By Josh Edelson
By Chris Hall
By Jonathan Curiel
By Jonathan Curiel
By Sherilyn Connelly
By Mollie McWilliams
By Rachel Swan
By Erin Browner
Damian Woetzel and Wendy Whelan delivered the most technically thrilling piece of the evening, Balanchine's Tchaikovsky Pas de Deux, blending artistry and athleticism in ways that quickly exhaust a writer's store of superlatives. Alone, Woetzel powered through triple-jump and triple-turn combinations, and scoured the periphery of the stage with sweeping coupe-jete turns, snapping to perfect unwavering finishes each time. Against Woetzel's reserved partnering, Whelan projected a radiant lyricism, spiraling through fouette turns and diving dizzyingly into his arms.
Martins' Barber Violin Concerto is an engrossing enigma. Two couples -- barefoot modern dancers and a classical ballet duo -- dance separate variations, meet in the middle, then swap partners. What could be interpreted as modernism's influence on classicism and vice versa could more cynically be read (between rumbling tympanies and the Graham-like angularity of the modern couple) as the old world meets the natives. Wendy Whelan's ice princess melted sensually, though, and Samantha Allen's playful clamor for Charles Askegard's attention paid off in a rolling pas de deux.
The Concert (or, The Perils of Everybody) is Robbins at his theatrical best. It's a cleverly designed, generously physical comedy about music lovers who continually disrupt a piano recital with their own interpretation of the music. As he did with the Jets/Sharks rumble in West Side Story, Robbins makes expansive use of the space, sending dancers with umbrellas swirling around the stage like cumulus clouds. It's hard not to miss Robbins after giggling over the buggy antics of his baseball bat-wielding concertgoers, but it's reassuring to know that his work's been left in capable hands.
Fault. Performed by the Margaret Jenkins Dance Company. Choreography by Jenkins and Ellie Klopp. Lighting and set design by Alex Nichols. Costumes by Beaver Bauer. At Yerba Buena Center for the Arts Theater, 700 Howard (at Third Street), Sept. 24-26.
Margaret Jenkins and Ellie Klopp's Fault moves like the Earth's constantly recycling surface. Unpredictable solos and intertwining duos are overwhelmed by a group of dancers stretching out, hand to hand, like a fault line or streaming together in a strong current of motion. The formation then re-fragments into smaller clusters. One performer draws us tight into her swooping torso, arms a craggy outcropping, while a whole cadre catapults in and out of view, limbs etched in the space left behind. Another slides to the floor from the wings, settling like a tumbled rock at the feet of bounding dancers.
Like the propulsive entrances in Merce Cunningham's 1974 masterpiece Sounddance, the movement in Fault feels pulled together and split apart by a physical principle stronger and more natural than the logic of a rectangular stage. The expansive dancers are made small by the movement they spin out, which rolls from moment to moment, reverberating beyond them.
The score, written by Alvin Curran and David Lang and performed by the Paul Dresher Ensemble (with percussion help from a taped William Winant), echoes the rising and bursting tension of the dancing. The music pings like a beeper, creaks like a melting glacier, knocks like billiard balls, plunk-plunks like rain, rolls like a Philip Glass refrain, and lets the dance begin and end in cocked silence.
The basic lesson of geological evolution -- that individuality exists within a grand structure; that the pockets of quartz, streaks of obsidian, and pools of water on a mountain come about in separate time -- doesn't often find its way into dance, which tends to sacrifice the group for the individual or vice versa. But in Fault, the lush, stunningly grounded dancers are completely distinct, even as they take part in some overarching scheme. Kathleen Hermesdorf hangs her soft, weighted body from her arms and looks straight at you, as if it's just you and she. Abby Crain swirls in and out of the floor with smooth, elastic strength, her legs acting as powerful levers. Paul Benney has the airy athleticism of a Calder mobile.
Through the dancers' particularities, Fault creates a precious paradox where the natural, the abstract, and the human come together. The fascinating unpredictability of what a body's force and direction will lead to saves the dance from the usual faults of postmodern abstraction, seen in the stupefying geometric designs of Laura Dean; the physics lessons of Elizabeth Streb; and the desiccated, computer-generated visions of some recent Cunningham.
But, if the dancers in Fault matter (notas personalities, of course, but as unique movers), they seem to move from an impulse deeper than instinct and even than will. They've become larger than their thoughts of themselves. In this dance, they are natural elements that have somehow condensed their evolution into a couple of cataclysmic hours.
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