Hubbard Street's Crystal Pite Program

Grace Engine. Photo: Todd Rosenberg

Choreographer Crystal Pite harnesses the potency of the stage and all its components to create an atmospheric microcosm within each dance. Hubbard Street Dance Chicago performed three of them at the Joyce recently, giving New York audiences a concentrated, if bleak, dose of an accomplished choreographer whose work is primarily seen here in mixed repertory programs. The company, under the artistic direction of Glenn Edgerton, also brought a program of work by Ohad Naharin.

In the first of two Pite duets, A Picture of You Falling, the lighting design by Alan Brodie is the de facto set design—the lamps, fixed on poles, are on rolling stands that form a semicircle upstage. Dancers move through and around them. Jacqueline Burnett and Elliot Hammans performed to a mellifluous voiceover by Kate Strong, Owen Belton contributed supplemental music. To the line, “This is the sound of you collapsing,” Hammans sinks, articulating each limb onto the floor; descriptive hand gestures are done with a theatrical flourish. The overall effect integrates the movement with the text/sound and lighting, creating the sense that one element could not be removed without subtracting substantially from the whole.

Thomas Adès—Composing and Performing with Friends

Polaris. Photo: Andrew Lang

Thomas Adès: Concentric Paths—Movements in Music featured four choreographers who set dances to pre-existing works by the British composer, produced by Sadler's Wells London and at City Center as part of the White Light Festival. The highlight—the composer played piano or conducted for all four works, with the Orchestra of St. Luke's and the Calder Quartet. Two veteran dancemakers were included—the ubiquitous Wayne McGregor, and Karole Armitage. But the revelations were the dances by Crystal Pite, who created a giant 264-limbed organism, and Alexander Whitley, whose velvety, muscular style captivated. These four dances and their requisite personnel—prime among them the composer, hard at work—make this scale of presentation a rarity. 

Pite's Polaris was easily the most popular piece on the bill, deploying 66 black-clad NYU students in mesmerizing shapes and formations, through which energy rippled and parted, like "the wave" done by fans in a baseball stadium, or magnetic filings being drawn to and fro. It is set to the pseudonymic 2010 composition by Adès, which includes a wondrous, yearning piano line, shades of a Bach symphony, and fractured notes coalescing into harmonic, organized order in the finale as the crowd looked up in anticipation, as if greeting ET's ship. 

In one scene, the dancers look like praying mantises, crouching low to the floor, elbows up; the insect evocation recurred in roiling swarms and mind-hive behavior. Kudos to lighting designer Tom Visser, who created an atmosphere of eerie moonlight and darkness, and Jay Gower Taylor's plowed-field-textured backdrop augmenting the alienscape feel. Pite's fluid and incredibly well-drilled piece would not be out of place on So You Think You Can Dance, or in an Olympics opening show, and it was a welcome addition on a highbrow slate.

The Grit in the Oyster. Photo: Andrew Lang

Alexander Whitley is a British choreographer who has spent time with the Royal and the Birmingham Royal Ballets, but whose work is rarely seen in New York. For The Grit in the Oyster, he chose Adès' 2000 Piano Quintet, which the composer played onstage with the Calder Quartet. Dancing were Natalie Allen, Wayne Parsons, and in particular the pliant and warm Antonette Dayrit, who led off and finished with an absorbing solo passage. Whitley's style is informed by ballet, but it's performed barefoot. At no point does any movement appear to be catalyzed simply for its own sake; the impetus arises unbidden and is carried through the dancers' bodies and limbs organically. It comes across as unaffected, muscular, and feline in its elegance and innate physicality. He frequently integrates floor work, building upon it with deeply planted lunges and triangular braced limbs; lifts include diamond- or scissor-shaped leg formations. The music begins with a dark piano line, and grows as all five instruments join in—fractured violin lines, warm cellos, darting rhythms, plucked and sawed strings. 

It's in contrast to McGregor's phrasing in Outlier (2010), which feels abound with random starts and stops. His ballet looks effortful and self-conscious, decorated with mannerisms and oddities. Adès' Concentric Paths violin concerto (2005) shocks from time to time with a seismic "boom" chord, threaded with keening or tumbling melodic lines. The dancers of McGregor's company wring the most out of his inside-out, hyperextended vocabulary but apart from its impressive athleticism, it fails to move.

The fourth work stands apart for its literary derivation: Armitage's Life Story (1999) which uses the same-titled composition by Adès and poem by Tennessee Williams. Ruka Hatua-Saar and Emily Wagner take the stage in front of Adès on piano and soprano Anna Dennis. The narrative ponders the aftermath of a feverish romantic encounter, apparent in the dancers' brisk flirtations and forthright exchanged gazes. Armitage injects wit and sassiness into the duet, which mirrors the character of the aria—vaulting octaves with free abandon in dialogue with the piano part, and in turn, in dialogue with the dancers. 

Lyon Opera Ballet and Hubbard Street—The Rep's the Thing

Sarabande. Photo: Michel Cavalca

Lyon Opera Ballet can be counted on to bring interesting repertory to New York. Last year, at BAM, it performed Christian Rizzo's ni fleurs, ni ford-mustang, a somewhat impenetrable, glacial  performance work that exploded into ecstatic dance only in its final minutes. This year, it presented at the Joyce works by three buzzy choreographers: William Forsythe, Benjamin Millepied, and Emanuel Gat.

The dances by the first two put to ample use the company's ballet training. Steptext, by Forsythe, dates from a relatively early 1986. Women are on pointe, and the movement is frenetic and all-out, pushing our expectations of the athlete/dancers. There is still a casualness to the affair; moves sometimes ended abruptly and petered out in a walk, rather than a tightly closed fifth or fourth position. Millepied's Sarabande (2009) has a similar dance-and-dash quality. Four men in nifty, colorful shirts noodle and play with the ballet steps they're given, interacting at moments with the on-stage violinist or flautist (reminiscent of Jerome Robbins).  


Gat's Sunshine drew particularly on the idea of a group—reliance on one another, assembling and breaking apart, pushing through the fourth wall to draw in the audience. Gat's lucid lighting scheme seemed to add vast dimensionality to the stage. His movement, so distinctive when he began choreographing a decade ago or so, has expanded to encompass a vocabulary that feels similar to a number of Europeans working today. But his theatrical sense remains fascinating. 

Sunshine. Photo: Michel Cavalca

A couple of weeks later, Hubbard Street Dance Chicago arrived at the Joyce for a two-program run over two weeks. Years ago, under the artistic direction of Glenn Edgerton, this company shifted its focus from jazzy fare toward the European ballet-influenced modern style, more akin to (and including repertory by) Kylian and Forsythe. It is a more global approach, and the company's dancers do well in the elastic, sock-clad movement. 

However, in the matinee I caught on May 16, many of the five dances on the program blended together stylistically. Two works by resident choreographer Alejandro Cerrudo displayed his seamless, organic movement, lovely and harmonious, but after 20 minutes or so, ultimately monodynamic and in the case of Second to Last (Excerpt), the use of Arvo Part's very familiar music did nothing to distinguish it. 

Crystal Pite's new solo, A Picture of You Falling, with text by Pite spoken by Kate Strong, was danced powerfully by Jason Hortin. It follows in the dance-theater canon of movement plus words, in stark lighting. And Robyn Mineko Williams, a longtime Hubbard dancer turned choreographer, contributed Waxing Moon, a trio. While the movement was slightly more angular and spasmodic than Cerrudo's, the tasteful black costumes, stark lighting, and long string of duets unfortunately felt very similar to the previous dances.

I Am Mister B. Photo: Yi-Chun Wu

What did stand out, for puzzling reasons, was I Am Mister B, by Gustavo Ramirez Sansano. The choreographer danced in Balanchine's Theme and Variations, and in theory this premiere is a celebration of Tchaikovsky's ebullient music, and an elegy to Mr. B. The women and men both wore blue dinner jackets, white shirts with narrow black ties, and black pants, to evoke the subject. This faithfulness to wardrobe fell flat when it came to footwear, which was the Hubbard's current rep default—socks. Three sets of semi-transparent copen blue curtains that reeked of a fusty baroqueness fell and rose periodically, compartmentalizing or opening up the stage. The dancers sprang and thrust their pelvises forward, chopping at the air with bent arms. One man spoke some lines so rapidly that I couldn't understand him. Perhaps they held the key to the work.

Sansano's choreography is his own interpretation of the music that has nothing to do with Mr. B's classic. It felt as if Sansano loved the music so much, yet didn't want to do an end-run around Balanchine, that he worked in the conceit of the character of Balanchine, maybe breaking loose after a performance of Theme and Variations. What made it even more confusing was the fresh, sweet memory of seeing Herman Cornejo and Sarah Lane lead ABT in Tuesday's Met performance of Theme and Variations. Besides Balanchine's Symphony in C, there is perhaps no plotless classical ballet more musically adept and in concert with its score.

Hubbard Street's dancers continue to be outstanding performers, but I wonder if the repertory isn't too similar to draw on all of their talents. Maybe one piece without socks?

Rain, Rain, Everywhere

Agnes Denes, Wheatfield, 1982.

It seems that New York got few showers in April, but Earth is making up for it in May; I'm drying off from a deluge as I write. Ironically, I was en route from the Joyce Theater, where artificial rain fell during Cedar Lake's performance of Andonis Foniadakis' Horizons as storm clouds gathered outside to wait for me to release torrents in a tempestuous thunderstorm. And yesterday I experienced MoMA's Rain Room, by Random International, amid an otherwise lovely day. 

It is part of Expo 1 at PS1, an exhibition organized by Klaus Biesenbach on the theme of "ecological challenges" in today's world. It sprawls throughout MoMA PS1 and takes as its theme "dark optimism," perfectly reflected in Rain Room. There are some smaller exhibitions nested within, including a fairly extensive selection of Ansel Adams photographs curated by Roxana Marcoci, and a smart group show—ProBio—put together by Josh Kline; highlights include Dina Chang's creepy Flesh Diamonds, pink flesh-like faceted things with hair; Ian Cheng's strange, intriguing installation of twitchy "live" machines inhabiting a tide pool ecosystem; and a flexible cloth of LEDs that received imagery of a CGI concert, by Shanzhai Biennial. A group of photographs documents Agnes Denes' Wheatfield, which at the time felt far closer to crunchy environmentalism than a last cry before development and terrorism swallowed up lower Manhattan.

Expo 1 also has the requisite ancillary elements of film, education (organized by Triple Canopy), a daily special dish by restaurateur M. Wells, and a "colony" of trailers in one of the courtyards. Meg Webster has installed Pool in the lobby, which basically just looks like a fancy fountain in a skyscraper lobby, and Adrián Villar Rojas has been given a ginormous amount of room for La inocencia de los animals, with a broad grand staircase where classes will meet, and rooms of ruins—columns and giant amphora—all the hue of dusty grey concrete.

Rain Room is situated in an annex in the parking lot next door to MoMA, complete with its own retro-mod, airport-style lounge in the queue area, which I guess is supposed to make the anticipated long wait entertaining. When I viewed Rain Room, people seemed reluctant to walk into the rain; perhaps to encourage this, several dancers had been deployed to move dramatically under the deluge (although it might not have helped that they were drenched. A word of advice—as you enter the rain, extend a hand forward to keep your head dry.) This project seems to work as well in concept as in practice, and whether you choose to participate or simply watch emerges as a key precept.

Kylian's Indigo Rose. Photo: Paula Lobo

Meanwhile, back at the Joyce, the small rainburst took place over a rectangle of red carpeting that the Cedar Lake dancers dragged onstage in the premiere of Horizons by Andonis Foniadakis. The piece began with rubber-limbed Jon Bond bounding across the stage, each turbocharged move tweaked with a contortion, robotic effect, or caffeinated jolt; many moves elicited gasps of shock. Pairs danced frantically on the rug to driving rhythms; a final twosome writhed frantically, life affirmingly. Joaquim de Santana crashed to the floor on his knees and shins, the violence exaggerated by his large size. The work purports to address the concept of finding inner peace amid urban frenzy; a voiceover intoned calls to action and ponderous observations. While the adrenalized movement becomes a bit numbing after awhile, Foniadakis  has a unique, daredevil means of physical expression.

Jiri Kylian's Indigo Rose (1998) suits Cedar Lake to a tee—articulated lines, hyper-pointed toes, a dramatic flair in every pose. Two pairs danced on the stage bisected by shapes of light, one dim, the other bright. A billowing white wedge of sail cloth framed the dancers; in particular, Matthew Rich, a company veteran, has matured into a riveting, confident performer. Filling out the program was Crystal Pite's Ten Duets on a Theme of Rescue, a well-paced concatenation of duets and solos by just five dancers, but that feels like three times as many. It has become a staple in an ever-growing repertory that showcases mostly European choreographers, and who benefit from the impressive skills of the dancers. 

Dancing By Not Dancing

Prospero and the replicants. Photo: Jorg Baumann

Several shows being presented in New York this week underscore how important dancers' training is, not in the obvious sense of dance technique, but in other ways of moving and communicating.

The Tempest Replica, by Crystal Pite for her company Kidd Pivot (at the Joyce through Dec 2), is a tautly produced, highly theatrical spectacle that traces the themes of Shakespeare's work. In the first half, Prospero is surrounded by "replicas" of the main characters, automatons clad entirely in white, including fencing-like headgear. Video provides exposition and scene structure, and subtle warm-to-cool shifts in lighting set the mood in the all-white setting. In the second part, the dancers doff their white coverings and dance in street clothes, acquiring humanity and pathos. 

But their effectiveness as automatons was remarkable, robot-walking and gliding effortlessly around the stage. At times, they'd react with emotion in humanesque fashion, as in a brief romance, much to their own surprise. But it showed the power and potential for expression by these highly trained bodies, even devoid of facial expression.

At the BAM Fisher, Lucy Guerin's Untrained matches two trained dancers with two untrained guys in a series of exercises, including dance moves and phrases. Of course it's hilarious to see these endearing "untraineds" fumble through some of the harder stuff. But it's remarkable to realize how essential the function of the brain is in companion with a learned physical intelligence. It's similar to learning an instrument, it just happens to be one you live in.

And over at the Harvey, SITI Company's performing Anne Bogart's production of Trojan Women, which examines the power and powerlessness of the women of Troy. One of the primary subjects of said topic is Helen, played by longtime Martha Graham principal Katherine Crockett. Her statuesque elegance and beauty require no acting, but she also has many lines and interactions with the ensemble, which she handles skillfully. But perhaps the simple acts best express her foundation as a highly-skilled dancer: standing, walking, reclining, turning her head in profile, basically acting regal. After embodying Martha Graham's Clytemnestra, Helen's a piece of cake.

Cedar Lake's Ever-Growing Repertory

Violet Kid by Hofesh Schechter. Photo: Julieta Cervantes

Quietly, season by season, Cedar Lake Contemporary Ballet is building a sizable repertory with a distinct point of view, shaped by artistic director Benoit-Swan Pouffer. There really aren't many other companies of this scale and level of talent commissioning work by a range of choreographers; most contemporary companies are founded and run by one artist. Morphoses was founded as a sort of "solar system" revolving around, but not exclusive to, Chris Wheeldon's choreography, with other dance makers contributing to a lesser extent. (Of course that has changed completely with his departure, moving to focus on one annually revolving choreographer; the exit of executive director Lourdes Lopez for Miami City Ballet yet again tosses it all up in the air.) But CLCB was founded strictly as a rep company, including occasional contributions and "installations" by Pouffer, who in any case is smart enough to defer to coveted choreographers, unlike, say, Peter Martins at NYCB.

This season, the company returns to the Joyce with two programs. The first featured new dances by Hofesh Schechter and Crystal Pite, two hot, internationally-respected names, and Annonciation (1995) by Angelin Preljocaj. As it happens with commissions, it's difficult to know what you're getting until it's done. And by coincidence, Schechter and Pite's works have enough in common that they would've been better served being on different programs. (The second features premieres by Regina van Berkel, Alexander Ekman, and Jo Stromgren.) 

In fact, their juxtaposition makes it nearly impossible to discuss either on its own. Both tap a mood of post-industrial desperation; dramatic, dark lighting; muscular, grounded movement that punches and bullies its way across the stage, primarily in groups. In Violet Kid, Schechter's appealing vocabulary roils around the torso (his Gaga roots tangible), the dancers pugilists, scooting, bobbing, hunched over like gorillas, moving in makeshift tribes. The dancers wear everyday clothes (by Schechter and Junghyun Georgia Lee), making them relatable. Polymath Schechter also created the music which featured a string trio floating upstage, with recorded sections—at times anarchic, ominous, with a steady throbbing percussion line evocative of a heartbeat.

Grace Engine by Crystal Pite. Photo: Julieta Cervantes

Both he and Pite line the dancers along the stage's edge. In Pite's Grace Engine, to a score by Owen Belton, Nancy Haeyung Bae clothes the dancers in gunmetal suits and white shirts, reminiscent of assassins or CIA agents. The dancers coil and lash out their legs, martial arts-style, whirling and drawing back, awkwardly hopping on a fist and a knee, hunching over. Mime screaming and ripple effect actions with linked arms skewed toward the cliche, but if I hadn't seen Violet Kid first, it might've felt completely fresh. Jon Bond stood out for his snaky fluidity among a company of gorgeous dancers.

Annonciation featured Harumi Terayama and Acacia Schachte. Preljocaj also designed the L-shaped bench where Schachte cradled Terayama, coaxing her to her feet, where they moved in tandem through elegant, sculpted shapes. This tender duet, set to music by Stephane Roy and Antonio Vivaldi, with important lighting by Jacques Chatelet, served as a needed buffer on the program. Despite the aesthetic coincidences, kudos to Cedar Lake for consistently delivering new work.