Pearl Buck's Story, Told Through Dance

Stephanie Kim and Isaac Huerta. Photo: Elizabeth Hinlein

Pearl, a dance/theater spectacular performed at the Koch last week, tells you more than you thought you wanted to know about Pearl Buck, the writer who bridged China and the US. The biographical show, directed and choreographed by Daniel Ezralow, is a fine excuse to build a scale model of the Yangtze River onstage, although if you're sitting in the orchestra, this key element is barely visible. Nonetheless, there are many other design elements (production design by Michael Colten), including some well-conceived projections, that are visually stunning. It's akin to a Broadway show, albeit with dance movements propelling the drama forward instead of songs, plus an occasional voiceover. (I'd love to show you some of the striking set images, but the company did not make any available.)

The prologue features various dancers portraying Pearl at different ages, alternating with their facsimiles projected on the numerous banner screens. We watch Pearl the girl as she observes daily life in China including workers in fields. It's the first big dance number, and it shows Ezralow's skill at describing a narrative picture with many dancers. We learn of her childhood, including three brothers who died young; their deaths are artfully depicted as human silhouettes dissolving into bubbles (creative video design by Mirada).

Pearl bonds with her nanny, is tutored in calligraphy and confucianism, and then joins the fold at Randolph-Macon College in the US; her slow acceptance is signified by hopping at first off rhythm, and then in sync with her fellow students. She meets her first husband, but their marriage falters as relations between China and the US undergo friction. The river symbolizes the respective rifts, and Pearl balances on a raft as it floats downstream. At times, the divide becomes isolating, but bridges are laid down, and borders and relations become fluid. Jun Miyake supplied the broad-ranging music, which incorporated traditional instruments into fluid, plangent, propulsive melodies and rhythms. 

At the beginning of the second act, several lines horizontally cross the proscenium space. These are taut yet stretchy straps from which dancers hang and swing from like acrobats as Pearl furiously mimes typing, representing her most fertile writing period. The lines, one by one, release with a bang from one side of the armature, unsubtle metaphors for the failure of stability. Receiving hasty treatment is her second marriage and her husband's passing. In the exuberant finale, all of the dancers, clad in Oana Botez's white costumes (just one set of numerous changes), circle around Pearl like a source of energy, and then repeatedly line up on the stage's apron, engaging our gaze, turn, run, and leap over the river, which is no longer a barrier.

Ezralow, who once danced with Paul Taylor, seems to give that man a nod with a few Esplanade-like motifs. But he primarily creates a blend of modern, gymnastics, tai chi, and "contemporary" styles to keep things moving, and at times create some fetching tableaus performed by crack dancers. Renowned modern dancer Margie Gillis roots the last part as the older Pearl, moving her upper half with great enthusiasm and expressiveness.

It's entertaining and modestly educational, if you have a hankering to learn about Pearl Buck and while away a couple of pleasant hours in the theater. 

Brown + Judd: In Plain Site

Figure Eight. 4th Floor, 101 Spring Street, New York. Photo: Susan Yung 

Standing beside an artwork comprising a stack of bricks, Jamie Scott began the signature thumb gestures that begin Trisha Brown's solo, Accumulation (1974), to the Grateful Dead's "Uncle John's Band," and instead of of 41 years falling away, they seemed to compound and well up like a mini stormcloud of emotions, dumping its sentiments all over me as I sat watching on the floor of the Judd Foundation at 101 Spring Street. 

I thought of how the gesture is so emblematic of Brown, no longer performing; how she was one of the artist pioneers of the wilds of 1970s industrial Soho, where brave now means taking a pop-up store lease for more than a month. How she lived around the block on Broadway and commandeered the rooftops for her expansive site-specific performances. How the crossroads signs, Mercer+Spring, loomed through the window just behind Scott, signifying so many years spent on both streets, plying endless paths for work and life. How the jangly music was more of a time-stamp than the dance, written at a time when moonshots were realistic but rock was still in its youth.

I imagine Trisha Brown: In Plain Site, the performance collaboration between the Judd Foundation and Trisha Brown Dance Company, was meant to evoke all these things and more. But most of all, it summons the moment in time when modern art met post-modern dance, and created an artistic biome that has not been surpassed in New York. The program runs today and tomorrow (info at juddfoundation.org).

Diane Madden in M.O. 5th Floor, 101 Spring Street, New York. Art © Judd Foundation Archive, Licensed by VAGA, New York, Art © 2015 Stephen Flavin/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York; courtesy of David Zwirner, New York/London. Photo: Susan Yung

As we moved to the second floor, Marc Crousillat and Stuart Shugg performed an excerpt of Rogues (2011), a far more kinetic and space-eating dance to Alvin Curran's music. The space was surrounded by a wall mural of earth-hued, painted color blocks and huge windows with panes of original wavy glass. On the fourth floor, Cecily Campbell, Leah Ives, Olsi Gjeci, and Tara Lorenzen moved through the sublime Figure Eight (1974), in which their arms floated around their heads as they kept their eyes closed; they then performed Sticks IV (1973), a challenging task dance in which they formed one long pole with four segments, and rolled under it as they held it intact.

Passing through Donald Judd's house, you get the idea from a few massive dining tables and wall of liquor bottles that he liked to eat and drink, but otherwise immerse himself in his work at one of the desks. The five stacked floors of this iconic cast iron loft building could have inspired Judd's regimented geometric sculptures, many of which are on view alongside works by Oldenburg, Dan Flaivn, Ad Reinhardt, and furniture by Alvar Aalto.

Ascending the steps to the fifth floor could, hokily enough, be compared to arriving in heaven, where longtime Brown dancer and current associate artistic director Diane Madden, in a white chiffon tunic, floated through M.O. (Excerpt, 1995), to JS Bach. We viewers watched across Judd's two mattresses, with a major Flavin sculpture of red and blue neon shimmered at left. Shafts of sun speared the space, and for an hour, we were transported from the chic honky tonk of Spring Street back to an era where space, time, food, and art conspired. Trisha Brown's work happily continues on.

Petronio's Bloodlines, Part 1

Gino Grenek, Davalois Fearon, Nicholas Sciscione in Rainforest. Photo: Yi-Chun Wu

The sea change of remaining current while preserving legacies continues full-strength in modern dance. The latest, and most intriguing iteration thus far, is being presented by Stephen Petronio Company at the Joyce this week, in the inaugural "Bloodlines" program, which combines Petronio's new work with a piece from the modern canon that influenced his work.

At the outset, it might seem brave of Petronio to juxtapose his latest work—Locomotor/Non Locomotor—with Rainforest (1968), one of Merce Cunningham's iconic dances. But the comparison shows how Merce's influence on Petronio's—the rigorous geometric architecture, the turned out positions, the supreme athleticism necessary. The premiere is also an aberration for Petronio, who often chooses visual collaborators in addition to musicians and lighting designers. L/NL is noteworthy for being a pure dance piece, without a set design, and with costumes by Narciso Rodriguez and Ken Tabachnik's lighting scheme. Clams Casino's striking, moody soundscore provides a spacious and imaginative underlayment for Petronio's propulsive and compelling movement. (I wrote about the premiere of the thrilling first part last year.) 

After the curtain falls and rises again, Non Locomotor picks up where Locomotor leaves off, with dancers leaping in arcs, always with a powerful impulse. They soon deposit at center stage Davalois Fearon, now the only dancer in a royal blue leotard vs. the others' black and cream ones. She begins to unspool the movement motifs that brand this section—predominantly planted feet in contrast to the rushing first section, the torso and arms carving shapes and gestural imagery. She's joined by three men, who at times strike artificial-feeling poses, like models. The relative stasis is a reminder of how terrific Petronio is at creating great movement and trajectory with the human body. But the contrast between sections is a welcome dynamic change.

Rainforest is a bit of flash and dash within Cunningham's rep, what with its animal inspired movement and glittering set of silver mylar helium-filled pillows by Andy Warhol. Depending on how much helium they contain, they have minds of their own from show to show. At the Joyce, the pillows burst out of the proscenium and zoomed up toward the lighting and vents. (In the last performance I saw, at BAM, they were lazier and only one left the stage.) They distracted somewhat from the five dancers, in tattered, flesh-toned leotards originally conceived by Jasper Johns. Petronio's dancers brought their own personalities to the varied roles, but they didn't—nor possibly can any company, going forward—match the concision and lucidity of Cunningham's company, in its prime. That said, Cunningham alum Toogood performed in the work, reminding us of the quiet ferocity brought with each performance by Merce's dancers, similar to the intelligent focus of Petronio's. The score, by David Tudor, was performed live. 

Petronio plans next to revive a work by Trisha Brown, a choreographer whose legacy is badly in need of support. As one of her ex-dancers, he is well equipped to do so. And yet commonalities are so readily identifiable with Cunningham that this year's presentation is eminently logical. The strategy is far more cogent than, say, Paul Taylor's, but the scale is far smaller. It's yet another fascinating example to watch while the history of modern dance unfolds and hard-working choreographers are forced to become archivists as well.

Elkins—Playful and Deadly Serious

Alexander Dones in Mo(or)town/Redux. Photo: Christopher Duggan

Doug Elkins' program at the Joyce this week shows two sides of his artistic sensibility—the playful, lighthearted goofball in Hapless Bizarre, and the serious dramatist in Mo(or)Town/Redux (2012). While there are some sweet moments in the first work (a premiere), it's a tall task to ask it to stand next to the taut, compelling second work, which takes nothing less than the story of Othello and Limon's modern dance classic Moor's Pavane as influences.

Hapless Bizarre has a thin filament of a narrative thread. A nerdy, bespectacled guy (the vaudeville performer and clown Mark Gindick) chases, and is chased by, a black hat, which is replaced by a mauve hat, a harbinger of creativity and the onslaught of a gang of free spirits wearing paisley and bright colors (costumes by Oana Botez). Amanda Ringger designed the lighting, which perhaps includes the psychedelic projections. Gindick is swept along in familiar ways—first as an outsider, and eventually as a unique member of this fun-loving group. Elkins uses social dance and pedestrian movements, including basic interactions that resemble how children behave. It's a less studied vocabulary, more relatable. The music (credited as "musical supervision and original music: Justin Levine and Matt Stine") is a melange of mostly romantic songs hewing to the nouvelle chanteuse; I recognized Madeleine Peyroux, but regrettably the specific artists included are not listed.   

Donnell Oakley and Kyle Marshall in Hapless Bizarre. Photo: Jamie Kraus

In any case, the songs are not as familiar as those that accompany Mo(or)Town/Redux, which are mostly Motown staples. These are also not credited specifically, but the emotional evocativeness of many of the songs by artists such as Stevie Wonder, Otis Redding, and Amy Winehouse drives the work forward inexorably, with shifting dynamics. Jose Limon created the source dance which tells the Shakespeare story with audacious simplicity—of love, deceit, misunderstanding, and tragedy as told through a single misplaced hanky. Elkins was wise enough to base his dance on the solid bones of Moor's Pavane, but he leaves his mark in his fluid, eclectic choreography, with bits of modern connecting hip-hop and court dance. It already feels like an indispensable classic, despite its recent provenance.

Kyle Marshall makes a striking first image as the Othello figure, dressed in a suit and handling a mic and stand like Steven Tyler. Donnell Oakley, as his queen, and Cori Marquis, as the friend, convey jubilation and dreamy romance. But Alexander Dones is the dark Iagoian heart and quicksilver soul of the dance, with his elastic, compact body and coiled energy. He also embodies the everyman, as Elkins can (does) when he performs. It makes the sui generis choreography even more accessible, even if that's a quixotic illusion. Perhaps the one drawback of including this dance is the difficulty in matching its artistic achievement. Call it the Revelations Syndrome.

Maliphant—Sculpting with Humans

Carys Staton and Adam Kirkham. Photo: Warren Du Preez & Nick Thor

Russell Maliphant's Joyce Theater program, Still Current, features his strong, fluid dancers solo or in small groups, moving in a fairly limited spatial range, in lighting (by Michael Hulls) restricted to geometric shapes, otherwise surrounded by utter darkness. In some ways, it banks on certain aspects of his last Joyce presentation, The Rodin Project, but it's unencumbered by the dubious, if elegiac, allusions to the sculptor's work. Still Current presents in abstract terms the beauty of the human form, but without the pretensions. In some cases, movement is limited to just the upper body, or a repeated set of phrases performed with great precision.

It's impressive how focused this program is, despite Maliphant being injured, causing a rejiggering of pieces. A men's duet, Critical Mass (featuring Thomasin Gulgec and Dickson Mbi) feels grounded and muscular as the pair fit their bodies together, or narrowly miss one another. Clothed in chambray shirts and pants, they appear as regular people. Two, a solo for Carys Staton, similar to the duet Two x Two seen in the recent Fall for Dance, confined her to a square, whose lit border she swiped with her feet and hands. Her folded arms became shapes bereft of function. In Still, Mbi's sculpted torso flickers under banded lighting; he is joined by Staton in a contrasting pale blue gown. In Afterlight, Gulgec appears alien, with a beanie covering his head, a white orb floating above a red warmup jacket. (The costumes, by Stevie Stewart, are for the most part casual tops and pants.) 

In Still Current, Marlon Dino danced in place of Maliphant with Staton. Until this piece, most of the partnering was atypical—same gender, or not load-bearing in the male/female tradition. But Dino repeatedly slung Staton over his shoulders, her legs maintaining a parallel, spear-like aspect, sliding her around his torso. It closed a tightly curated evening, mercifully trimmed of artifice and extraneous set pieces.

Varone—Hitting Reset

Xan Burley in Dome. Photo: Yi-Chun Wu

After 28 years of running a highly respected company, Doug Varone has done the unexpected. He has departed, if by degrees, from his signature style of modern dance, which is a fluid, looping, channelling of energy that looks organic but which is carefully constructed and practiced expertly by his trained dancers. In a new group work, Dome, and a solo for himself, he has created stuttering, angular phrases separated by long moments of stillness. In a sense, he has hit the reset button.

The Joyce program leads off with Castles (2004), representative of Varone's essential style. It's marked by a matrix of pin spotlights (by Jane Cox and Joshua Epstein), at times reduced to light just the stage's perimeter. The lively, danceable music, Prokofiev's Waltz Suite, Opus 110, coaxes the mood from carnivalesque to martial to grandiose. The 3/4 tempo accommodates Varone's affinity for dropping weight into the ground. Xan Burley is particularly effective in this dance—lush, boneless, muscular.

Doug Varone in The Fabulist. Photo: Yi-Chun Wu

Varone then performed a new solo, The Fabulist, to "Death Speaks" by David Lang, presumably sung by an uncredited Shara Worden, whose lilting voice imbues a folk music touch. The lighting, by Ben Stanton, plays an important part, as it does in most of Varone's repertory. Just Varone's head and shoulders are lit at the start; he is bathed in a cone of light and moves almost begrudgingly, primarily using his arms and upper body. As the lights pull apart to rake him from both sides, he expands his range, stutter-stepping, hunching, and walking awkwardly, almost as if relearning his first steps. He plops down and with some effort pushes a stray leg into position with his hands. He eventually gains power over his environs, batting away a spotlight, and finally snapping his fingers to extinguish the light. It's atypical of his extravagantly graceful movement, and an overt reckoning of his own role as a choreographer/creator. Reid Bartelme and Harriet Jung's gray silk suit with sheer sleeves and pant hems seem overly fussy for Varone, who generally comes across as the super graceful pugilist-next-door.

Dome, the group premiere, builds on the angular, fitful phrasing. To Christopher Rouse's strange, at times cyclonic Trombone Concerto, it feels emotionally dark (despite Jane Cox's golden lighting) and vaguely post-disaster. The dancers read as detached from one another, in contrast to their usual cohesiveness; they move robotically, bursting into a phrase, or freezing in arabesques or beaching themselves on the floor apathetically. Hsiao-Jou Tang captures the sense of resigned doom in her elegant, economical phrasing. In a flurry of brass instruments, the eight dancers finally trundle together, each raising an arm. Dome showed some fresh approaches from an established choreographer.

Evidence and Mikhailovsky Ballet—Surprising Similarities

Mikhailovsky Ballet in Flames of Paris. Photo: Costas

Ronald Brown's Evidence: A Dance Company, from Brooklyn, and the Mikhailovsky Ballet, from St. Petersburg, Russia, couldn't be more different. Or could they? Both have had recent/current runs in New York. And both, in their own ways and on vastly different scales, told stories of the past with unique communicative genres of dance. 

The Mikhailovsky performed Giselle and Flames of Paris in its first week at the Koch. Its production of Giselle feels familiar to the production performed by ABT. The backdrops are painted a little more realistically, and the foliage rises and falls, revealing and hiding Myrta and Giselle, and also alluding to the supernatural setting of the woods. (The elegant Borzois seem to be the same pair, however.) Natalia Osipova is the epitome of a Giselle, radiating innocence and sweetness at the beginning, and descending into a catatonic state of madness. Famous for her ballon, she appears weightless in jumps and when lifted by Leonid Sarafanov (the Count), who spears the air like an arrow when he leaps. 

Flames of Paris (1932) is an oddity—to Americans, in any case. It was commissioned to mark the 15th anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution. Set in 1792, in a suburb of Marseilles, and in Paris, it's a simplistic account of the clash between classes. It switches locales from a marquis' ballroom to the streets of Paris, and from swanning bourgeoisie in velvet to peasants in clogs bearing the tricolor. One problem with the concept of the revolution is that it's supposed to be about the people, so pulling out principals to perform impressive solos and duets goes against principle. And yet, Angelina Vorontsova and Ivan Zaytsev led the cast with, respectively, delicate pizzicato steps and flying, muscular leaps. The peasant crowd scenes were the most energetic, with rousing folk dances (including an adorable little girl who kept up with the steps) and representatives from different ethnic segments of the country. The ballet will most likely not be adopted by non-Russian companies, so its rarity gave a viewing all the more urgency.

One Shot. Photo: David Andrako

Turning to Evidence, in residence at BRIC in Brooklyn, on the surface, the company and its repertory is the polar opposite of ballet, right? But it has a good deal in common. Brown's choreography, an inventive amalgam of African and all manner of modern dance, is a constant stream of communication to the audience. There are several kinds of steps in his vocabulary, which he combines and mixes to create continuously fascinating dance: 

* The emphatic statement, which can be a phrase that includes some gesture to convey specific concepts. In One Shot, one example was two hands clawing the air plus a fishing rod gesture.
* The bass line, when the lower body marks the rhythm while the upper does its own thing
* Traveling moves, which get the dancers from one place to another; these can feel ceremonial or just fun. 
* Marking time, providing a breather in action while reinforcing the music's pulse.

Broadly, ballet is not all that different. Mime and gesture play a big part and are used to denote a specific action. Waltz steps can behave in a similar way to the bass line, following the music while the upper body has its own set of complementary moves. There are many traveling steps in ballet, some small, like bourées; others big, like grand jétés. 

Brown's One Shot (2007) is an homage to Charles Teenie Harris, who documented life in Pittsburgh. It includes many of his photos of his projected behind the dancers. We get a glimpse of prosperous folks in the mid-20th century—beautifully dressed, and sometimes downright glamorous. Most of the subjects are black, although there are several group shots that include whites as well. There's a feeling of elegance and conviviality. Evidence's dancers are dressed in an approximation of the photographs' feel. They showboat, flirt, social dance, enter the military, and return. To Lena Horne singing, Coral Dolphin has a lovely solo, showing her silky style and a burning intensity the radiates through her cucumber-cool exterior. Annique Roberts, as always, rewards viewers with a boneless, impressively economical way of dancing. The company, clad in denim, led off with Come Ye: Amen (2002), an energetic work to the music of Fela Kuti.

Brown's choreography is wondrously consistent in connecting with the audience and conveying a constant stream of storytelling. The grand spectacles of the Mikhailovsky (which continue through this week) similarly grasp viewers' attention, with the help of lavish sets and dozens of dancers. Both in one week is a major gift for dance fans. 

Sally Silvers' Actual Size—A Study in Noir

Dylan Crossman and Melissa Toogood in rehearsal. Photo: Karen Robbins

After decades of creating dance, how does one find inspiration? Postmodern veteran Sally Silvers looked to film noir, and specifically Hitchcock, in Actual Size, performed at Roulette. The results were pleasingly robust, danced by a superb cast of Melissa Toogood, Alicia Ohs, Luke Miller, Carolyn Hall, and Dylan Crossman, plus the choreographer. 

In elegantly wrapped and fitted skirts and separates by Elizabeth Hope Clancy, the dancers moved confidently and eloquently. But rather than an absence of facial expression, as is so common in modern dance, they wore expressions similar to actors' in suspense films—suspicion, fear, hauteur, wistfulness. The movement contrasted to what I've seen from Silvers in the past, as seen in an early solo by the choreographer: a looser adherence to classical technique, a more personal interpretation. It may have been in part because Silvers' dancers for this project are among the most accomplished in the genre; Toogood and Crossman danced with Cunningham, the others are widely experienced and mature in their artistry and to a person spellbinding. 

Michael Schumacher's textured and varied sound score was consistently interesting, if vexing, to listen to and included text snippets, slinky trombone lines, and cartoon-music quotes. Ursula Scherrer designed the austere set and the video projections, geometric forms and black and white found footage and clips of the dancers off stage. It felt like Silvers has newfound vigor for the art which she has created for nigh on three decades.

Lar Lubovitch's Cheeky Side

Alessandra Ferri & Tobin Del Cuore. Photo: Phyllis McCabe

Lar Lubovitch's choreography is so flowing and elegant that to serve it up in a kitschy vehicle such as Artemis in Athens is, well, refreshing. This production premiere takes as its bones a 2003 commission for a paean to Greek culture given by ABT, with gauzy toga-inspired costumes and Julie Kent and Marcelo Gomes as leads. 


This week, at the Joyce, no less a (retired from ABT) prima ballerina than Alessandra Ferri danced the lead, but instead of a toga, she wore Naomi Luppescu's saucy interpretation of a Girl Scout uniform, in keeping with the entire cast and even the pit band, Le Train Bleu, looking like dutiful scouts rehearsing a march (but sounding grown-up, edgy, and expressive playing Christopher Theofanidis' composition). You got the sense that Lubovitch had watched Wes Anderson's Moonlight Kingdom not long before sitting down with the designer to sketch out ideas. 

Tobin Del Cuore & Alessandra Ferri . Photo: Phyllis McCabe

A cheeky intro given by a fresh-faced scout with a clipboard alluded to the Athens in the title as the town in Georgia, which would explain, in part, the change to an American woodsy milieu, populated by roving pine trees. Despite her khaki uniform, Ferri appeared as evanescent and goddess-like as ever, lithe, buoyant, and flashing her gorgeously arched feet in Girl Scout issued pointe shoes. Tobin Del Cuore was her foil, Akteon, transforming into a faun (in a skillfully toned unitard with smart white lapels) after his BSA uniform was swiftly disbanded, like Shaq ripping off his sweats. The tall Del Cuore lifted Ferri as if she were weightless. Clasping his hands in hoof-like fists, he bounded through, appropriately, stag leaps. Hunted down by a scout troop armed with bows (whose arcs served Lubovitch's fondness for curves). Akteon's image was immortalized in the heavens, twinkling in a starry sky. It was a bit of enchanting, whimsical fun. 

The Black Rose. Photo: Phyllis McCabe

The company also danced the premiere of The Black Rose, a twist on The Sleeping Beauty, whose score Scott Marshall quoted generously in his collaged score. (He mixed the hallucinogenic music for Lubovitch's renowned Mens' Stories.) Mucuy Bolles danced the central character opposite Reid Barthelme, who is blinded and crippled by the heartless Barton Cowperthwaite (sinister, roguish, and knife-limbed), who also impregnates Bolles, and hilariously chases after her newborn baby with oversized cutlery. 

A group of party-goers formed the chorus, swirling and flowing in Lubovitch's signature cursive movement. Barthelme morphed into a 60's mod-like chap with Lennon glasses and a ruffled shirt (costumes by Fritz Masten). While this dance thumbs its nose at tradition while drawing from it, its goth undertones paint a dark picture of humanity. Together, the two short dances make for a welcome respite from the bounty of mostly serious dance prevalent in New York. 

Alice's Adventures—A Dizzying Delight

Sonia Rodriguez (Alice) and Cheshire. Photo: Bruce Zinger

Is it possible nowadays to make an entertaining ballet combining technology with a classic of literature? Christopher Wheeldon's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, danced the National Ballet of Canada and presented by the Joyce Theater at the Koch, offers a resounding yes. (It originally premiered at the UK's Royal Ballet in 2011, and with CNB that year as well). It falls closer to Broadway-destined spectacles by Matthew Bourne than traditional ballets—not a bad thing. Most enduring popular classical ballets are based on romances either tragic or hard-won, in part to justify the big pas de deux, the beating heart of the genre. Alice has a somewhat stitched-together storyline which fails to tug on the heartstrings like chestnuts such as Giselle or Swan Lake. Here, it's all about the adventure, as the title says, and a thrilling ride it is.

Photo: Bruce Zinger

The most prominent and surprising elements of the ballet are the sets and costumes by Bob Crowley. It feels as if he pulled every last proverbial rabbit out of his hat, where they've been multiplying for generations. Some effects are plain old stagecraft—puppetry (an enchanting Cheshire Cat, in large and extra-large), admirably built set elements (the Queen's rolling heart-shaped carapace), clever applications of playing card graphics (spade-shaped tutus). Video elements (projection design by Jon Driscoll and Gemma Carrington) are used cleverly, taking us through convincingly dizzying plunges through the rabbit hole, or causing a wall of doors to vibrate hallucinogenically. As in the book, one drawback to talking caterpillars and floating cats is that our protagonist is reduced to a wistful cipher, fading from prominence even as she hardly, heroically even, leaves the stage over the course of roughly two hours (excluding two intermissions). She is called upon, not surprisingly, to react to the various crazy events into which she is coaxed or thrust.

Elena Lobsanova and Xiao Nan Yu. Photo: Bruce Zinger

Sonia Rodriguez danced the lead role on Wednesday, with Naoya Ebe as her suitor, Jack/Knave. The flamboyant role of Mother/Queen went to Svetlana Lunkina, who landed at the NBC after departing the Bolshoi last year—threatened in the wake of artistic director Sergei Filin being attacked with acid. This real-life drama would be hard to match, but the Queen's eye-popping costume and favorite gesture (slashed throat) did just that. Lunkina switched from preening to bloodthirsty in a split second. Juicy signature phrases went to the Rabbit/Lewis Carroll (Robert Stephen) wearing Lennonesque round pink specs and twitching neurotically when not leaping about, the Fish and Frog Footmen (Dylan Tedaldi and Francesco Gabriele Frola) slithering and waddling with charm, and Raja/Caterpillar (James Harrison), slinking on his stomach, which he also comically rubs in circles. Alice and Jack are given relatively brief duos, in which little chemistry is produced, but Ebe displayed his elegant lines and expressive back, and Rodriguez her solid arabesque when she isn't wriggling through a tiny door or acting shocked, surprised, or delighted. 

Jody Talbot wrote the pleasing music, often filmic in feel, and recalling Prokofiev and Danny Elfman at moments. It moves the action along pleasantly; perhaps further listenings will let it imprint on the brain. New York City Ballet's orchestra manned the pit, led by David Briskin, music director of the National Ballet of Canada.

One niggling criticism about Crowley's costumes, which are on the whole brilliant and witty, is the clashing hues of Alice's lavender frock and Jack's red and white outfits (he is on the lam from Team Queen, whose color is red). Even when their lines are in harmony, they are visually off key. But what lingers in the mind's eye should be the abattoir complete with slaughtered pigs, giant teapots, flowers dancing down the aisles under a flurry of confetti, a massive neon labyrinth, and multiple houses of cards. Catch it if you can.

Mark Morris' Acis and Galatea

Douglas Williams (Polyphemus) with Spencer Ramirez, Lauren Grant, and Noah Vinson. Photo: Richard Termine

Mark Morris is among the few modern choreographers at this moment who can put together—direct and choreograph—a dance-driven, full-length opera. His new production of Handel's Acis and Galatea was performed as part of Lincoln Center's Mostly Mozart Festival at the Koch Theater last week. It is telling, and fitting, that Morris is as at home in this music festival as anywhere else. The music which provides the structure, however, is at times fallible. The opera itself is largely light, bubbly, sometimes silly, with jaunty rhythms and repeating lyrics, and a trenchant, somber aria by Galatea, mourning Acis, prior to a festive finale. It's also sometimes irritating, like a pop music station where you hear a clunker every now and then. It might explain why it's not as commonly performed as other Handel compositions.

The pre-dance overture however, with a toe-tapping tempo, is an immediate reminder of the joys of hearing well-played music, live. Nicholas McGegan conducts the Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra and Chorale with finesse and verve. (It is clear that the orchestra takes things seriously from the program's list of instruments and their provenances; some date back to the 17th century.) The 18 dancers sweep on and off in arcs, ebbing and flowing, spelling out some of the shapes that accumulate to create a selected syntax specific to this work, as Morris does with each dance he creates. Draped tree branch hands, or arms straight, palms spread, as a dancer rushes upstage. A woman is lifted and wafted back to earth, one arm held higher than the other. A couple echoes one another's side leg lifts, with the man peeling backward. The endless repetition of musical phrases means a mirroring of the companion dance phrases, providing ample views and reviews.

The singers, pure and agile in voice, were integrated into the movement, sometimes more successfully than others. Soprano Yulia Van Doren (Galatea) moved more naturally than her paramour, Acis (tenor Thomas Cooley), who might have benefitted from more movement training, particularly in simply running across the stage. Tenor Isaiah Bell (Damon) sang with ringing clarity and youthful brio. But it was Douglas Williams who grabbed the spotlight as bad-boy Polyphemus, rejected by Acis. In a snarling solo, he groped each dancer as they passed by him with increasing reluctance, as if on a conveyor belt. This from a choreographer who once famously yelled "No more rape!" at a performance of Twyla Tharp's Nine Sinatra Songs. But a cluster of dancers forms a chair for Polyphemus, who is in turn groped by them—turnabout is fair play. In the end, he throws a boulder (appropriately, the rock-solid Maile Okamura, held aloft by two men) to strike dead Acis, whom Galatea resurrects as a flowing, life-giving stream.

A joyous finale. Photo: Richard Termine

Adrienne Lobel created vivid, expressionistic painted drops; one psych evokes a mountainous grove, another more rigid geometric forms, and a mid-stage drop features cut-out portals. When they are all lowered in place, the effect is visual cacophony. The stage is covered with a garish green marley—more tennis court than grass—whose effect was heightened by Michael Chybowski's lighting. Isaac Mizrahi designed wonderful floor-length chiffon, floral camo print dresses for the women and skirts for the men; the singers wore individual designs in varying plant hues.  

Morris is masterful at creating lilting, organic movement phrases that present a bright, philanthropic view of love and life. His dancers glow and gaze with affection at one another, and at the singers. There are also humorous sardonic scenes, such as when some of the women gang up with Galatea and pummel Polyphemus. Rita Donahue leads a memorable scene comprising a rapid series of strident gestures—hands stab the air, arms flail as if rowing followed by a violent stomp, a phrase which elicited giggles time and again. In another section, to a militaristic march, Laurel Lynch, carriage upright, sweeps her bent leg in an arc and straightens her limbs rigidly. In a visual non sequitur, Polyphemus lies on the ground and circles his ankles like a dancer warming up. The movements can get literal—to the phrase "ample strides," several dancers lift and vault another who plants her flexed feet defiantly. For a playful choreographer such as Morris, even if the results can be somewhat obvious, such visual pictures are priceless gifts in an oeuvre filled with days worth of non-narrative choreography. 

Integrating opera singers and dancers onstage is, of course, nothing new. (Once in a blue moon, someone like Simon Keenlyside, who is an impressively fleet physical presence, comes along to shift the paradigm.) It's one way Morris has approached opera—he also worked this way with the Met's Orfeo and Eurydice a few years ago. He has also placed singers in the pit and given the lead roles to dancers, as with his well-loved Dido and Aeneas. As long as Morris continues to have opportunities to do one, the other, or yet something else, productions of even less sturdy scores are welcome.

Q&A with Boston Ballet's Misa Kuranaga

The Boston Ballet is performing at Lincoln Center's Koch Theater, through June 29. Principal Misa Kuranaga, phenomenal in William Forsythe's The Second Detail, answered a few questions for Ephemeralist.

Ephemeralist: What does it mean to you that the company is making its debut at Lincoln Center, and in particular on the Koch Theater stage?

Misa Kuranaga: This means a lot to me and the entire Boston Ballet organization. We are such a versatile dance company at the height of our skills and it will be a joy to share this with the dance scene of New York City.

E: Of the repertory to be performed in New York, what do you most eagerly anticipate performing, and why?

MK: I love The Second Detail and I'm the most excited to perform this ballet. It is such a thrilling piece... you can give it all you have and explore your art form in the midst of a performance. It is a piece that is constantly growing and changing.

Working with Mr. Forsythe was such an amazing experience for me. He inspired me by sharing his life experiences. I hope I can share all of the things he taught me on stage with the audience in NY.

E: You guested with New York City Ballet in Serenade. What memories do you have from that performance?

MK: I remember when I first got the news of receiving the opportunity to perform at the Koch Theater with New York City Ballet. I was just so excited! I was given the chance to dance the Russian girl in Serenade and Heather Watts and Margaret Tracy helped me prepare for the show. I had a great time dancing on stage with friends I had not seen in years and they were all very supportive. It was a special moment for alums of School of American Ballet. I'm not always happy with my shows but this one I was very happy with, and it is one of the best shows I can remember. Because of such support from everyone, I was able to dance comfortably and perform my best at the time. 

It was definitely one if the most memorable performances of my career.

E: What are you looking forward to doing during your free time in the city?

MK: I'm in every show so I'm not expecting to have a lot of free time, but meeting some friends I haven't seen in a while for dinner will be something I'm looking forward to.

Boston Ballet's Return to Gotham

Boston Ballet is performing at the Koch Theater this week, the company's welcome return to New York after a very long time. The program on Thursday included The Second Detail by William Forsythe, Resonance by José Martinez, and Cacti by Alexander Ekman.

The Second Detail. Photo: Gene Schiavone

The recent news that William Forsythe will leave his company to teach in California and perhaps pay more attention to his classical repertory in various companies shadowed my viewing of The Second Detail (1991). The operative word here is not "the," as spelled out in a downstage sign, but "cool"—as in Forsythe's lighting design of white fluorescent light, iceberg-hued leotards designed by Yumiko Takeshima and Issey Miyake, and the dancers' louche attitude between razor-sharp ballet phrases, as if they were in rehearsal. It's a rhythm of taut and relaxed that lends pace and respiration. The traditional structure of ballet is shaken up, but a profound affection for the vocabulary still resonates—posés with hyperextended ribcages, the encouragement of showy multiple pirouettes, leg extensions and leaps pushed to extremes. An upstage line of minimal stools grounds the stage (also designed by Forsythe) and serves as seating for performers, who rest, and at times gesture. 

The women get the meaty sections, spinning like dervishes on pointe. I watched Misa Kuranaga perform two revolutions, looked away; and when I looked back a moment later, she was still finishing what must have been six revolutions. She has the right approach to Forsythe's style—without affectation, which can happen with certain dancers; fluid, technically astonishing (a leg afloat to the side, serene and unwavering). Thom Willems' score—electronic keyboard evoking a pipe organ—provided little structure, yet some of the dancers' moves seemed to align precisely with specific notes. A woman in a dress of white sheaves signalled the finale's onset; the work ended when a man kicked over "The." End!

Ji Young Chae and Patrick Yocum in Resonance.
Photo: Rosalie O'Connor

Forsythe has influenced an entire generation of choreographers, including, apparently, José Martinez, who choreographed Resonance. This ambitious work, in shades of pewter and blue, features a set of rolling grey panels that reworked the stage space every few minutes. Two pianists play Liszt (one at first hides behind a panel), an odd and at times awkward musical choice that can be melodramatic and rhythmically unsupportive. One group of women, led by Lia Cirio, wears flared navy sundresses; the other (by Dusty Button), camisole leotards. 

John Cuff's pale, silvery moonlighting frequently features dancers' silhouettes framed on the  panels. The ever-shifting set creates a feeling of unease and provides visual variety, but proved distracting at times. Martinez's movement abides by a similar muscularity and an extreme rendition of ballet as Forsythe's. It includes difficult phrases of pirouettes that change direction and foot positions, particularly in a polished performance by Alejandro Virelles. The work ended as it began, with a solitary woman walking backwards. 

I must confess that Alexander Ekman's Cacti left me with mixed feelings. He pokes fun at dramaturgical pretense and dance criticism, and those who practice one or both and have thin skin might understand. With that in mind, here are some notes:

Cacti. Photo: Rosalie O'Connor

Wow, that is an impressive sight... 16 dancers who all look the same, like they're not wearing tops but they actually are wearing flesh-toned leotards (is that a woman? not sure) with funny short black pants, each on a little platform... scary light grids falling askance from the fly... a few musicians standing around playing... the dancers are pounding their platforms and bodies, making rhythms, alternating and in unison, like football players doing the Polynesian haka pre-game... even slapping their heads, covered with chalk dust… poof… some mock critic's thoughts are read aloud… it sounds pompous and lugubrious… wait, I take that back, those words are pompous and lugubrious. sorry.

Hey! there are the cacti, obviously cheap and light plastic versions, seemingly red herrings, but I'm not supposed to get into any meaning here… those side light grids actually spell out "cacti," flashing like traffic alerts... platforms are dragged and arranged in a little fort… a couple performs a scene while their dreary thoughts and shorthand for moves are spoken aloud… it's supposed to be funny… and it's really just annoying… everyone comes back onstage, without their black pants, and they pose like some expensive Vanity Fair portrait… and the dumb voice comes back on asking if this is the end, like, eight times, and we're all praying it's the end... and it actually does end one second before I actually scream "It better be the end!"

That said, several viewers guffawed at every silly visual joke and satirical sentence. And the stagecraft—set arrangement, lighting (both by Tom Visser), tasteful music played live (Haydn, Beethoven, etc.), and the synchrony and execution of the company, were top-notch. Ekman had hit his target, but it clearly wasn't (or was?) me.

David Hallberg, Home Again

Gillian Murphy & David Hallberg in Cinderella.
Photo: Gene Schiavone

It's been a year since we've seen principal dancer David Hallberg perform with ABT, as he began dancing with the Bolshoi and splits his time between Moscow and New York. I guess we should feel lucky that he keeps one elegant foot here, even if it means a reduced spring ABT season workload and no fall/winter New York dates. It would be unthinkable to lose him completely.

In any case, it's wonderful to see him again in well-suited leads in Cinderella and Giselle. He is a natural-born prince (despite—because of?—his South Dakota provenance), with his statuesque height, noble profile, blond locks, and his innate hauteur. In his months with the Bolshoi, he has added welcome upper body strength to make overhead ballerina presses look easy, particularly with the sparrow-sized Alina Cojocaru in last Saturday evening's Giselle (he stepped in for an ailing Herman Cornejo), but also in the case of the substantially taller Polina Semionova earlier in the week.

In Cinderella, he confidently lifted Gillian Murphy above his head and gracefully descended a set of stairs. He has burnished other elements of his partnering studies—the feather-soft placing of the ballerina back on point, firmly gripping her waist as she tilts downward in arabesque, arranging his gaze to complement hers. It's somewhat ironic that the better partner a man is, the more he disappears, but in a good way.

Hallberg in Giselle. Photo: Gene Schiavone

Hallberg's demeanor is less that of an innocent youth now, and grounded with more maturity and intent. When he ponders his fate, it reads as concerned instead of unclear. And his technique remains paradigmatic, amplified through an emphasis of certain details. A leg held at 90º for an added second or two projects into infinity through his gloriously pointed, high-arched foot. As he circles in the forest, a small scissor step has become far wider and bolder, expressing ecstasy but also ferocity. (Has he learned to outwardly savor those moments when he approaches the sublime, as his fellow dancers often do?) And as always, he floats in perfect split grand jetés, defying gravity. One drawback is that he is so long-legged that the Met stage seems too small for him in these leaps.

I would not have predicted that Semionova would be such a profoundly moving Giselle; her rather tall height doesn't lend itself to the girlishness that in part makes the character's illness and death so terribly sad. But she moves with such tenderness and delicacy that she appeared to be moving through water at times. Hallberg is the right height for her, and together they were heartachingly gorgeous. He is tall for Cojocaru, with whom he danced on Saturday, but she gives a powerful portrayal of the broken ingenue. (Plus, how can one quibble with him as a substitute, despite missing Cornejo's only Giselle?) She is a natural fit for the role, seamlessly transitioning from a demure coquette to a tragic spirit. Again, it is a lovely gift that Cojocaru, one of the luminaries of the current generation, guests with ABT.

Alina Cojocaru as Giselle. Photo: Gene Schiavone

David Hallberg will perform in Swan Lake and The Dream in the final weeks of ABT's season at the Met, and in July, with the Bolshoi during the Lincoln Center Festival. When it rains it pours, but don't hesitate to seize the moment as he is a singular talent in a generation of fine dancers.

Cinderella, Take 3

Photo: Gene Schiavone

Eight years ago, I saw Julie Kent and Marcelo Gomes in the ABT premiere of James Kudelka's Cinderella from 2004. Last Tuesday, I saw Kent and Gomes reprise the roles of Cinderella and the Prince, only in Frederick Ashton's ballet from 1948, using Sergei Prokofiev's score, that originated at London's Royal Ballet and was given its ABT premiere last Monday. (Remarkably, Kent also danced the lead role in Ben Stevenson's version in 1996.) 

This version, while not modern, fits ABT's strengths better than the Kudelka, which contains some memorable stage pictures and dynamics—the Prince's urgent dash around the planet—but falls flat in comparison. Kudelka's is like a cartoon tree—a puffy circle atop a cylinder—versus a lushly-leaved, knarled-trunk, detailed etching by Dürer. Wendy Ellis Somes and Malin Thoors directed this production.

There is a tendency in contemporary ballet to push extremes—extend a leg past vertically, push an arabesque into a split, break a sculptured, curved line with a flexed extremity. Ashton (1904—88) often did the opposite. He dimished the exhibitionist tendency, lowering an attitude to an elegant height, holding the foot in coupé derrière, or arranging the arms in crisp Vs held high or low. That's not to say that he pared the choreography to simple forms. As the variations by the four fairies demonstrate, he created knotty phrases that challenge even the most skilled practitioners, in this case Stella Abrera, Sarah Lane, Misty Copeland, Isabella Boylston, and April Giangeruso. In some instances, he detached the music's support of the movement; the two cross paths and sometimes interweave, rather than swimming parallel.

The ballet's most memorable waltz section begs for swooping, dipping actions that emphasize gravity. But Ashton gave the corps' women slashing arms and crisply hit spots, an advancing army that marked the transition from reality to fantasy. Craig Salstein, as the Jester, seemed slightly overwound, pushing beyond the 110% he usually gives. His expressive face was painted clown white, which may have led him to try to use his body more. Nonetheless, he is reliably one of the most enthusiastic and entertaining performers in the company.   

The hysterics of the stepsisters (Kenneth Easter and Thomas Forster, in drag) offset the generally tasteful atmosphere set by Cinderella's passages. The tradition of men playing the sisters may be coveted in Britain, but it has less appeal to me. And yet, if women were given the slapstick pranks of this duo, it would surely count as misogynistic. Does it still? Hmm.

The set, by David Walker (who also designed the costumes), while column-and-candles classical in concept, recalls in practice the Japanese sliding screen form of theater, dogougaeshi. As each fairy makes an entrance accompanied by a pair of children, the portal in which she stands is revealed by a raised scrim. It shows off the great depth of the Met's stage. In Act 3, the ballroom appears to recede deeply, pushing us to focus on the couple, as if at the center of a Fabergé egg. In the final scene, a shower of glittering confetti sparkles hopefully around the couple, already on the neighboring hill.

Kent, after so many Cinderellas, exudes the essential purity and inner glow to be able to transform from peasant to princess. She enters the ballroom by walking on point, in her borrowed tutu and a sail-sized chiffon train held aloft by footmen, mincing ever so slowly down the steps. (I admit to worrying about the potential consequences of those steps, both here and when Gomes pressed her overhead and descended the staircase. He was fine, of course.) Gomes, clad in all white throughout, black hair gathered in a neat ponytail, is the consummate prince, drawing the eye even while darting through the crowd. He so fully inhabits his roles that even the sometimes awkward mechanics of partnering seem natural. His ability to exude both bravura and naturalness are remarkable, a testament to both physical training and artistry.

Premieres at New York City Ballet—JP & JR

Andrew Veyette & Sterling Hyltin in Everywhere We Go. Photo: Paul Kolnik

New York City Ballet's recent premiere of Justin Peck's Everywhere We Go is a truly ambitious, symphonic-scale work to a 40-minute, nine-movement score by Sufjan Stevens. It confirms the building suspicion that we have ballet's latest big choreographic talent in our midst, one still in his 20s and a soloist with the company. Don't be surprised if the dancing soon takes a back seat to an onslaught of high-profile commissions.

Peck continues to push himself and the dancers. Stevens' music can be thrillingly ornate, with fluttering flutes and clarion brass and pensive piano; at times, any of these instruments provide the beat. A choreographic tendency is to match some of these breakneck time signatures to the point where the most sure-footed dancers slip just trying to keep up; the trick is to push up to that line without crossing it. Peck very deliberately slows down some passages so they look like slo-mo, a filmic device that works to concentrate our focus, such as when Theresa Reichlen floats slowly amid a whirling crowd before whipping off some fouéttés.

Peck has great skill and an affinity for geometry and patterning. He creates fresh tableaux with the 25 dancers at hand, building structures one body at a time and then diminishing them in reverse. We see circles that blossom like flowers, matrices, wedges, lines, columns, clusters. This tinkertoy tendency is complemented by artist Karl Jensen's riveting backdrop, which at first evokes an Escher image of greys and blacks, and then morphs (kaleidoscope style, only vertically) to reveal negative spaces—bowties, octagons, squares—where light shines through. 

Maria Kowroski & Robert Fairchild. Photo: Paul Kolnik

A respect for ballet's fundamentals is felt, but there are small inventions that brand it. Arms held overhead in "fifth position," but with the palms pressed together, arms straight, like a diver; or arms held straight out while spinning, Dervish style. While Sterling Hyltin is lifted, she makes the shape of a ship's prow figurehead, and another time, she is tossed to a mosh pit of men while posing like a reclining flirt. 

There are some new partner pairings: the vibrant Tiler Peck with Amar Ramasar (Stevens says he wrote a section with them in mind), Robert Fairchild with Maria Kowroski, both romantics at heart; Andrew Veyette with Hyltin, an ideally proportioned pair. And Teresa Reichlin assumes the cool lone wolf role, dancing solo or with several men or a pair of dancers. Veyette in particular seems to have blossomed in this work; he is among the most athletic of the men, and here bounds and bursts across the stage, unfettered.

Recently retired dancer Janie Taylor designed the smart costumes—white/navy striped tops and white trunks/tights for the women, and color block unitards with a pink stripe for the men. It's great to see a dancer's knowledge of functionality and style put to use, especially in a company that has in recent seasons turned to haute couture designers.

The one drawback was the piece's length. There were also several false endings when the audience thought it was over, only to have another movement begin. On the other hand, the many sections lend themselves to being excerpted.

Do I know you? Photo: Paul Kolnik

While watching Les Bosquets, the prior week's premiere by artist JR (with help from Peter Martins), a mental image recurred—Mr. Monopoly lighting a cigar with a $100 bill. The sheer lunacy of the premise—giving creative rein to a non-choreographer, enlisting more than 40 dancers for the eight-minute work, engaging whatever it took to create the individually unique costumes (by Marc Happel)... like other recent commissions, it feels like a huge amount of resources thrown at essentially a pièce d'occasion, a giant gesture of artistic hubris/audience outreach.

In any case, this artistically dodgy premise seems to have worked in terms of outreach, to an extent. Thanks to publicity about the project, chatter revolved around JR and his dance, even if it was about how he has never choreographed. (JR created the mezzanine floor mural last season, featuring the company lying in artful poses as the audience walked on top of them.) How Martins had to interpret JR's concepts into actual dance steps. About Lil Buck, a non-ballerino. About how the piece was inspired by the 2005 riots in and near Paris.

Lil Buck and Lauren Lovette. Photo: Paul Kolnik

As for the work itself, it is memorable for the impression made by the sheer number of dancers comprising two gangs, basically good vs. bad. Divided by gender, the two sides confront one another and clash, creating a chaotic mass that culminates in a human mound. Admittedly, it's a very strange sensation to see Lil Buck gliding on his sneakered toes, snaking his liquid arms, and angling his legs into diamond shapes, next to Lauren Lovette in a white crinkly (Tyvek?) tutu, moving through classical ballet shapes. It had the effect of reducing Lil Buck's very personal style to an oddity, when he has created a distinct genre of hip-hop. In one scene, the two stand face to face in front of a huge video of their alternating faces. The lighting is so dim that you can't see what they're doing (the above photo appears far lighter than the live performance), but presumably they were just staring at mimed (and smaller, real) cameras.

It's also a surprise that this work was not the performance focus of gala night, because it had the devil-may-care attitude characteristic of such fare (Justin Peck's premiere took that honor). On the one hand, it's not a bad thing that Martins has enough artistic freedom to direct resources to an untested dance collaborator, but on the other hand, it's a lot of resources. But without such experiments, true talents like Peck might not be found.