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Flash Review Journal, 5-28: Shut up and Dance
Hobling Gives a Schooling: It's the Body, Stupid
By Paul Ben-Itzak
Copyright 2003 The Dance Insider
MONTREUIL, France --
Of all the challenges to which George Balanchine put Suzanne Farrell
and his other muses, talking on stage was not one of them. He also
never asked them to don a jet pack which shot plumes of smoke up
from behind their heads. Balanchine worked the body. He worked the
stage, too, and of course the music, but principally, he pushed
dance to another level through the means of the dancers and their
main implement, what the French call the corps. Today, we are hit
by a scourge of choreographers who want to be playwrights, and of
dancemakers who use technical devices instead of pushing the technique
and the form.
Let's start with two
choreographers from the same company, Nederlands Dans Theater, as
seen earlier this month at the Garnier. After that, we'll consider
recent concerts by Saskia Hobling, Charles Linehan, Christoph Winkler,
and Fabrice Lambert, all part of the Rencontres Choregraphiques
Internationales de Seine-Saint-Denis, and an upcoming concert from
Nancy Bannon in New York.
Most companies would
be ecstatic to have as the base of their repertory the works of
Jiri Kylian. But when Kylian stepped down in 1999 after 21 years
as NDT director, the company apparently and admirably made the choice
to at least balance out its programming with more work from other
resident choreographers, besides Kylian and Hans van Manen. The
results seem to be mixed.
The Garnier program
opened with Kylian's 1978 "Symphony of Psalms," to Igor Stravinsky's
sweeping music of the same name. Writing now a week-and-a-half after
the performance, what sticks most is that this is a ballet about
relationships, with couples often spilling out of two vertical lines
at either side of the stage. Oriental carpets arrayed as a backdrop
situate the duets domestically, taking place in the cohabiting phase
of a relationship, rather than courtship or break-up. There's also
lots of sliding.
The sliding -- and I've
noted it before in Kylian -- was there again in "Click - Pause -
Silence," a quartet from 2000. Also sliding, albeit more slowly
than the humans, is a television set on a portable TV table. It's
way in the back at first, so you hardly notice it counter-posed
to the live dance action going on vertically across and upstage
from it. I swear I was watching the human performers more than their
televised versions (in rehearsal?) revealed as the TV eventually
spun around, but I'm hard-pressed to find an image from either that
stuck, beyond the severe dancing of Nancy Euverink and the rest
of the cast, Vaclav Kunes, Patrick Marin, and Stefan Seromski. Still,
the piece is a good example of a tool being used not as a gimmick
but to frame the dance. What's framed here the tension between the
contained (the images on the television) and the barely contained
(the tense and tensile movement and inter-movement of the live performers).
Many in this audience
are likely hip to Steve Reich's 1966 "Come Out," which riffs on
repeated sampling of a man saying something like, "I had to, like,
open the bruise up and let it come out to show them." It's a great
sound canvas to the choreographer who can tap into its cadence in
just the right, almost Zen-like fashion; but I bet you've never
seen the words enacted literally in a dance!
Paul Lightfoot's 1999
"Speak for Yourself" begins with this music and a man, Yvan Dubreuil,
out of whose head smoke seems to be shooting. I laughed at first,
but when neither he nor the smoke would go away, the dancer continuing
to sputter about after a couple appeared for a separate dance and
the chalk or dry ice or whatever it was filling my lungs, I tore
out of Opera House. I don't mind being uncomfortable in the theater,
if it's from the artistic effect and not the special effects. I
don't mind having my sensibilities assaulted, but I draw the line
of defense at my non-visual senses, be it smoke that assaults my
lungs or 'music' that batters my eardrums.
I thought this last
was going to happen after Saskia Hobling's new "Exposition corps"
began Saturday at Montreuil's Centre Dramatique National with a
screech of astringent industrial. But it cut off as soon as Hobling,
dressed in bra and underpants, stepped gingerly onto the boxing-ring
like platform in the middle of the stage. I mention the bra and
underpants because so did Hobling, explaining in a program interview
with Gilles Amalvi that while the performers in her last piece had
all been nude, she was incorporating undergarments here because
they indicated the humanity of her figure.
What followed -- and
not just for this audience member, I gather -- was an entirely appropriate
discomfort-provoking 'exposition.' You know that kind of Saint Vitus
dance you do when you need to poop but a toilet is not immediately
available? (Um, it's not just me, is it?) One segment had Hobling
doing something that reminded me, viscerally, of this, as she tried
to walk with her thighs squished together, hobbling on the balls
of her feet. It was at about this time that either a)my stomach
grumbled or b)Heinz Ditsch's score made this sound. When it happened
again -- and I could swear I heard the sound from others in the
audience too -- I was sure it was me, and found myself simultaneously
uncomfortable and sated. At the same time she'd made me physically
uncomfortable, Hobling had given me something I could physically
identify with. 'Accessible' dance, after all, doesn't mean just
dance that entertains, but dance the audience can relate to. Hobling
wasn't just a dancer-choreographer up there doing weird things;
she was rendering experiences we all have, only on a body more attuned
to its workings and more able to show them. She's a specimen --
an Amazon, really -- and her body, presenting a model fit for Maillot,
would delight a sculptor, both for her chiselled overall features,
and in the way she displayed her body, breaking it down in parts,
for example, a pear-shaped butt isolated from the rest as she bent
down to feature it.
If Hobling found her
challenge somewhere in her majestic body, Charles Linehan, appearing
on the same program, found it in the grid of the space. Andreja
Rauch and Greig Cooke begin Linehan's "Grand Junction" in distinct
spaces, individually and in how they're arrayed on the stage. His
featured jutting arms, his button-down shirt occasionally whirling
about; hers was pulled to the ground, careful. Both were dressed
as civilians, another typical (and accessible) feature of the British
post-Modern dance I've seen. After occasionally glances at each
other, gradually they compressed towards the center, creating the
junction in what is truly a landscape that Linehan has created.
British choreographers I've seen seem to be at least as interested
in the landscape around their performers as the worlds within them,
exploring it with rigor and engaging it with vigor. (Linehan is
set to perform at Danspace Project next March.)
The programming at Rencontres
Choregraphiques is not quite so uniformly rigorous. Hobling, Linehan,
and, as
previously noted, A. Wolfl, are, if not "finds" because
they've been around for a while, definitely "treasures," and jewels
in this year's just-concluded Rencontres season. On the other hand,
Skalen (as previously ranted), Fabrice Lambert, and, seen Saturday,
Christoph Winkler, are strickly sophomore composition class, all
with serious and obvious flaws. Skalen's work amounted to noodling
around with a camera and noisemakers, Lambert's to letting the individual
four dancers noodle around to a gimmicky score (sounds made by the
dancers were looped and later repeated), and Christoph Winkler and
dancers just want the Arabs and Israelis to get along. (This we
know not because of the choreography but because segments of "Jerusalem"
were introduced by little speeches addressed to Israeli and Palestinian
leaders.)
But let's get back to
Hobling, who should be required viewing for every choreographer
who thinks the way to push the form is to push it into other genres
in which, frankly, they are not trained. An upcoming concert at
the Joyce Soho from an admirable dancer, Nancy Bannon, promises
"a short play, written by Bannon and John Patroulis...more a literal
evocation of Bannon's interest in emotional bewilderments, people
who cannot articulate what they want and need, cannot theorize about
their truths." (Another piece on the program promises "a thirty-minute
journey into theatrical social commentary," also with the dancers
speaking.) If I want a literal evocation, I'll turn to a trained
playwright. When I go to a dance concert, it's in large part because
I want to experience things that cannot be articulated in words.
Shut up and dance!
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