonnefoux’s Shindig, a hoedown (set to welcome live music from the bluegrass band Greasy Beans) with sprightly footwork that fails to provide any adagio relief from its relentlessly brisk-‘n’-cheery allegro footwork; and Nicolo Fonte’s Brave! an all-too-generic modern-ballet deal featuring (1) an ominous atmosphere with intimations of violence; (2) sleek inky costumes that slowly—oh, so very slowly—give way to faux-nudity; (3) a plethora of high stools that get sat on and moved around; and (4) a cringe-inducing text (“I spoke my mind . . . I faced my fears . . . to love without prejudice”). Whose taste was the program geared to? The Joyce audience that supports annual four-week engagements of Pilobolus?

As so often, when choreography disappoints, the dancers cheer you up. NCDT’s are an engaging bunch. Uri Sands, a former Ailey stand-out, is the most gorgeous and sophisticated of them, with his eloquent upper body and a self-containment that seems to harbor deep emotional experience. He is the only one among them, at least in the offered repertory, who seems fully adult—and poetic.

Rebecca Carmazzi, captures some of the qualities that characterized McBride: the beautiful head that seems always to be turning to the light; the ability to be utterly clear, present in the space, wholly herself—without fuss or clamoring for attention. Nicholle-Rochelle, blessed with the build and looks of a Vegas showgirl, has the appetite and aplomb for pyrotechnical feats. Dynamos like this risk being coarse or mechanical; Nicholle-Rochelle is appealing because she seems to be having a good time.

Heather Ferranti-Ferguson, well matched with Sands in The River, is the loveliest of the women; she shares his calm and his suggestion of passions running deep. She’s a lyrical dancer essentially, but not one of those insubstantial, ineffable descendants of the Sylphide. Her movement is weighted, as if she’s been matching every ballet class she takes with one in modern dance.

The company harbors a slew of young men who might be undergrads at some mid-Western college—modest, still somewhat raw, their athletic inclinations lured off the beaten path into dancing. Their classical training seems to be right on target, urging them to be swift, crisp, immune to affectation. I wanted to see them again, so I could sort out which of them was which. And next time I hope to see them rising to the challenges and rewards of dancing Balanchine.

Photo credit: Marilyn Frenkel: Members of North Carolina Dance Theatre in Nicolo Fonte’s Brave!

© 2004 Tobi Tobias

Compagnie Maguy Marin / Joyce Theater, NYC / April 6-11, 2004

A curtain of flexible strips in carnival colors screens the three walls of the stage like a vertical Venetian blind. Nine dancers—first one, then several—emerge from behind this pliant barrier, then, just as mysteriously, vanish back into the corridors it shields. Suddenly revealed, then quickly concealed, again and again, they’re figures in events without warning that occur in a territory in flux. Strong, swift, no-nonsense types (trained for the dance and dressed for the street, their faces registering nothing), they will spend 65 minutes uninflected by tale or temperament conveying the secret life of the hunted and haunted. The enigmatic name of the work is Les applaudissements ne se mangent pas (You Can’t Live on Applause). As its choreographer, Maguy Marin, indicates in her thankfully more pertinent program note, the piece springs from the horrific political and social conditions prevalent in Latin America, though the entire world, wherever power is wielded inhumanely, is implicated.

Some dancers enter by falling through the curtain, as if felled by sudden gunfire, DOAs. The others absorb the assassinations as if they were business as usual: glance down briefly, then immediately, automatically, turn away and go about their everyday affairs in which flight is prominent. The stricken bodies lie felled for a beat or two, then resurrect. One of the horrors of living in a state of siege, Marin implies, is that the events in it are infinitely recurrent.

Face to face encounters are often blank-faced confrontations. This is a society, if you can call it that, dominated by fear and the hostility that arises from chronic fear; the responses of one person to another are blunted or absent altogether. Unless they escalate to actual combat—most of it for couples, sometimes for several small groups. Without appetite or evident feeling—these people are beyond rage, emotionally anesthetized—they clamber up each other’s bodies to gain lookout posts, push one another down with a shove to the shoulder, then insult the abused body further, pushing it, kicking it, flinging it away like an unwieldy piece of trash. The roles of victim and perpetrator are interchangeable, of course. And the antagonism appears simultaneously political and personal. It infuses the climate. You can imagine the figures on stage, were they given to words, saying simply, “It’s the way we live now.”

Violence is interspersed with wary waiting. Even moments of stillness are charged with alarm.

Everywhere, people eye one another with ingrained suspicion. Trust, if indeed it ever existed, is absent from this terrain. Like spies, figures conceal themselves behind the curtain, then peek out—often, tellingly, to scan a temporarily depopulated stage space—or stealthily peer into the murky zone the curtain veils. As soon as one, looking in, proceeds to investigate what he’s glimpsed or imagined, another emerges from hiding to start a new probe. Later, one woman is left alone, abandoned by her companions who, moments later, appear to spy on her from a distance through chinks in the curtain. Elsewhere the population gathers to listen to furtively whispered secrets conveyed by a partner in an alliance that has a six-second life.

Yes, there is, fleetingly, some tenderness—a few embraces, but very few. Among the innumerable friend-or-foe? encounters, one, between two men, ends in a solemn hug. It’s motionless, just a pose, and so rare in the context that it startles. Are these the last people on earth who can remember love? Another, longer, embrace follows the most ominous group mêlée. The pair might be crying “Oh, my God, it’s you!” after some unspecific mass catastrophe had all but obliterated the hope of finding one’s significant other whole in the welter of the dead, the dying, and the debris. Even this relief lasts only a few seconds, though; the prevailing circumstances don’t allow a sense of safety to endure.

The most telling sequence in Les applaudissements goes like this: A woman falls. Another walks past her, looks down at her, then walks off. Cross-stage, three other figures, almost invisible behind the curtain, peer at the fallen body from between the slats, then go back into hiding. Seemingly close to death but not quite extinguished, the fallen woman—with the slow, fitful movements of the grievously ill or wounded—starts rolling to the opposite side of the stage as if some succor or at least shelter might lie there. Then, one after another, all the other bodies in the piece appear, recumbent like the first woman’s—feet pointing upstage, heads downstage—to roll after hers on the long horizontal path to the presumed safe haven. They make a terrible sound as they pick up speed, flesh impacting floorboard. Near corpses though they seem to be, they hurtle faster and faster, until all of them disappear to the far side of the stage—except for the last one, who doesn’t make it. A friend emerges to claim the doomed man, hold him as his life ebbs away, and remove him—to more hallowed ground, from the look of it, if, by chance, any should exist. At some point, as these events unfurl, we realize we’ve seen each element before.

Throughout the piece, the light glares and fades by turns. In the final minutes, the stage is steeped in a twilight so deep you can barely see what’s happening, yet from what you glimpse, you know. Much of it has occurred before, fully exposed. Ominous though it is, the growing darkness is merciful. By the time piece ends, you can barely make out what’s going on, but, pointedly, neither the spectators nor the figures that populate this nightmarish world are granted the mercy of a blackout. What’s going on here, Marin insists, keeps on going on.

Les applaudissements ne se mangent pas is handsomely done—with little air of contrivance. Using movement that’s rooted in a pedestrian’s vocabulary, Marin opts for the purity of the vernacular and bonds her viewers to her dancers. She manages the configurations of her stage picture as well as the continually shifting pulse of the action with an acumen a dance devotee can’t fail to admire. Even so, the piece may be difficult for the ordinary viewer to watch, let alone appreciate. Its duration—over an hour without a break—is a hurdle. And its refusal to succumb to the theatrical allurements of narrative, character, and structural patterns that offer obvious climaxes opens the door wide to monotony.

In the end, I suppose, the success of the work rests with its ability to kindle an emotional response in its audience—recognition of the universe it depicts, empathy with its inhabitants, identification with both, even incitement to leave the theater fired up to make the world at hand more pacific and just. In her own program notes, Marin describes Les applausdissements as polemical. Admirable though it is—it’s one of the most intelligent contemporary dances I’ve seen in some time—I don’t think it fully accomplishes what I take to be its humanistic goal.

Photo credit: Bruce Feeley: Members of Compagnie Maguy Marin in Marin’s Les applaudissements ne se mangent pas

© 2004 Tobi Tobias