Riding the Amazonian Whitewaters

Marzia Memoli, Oliver Greene-Cramer, Daisy Jacobson, Miriam Gittens,
Renan Cerdeiro, and Nicole Morris in Diabelli. Photo by Christopher Duggan

New York dance audiences are truly spoiled with a panoply of genres, the best dancers and choreographers, and incredible choice pretty much year-round. Resident companies such as New York City Ballet, ABT, Alvin Ailey, Paul Taylor, Dance Theater of Harlem, Martha Graham, and many more give annual seasons that are by now a given, and to some extent taken for granted. That’s not to say that it’s ever easy to mount a season, especially with the high costs associated with developing and producing a run. These steadfast beacons have become the tentpoles of an environment absolutely rich with dance; you have to wonder how much of the available pool of resources they absorb, along the way possibly attracting dollars that might go to less-known groups. Always debatable.

I speak of the impermanent groups led by legends of modern dance, prominent among them Twyla Tharp, who has been a semi-regular on New York City Center’s calendar over the years. This year’s program felt particularly robust and lush: Diabelli (1998) in its NY premiere, and this year’s Slacktide, with Philip Glass’ mesmerizing score played live by Third Coast Percussion. There were no featured big-name guest dancers, only gifted and hard-working individuals (some Tharp veterans) with peak technique and presence, and the flexibility to rehearse sufficiently to meet the rigorous demands of the performances.

It is surprising at first that New York has never seen Diabelli, but consider the heavy lift—it’s one hour long, with 10 dancers flying on and offstage in myriad combinations of Tharp’s demanding modern ballet and partnering sections. It’s a prime showcase of dancers’ superb intellects and the ability to memorize the material: the counts, musical sections, and the steps in three dimensions and countless recombinants of all body parts. Geoffrey Beene’s clever, unisex tuxedo tank unitards lend an air of sporty formality, and Diabelli’s 33 Variations on a Waltz provide a lively sonic background, played live by Vladimir Rumyantsev.

The dance feels organized around societal structures—military-like strides, social engagements observed by others, goading and friendly interactions. There’s a perpetual showiness about the dance, a tacit understanding that the performers will entertain the audience, which in turn must pay attention and dispense kudos. It’s Tharp at her finest, demanding balletic finesse, with dashes of ease and humor, all set in a crystalline structure supported by well-chosen music.

Alexander Peters and Miriam Gittens in Slacktide. Photo by Christopher Duggan

Slacktide is meant in part as a coda to In the Upper Room, one of Tharp’s masterworks. At the start, a fist is spotlit, connecting it to the finale of Upper Room. But in contrast to that work’s heavenly allusions, with its blazing lighting and cumulus fog, Slacktide swims in murky depths, all inky blues and blacks, with Victoria Bek’s sly, black, naval side-buttoned duds outfitting the cast of a dozen.

Third Coast Percussion plays Glass’ haunting Aguas da Amazonia live in the pit. Glass may be a household name, but he’s still underappreciated. This score brings many gifts to the table—of course, the driving rhythms, a contained ferocity, but also a witchy breathiness in the flutes and xylophones, and a jam-like looseness to the melodies. Tharp relies on her modern ballet lexicon, veering into lush organic ovals and swooping limbs. In a passage toward the end, six dancers, arranged in two vees, slip, fold, and eddy through hypnotic variations to a kindred musical passage—like rapids running the Amazon. I wanted it to go on and on.

Tharp has been briefly affiliated with large companies, notably with ABT, where she created a number of iconic dances. Her restless intellect and curiosity in exploring myriad other forms have led her to some remarkable milestones, including on Broadway, film, books, TV, and more. But she continually returns to the proscenium stage with her ambitious dances, and we must pay well-deserved attention.

Forces of Nature—Huppert, and One-Upping Nature's Wintry Sky

Isabelle Huppert in Mary Said What She Said. Photo: Lucie Jansch

In Robert Wilson’s production of Mary Said What She Said at NYU Skirball, Isabelle Huppert commands the stage with a 90-minute monologue in French, spoken so rapidly at times that I could barely read the projected English titles. The text (by Darryl Pinckney) recounts Mary Queen of Scots’ life's musings on betrothal, marriage, arrest, imprisonment and exile, and her relationships to the other Marys and men in general. Huppert’s stamina and focus are superhuman and essential to draw us in and hold tight, no simple task in this minimalistic production.

That said, “minimalistic” is misleading when referring to Wilson’s work. We’ve seen him go maximalist in epics such as Einstein on the Beach, Black Rider, Time Rocker, and other ambitious operas with songs, large casts, and multiple dream-like sets. Mary Said is a historically-based, stream-of-consciousness monologue to showcase a 71-year-old star deploying all her powers (plus a silhouette double, seen briefly). Letter to a Man, about Nijinsky’s descent into madness, was a similar tour-de-force featuring another star, Mikhail Baryshnikov, with a blazing lighting scheme and a few striking props, but mainly driven by the physical presence and loaded personality of the performer.

As I write, it's early March, and in the Hudson Valley, a pale pewter cloud bank sits heavily over a luminous white horizon; the sun battling with the remnants of an icy winter. It resembles a version of Wilson's lighting scheme for parts of Mary Said, if dialed way down. Mary Said carries many of the elements that unmistakably mark a Wilson show: the otherworldly Arctic lighting that sears your eyeballs. The hyper formal poses and white pancake makeup. Costumes, often evoking a past (or future) era, immaculately tailored to carve dramatic silhouettes against the light. The frozen, awkwardly articulated poses held for long spells, alternating with frenetic gestures and repetitive pacing. A lone sculpted white shoe popping up on its own little platform, and disappearing just as mysteriously. These all amount to a crash course in Wilson’s microcosm.

Isabelle Huppert in Mary Said What She Said. Photo: Lucie Jansch

At the start, Mary stands stock still in shadow, arms locked in rigid poses, while she begins her recitation. She is a tired soul trapped in a life not of her own choosing, and yet she’s made to bear the consequences of actions she may or may not have caused, including murdering her second husband, Henry Stuart. Outwardly, she appears perfectly poised and groomed. She was as loaded a symbol as could be, Queen of Scots, briefly Queen of France, and yet in the end, simply a woman.

As the monologue unspools, Huppert moves more broadly, venturing downstage in small increments, sussing out her true self buried beneath layers of stiff brocade and make-up. As if possessed, in the denouement she spits out repeated phrases while briskly walking downstage and retracing her steps backward, again and again, in a cathartic rant. (After this frenetic scene, Huppert’s breathing is barely visible—a display of her remarkable training and ability.) Nearing death, her soul is freed from the confines of societal expectations, and yet bound within Jacques Reynaud’s rigid gown and Wilson’s inescapable spotlight, which she can never truly escape.

Mary Said is part of NYU Skirball’s Winter/Spring season under the direction of Jay Wegman. It’s a notably strong, dance-heavy lineup with many participants from abroad. The production has support from Dance Reflections by Van Cleef & Arpels, which has become a major benefactor of the arts in recent seasons.