Emphasis Dance

“Girl, Get Off” premiere — dancers (from left to right) Ashlee Merritt, Andy Lawson, Megan Pulfer, Ellen Akashi, Samanth-Jane Gray and Natalie McCall. Photo by Tracy Kumono

Clairobscur artistic director Laurie Sefton tackled meaty topics using a serious and sometimes morose tone at a concert she called “no option, choice, preference,” Saturday night at the Nate Holden Performing Arts Center.

Her Clairobscur Dance Company, which celebrates its 30th anniversary this year, presented the world premiere of “Girl, Get Off,” a sensual piece about sexual exploration from a female perspective.

Ellen Akashi, dancing with unflagging power, starts the piece alone, flipping repeatedly from her back to her side, and crab walking on her elbows and heels. As the dance progresses, to a mixed score of original music by Bryan Curt Kostors and recorded songs by Apparat, Massive Attack, and others, Askashi is joined by the other dancers for couplings and rendezvous that suggest moments of lustfulness, but without pleasure or contentment. (Samantha-Jane Gray, Andy Lawson, Natalie McCall, Ashlee Merritt and Megan Pulfer round out the cast.)

Pulfer and Akashi. Photo by Tracy Kumono

Partly because sex has its own intense human movement language, it’s a frequent topic for dance. (And, another reason is, simply, because it’s sex.) But how to express oneself in an artistic way without becoming tawdry? Sefton has her dancers miming sexual positions, which, though an obvious course, didn’t make her specific points discernible. In skimpy or tight costumes (credited to Sefton with Leslie Karten and Ruth Fentroy) the dancers robotically rub their hands on their breasts and shake their behinds at the audience. They wrap their bodies around one another, forming relationships that sometimes end in jealous recriminations. At the end, Akashi extends her arms and limbs as the others pull strings from her black bikini costume, which suggested to me that her partners had taken little pieces of Akashi. What had she gotten from them? That was unclear, but there was little in their gestures or expressions that depicted even lustful pleasure let alone genuine human contact.

The evening opened with “desiccated earth/California,” which debuted last year, and which is about human misuse of the planet, according to program notes. There was a robotic quality to this piece, as well, with the piece’s characters reacting little to one another.

“desiccated earth”

Sefton’s movement language begins in, and is driven by, the upper body, so the dances can feel rooted in place. The dancers shuffle their feet or jump lightly while they are gesturing in double time, hands chopping the air, arms waving like windmills, or madly rippling their fingers. There’ a bit of a musical quality to this dichotomy, with the lower body acting as a piece’s rhythm, while upper reaches act as the melody.

Dancers enter and exit, occasionally scampering on a rectangle of grass, and this connection with a representation of something living and green caused a shift, some feelings of joy, even. But it was harder for me to decipher much of the code that seemed imbedded here.

The Bully of the title. Photo by Erich Koyama

This was not the case with the three sections from “Bully,” which is from 2012. These were very distinct portraits, first, of a self-loathing Bully—scarily and beautifully danced by Evan Swenson—second, the Gang members on auto-pilot, blindly following their leader, and, finally, the reaction of the Victim (an expressive Natalie McCall), who decides that death is the only way to escape the torment. This piece was organized as a series of vignettes. It is Sefton’s most-praised recent piece, and it’s easy to see why; her message and emotional tone are consistent and pure.

As dance fans were celebrating the local premiere of Mats Ek’s 2013 production of “Juliet and Romeo” at Segerstrom Hall in Costa Mesa Friday night (June 10), we were simultaneously contemplating never seeing any other ballets by Ek. The 71-year-old Swedish choreographer will soon take a break from the dance studio—perhaps a final retirement, though maybe not; even he’s not sure. But he has said that once he’s done, he will not renew the performance rights to his ballets. Phewt! Just like that, all his works gone, for good.

Which had me asking: Can you miss something you haven’t seen? Ek’s modern-dance-style ballets are rarely seen in the U.S.; I don’t believe (though I could be mistaken) that any American companies perform his pieces. In 2002, I saw his revolutionary adaptation of “Swan Lake” (from 1987), performed by Cullberg Ballet at UCLA’s Royce Hall. It was an inspiring and radical reimagining and, with men cast as swans, appeared to have paved the way for better-known productions, notably Matthew Bourne’s celebrated version.

So, yes, there was a bit of mourning going on as I was reveling in the Royal Swedish Ballet’s performance of his “Juliet and Romeo.” What a shame that we have experienced such a narrow slice only of this transformative artist’s work.

For the Shakespeare classic, Ek has pared the details to two acts, and traded in the familiar Prokofiev ballet score for a select patchwork of Tchaikovsky: a little Manfred, some Piano Concerto No. 1, Symphony No. 5, String Quartet No. 1, and so on. (Finnish conductor Eva Ollikainen led the Pacific Symphony musicians in mostly inspiring playing.) Tchaikovsky’s own “Romeo and Juliet” overture-fantasy is pointedly missing from the lineup. The music does not give us other references and perhaps for this reason, and for the stellar way in which musician Anders Högstedt adapted the selections, the score feels like a natural whole, rather than cemented together crumbs.

The lovers’ Verona is a dark smoky stage stripped of wings and backdrop, with corrugated moveable walls resembling boxcar sides that are shifted to create plazas, rooms, diagonal walkways and generally evoke an ominous atmosphere. The unidentified and indistinguishable citizens don’t so much fight as stalk about in formations, their heads down and legs deeply bent—something like Groucho Marx’s deep-knee gait but without the humor. Enforcers (my word) occasionally appear on Segways, and a collective shiver goes through the crowds. This is one bleak landscape.

As the ballet’s title suggests, Juliet is a more fully illustrated character than Romeo, and her proscribed life as a young female feels far more prison-like. When Juliet rejects Paris near the ballet’s conclusion, it is her Father’s rejection—vividly illustrated when dancer Arsen Mehrabyan raises his arm toward her like a rifle—that knocks her out, not any sleeping potion. Ek gives nearly equal weight, and certainly equal time to ancillary characters. Mercutio in particular is highlighted. He, not Romeo, is the leader of their gang of three (with Benvolio), and as portrayed by the bald and brawny Jerome Marchand, he is outrageous—taking a leak on the walls—but a fearsome bully, too. That “thing” between Lady Capulet, here called Mother (the excellent Nadja Sellrup) and Tybalt (a smoldering Dawid Kuinski) is made blunt and obvious. The Nurse (portrayed by Ek’s wife, the renowned Ana Laguna) is a force of strength.

Even with all this other action taking place, though, the central love story is not slighted. Mariko Kida is a perfect Juliet, and a perfect Ek heroine: earthy, emotional, sexual, fleet and technically wizardly. Anthony Lomuljo’s Romeo starts out as a naïve boy, but grows up fast when confronted with something to live for. Their two major duets are highly charged, but so different from the usual love pas de deux because Ek’s characters never interact in expected ways. When Lomuljo lifts Kida, her body sags; at another moment, she hangs onto his back in an ungainly upside down position with her legs parted like antenna behind his head. After a rush of cantering steps they finally crash into one another in a desperate hug, and this co-joining, so long in coming, becomes that much more resonant for the surprise of it.   

At the pre-performance talk, Ek said that the story’s two legs are young love and violence. The story is universal to begin with. But its the way he sticks to those themes that Ek makes it fresh all over again. This almost feral ballet cuts to the heart. It is a reflection that is at once centuries old, and of today, too.

Here’s hoping for more Ek, tomorrow, as well.

“Juliet and Romeo,” Royal Swedish Ballet, 7:30 p.m. June 11, 1 p.m. June 12; Segerstrom Hall, 600 Town Center Dr., Costa Mesa. $30 to $160. (714) 556-2787, scfta.org

The men of Pony Box in a publicity photo

A self-produced concert, bringing together Pony Box Dance Theatre and Lula Washington Dance Theatre (at the Nate Holden on Saturday April 2), turned out to be a much better pairing than I had imagined.

Pony Box is a contemporary ballet company formed a few years ago by Long Beach choreographer Jamie Carbetta Hammond. It has male performers only (all of whom are wonderful). Lula Washington’s LA-based troupe, on the other hand, is one of Los Angeles’ most established companies (with an outstanding group of eight female and male dancers, with both companies sharing the talents of Jack Virga Hall). It has a diverse modern-influenced repertory, but with a focus on exploring the African-American experience.

What made these two female artistic directors good partners, I think, is their complementary artistic visions. They are humanists advocating for a better world through their art. They recognize the strife gripping the world and confront it directly in their art, and they make dances that hold up hope and righteousness as the prize.

The two pieces on Hammond’s half of the program, “The Line” (from 2015) and “The Collective” (2016), have strong similarities. Both take the viewer on metaphorical journeys of transformation. Hammond sets up conflicts that pit the individual against the group; suggesting that conformity is a lure, but also a dangerous state. She favors  a long and beautiful dance line, and complicated body positions. Her dancers are portrayed as sophisticated and Hammond emphasizes their masculinity. The men perform shirtless, enhancing the sensuality of her pieces. But this is not about selling sex, a la Chippendale’s; these men are strong but vulnerable, individuals but also symbols for humanity.

“The Line” begins with all seven dancers outside a rectangular rope that frames the stage and gives the dance, one supposes, its name. They have solos suggesting moments of prayer or spiritual searching, and then they dive into—or are sucked in, more likely—the center of the stage. Once there, they submerge into a face-less uniformity. Malachi Middleton pulls away, and tries breaking through to the others. He has a lovely, tender duet with Christian Beasley, but Beasley rejects Middleton’s efforts at connection. Middleton ends the piece by climbing a ladder, ascending, we presume, to a better place.

“The Collective” starts with a circle, the dancers dressed in two-toned stretch shorts each pair black on the behind and brightly colored on front. Hammond gives the guys cooperative movements; they are literally linked, supporting and pulling one another. A crate placed upstage, however, is the excuse for a hidden onstage costume change; when they emerge they’re wearing black and white pants, and black and white Venetian-style masks, a different one for each dancer (created by Ashley Castillo and Joseph Umali Fernandez). In this strange segment, each man  has a pole on which he awkwardly balances his head; it’s then used as a yoke across the shoulders. By the end, half the cast has changed yet again and discarded the masks; these are potent theatrical symbols yet their meaning here is murky. A collage of musical pieces, including works by Radiohead and Doug Hammond set an edgy mood, but they don’t drive the dance. This was true in “The Line,” as well, which featured recorded pieces by Doug Hammond (the choreographer’s husband), Thomas Yorke and Olafur Arnalds.

I like Hammond’s movement inventiveness but I’m not always sure what she’s trying to communicate. There are lengthy center stage, front-facing unison passages, which are reminiscent of classroom exercises. These two works are overly long. At the same time, I’m intrigued by the boldness and possibility of an all-male company, particularly one with a female leader.

Washington’s company presented three pieces, two of which featured onstage live accompaniment by Marcus L. Miller’s ace jazz quartet (he is Washington’s son-in-law). Washington’s 2015 “Search for Humanism” began the second half and it is the choreographer’s literal cry of fury over the ongoing spate of killings of African-Americans. “Stop! Stop killing! My babies are sacred!” a dancer-griot, or sage, implores and then shrieks at the audience. This is amped up, white-hot anger, and the dancers scamper at hyper-speed about the stage, fall as though shot, but then are revived with hugs. I thought of this piece as a kind of “Guernica,” Pablo Picasso’s masterpiece decrying the massacres of the Spanish Civil War. Unfortunately, “Search for Humanism” is flatly literal, and artistic perspective is sorely lacking—it’s one long scream of pain. I understand and empathize with the impulse, but it’s limiting as a dance.

Tamica Washington-Miller’s “Together” (2011) is a sweet showcase about love, and the fundamental rightness of finding one’s better half. It also showed off Krystal Hicks, a gorgeous dancer with perfect timing and rhythmic nuance. Raymond Ejiofor was her tender partner.

The evening ended on the high note that is “Global Village,” a 2010 celebration to Fela Kuti’s music. Washington made this infectious, joyous piece for the company’s first tour of China in 2011 and it is full of little touches that represent a multitude of cultures. The women’s brightly colored blouses have extra long sleeves, and waves of pigment flash over their heads every time they wave their arms. Washington has an unerring sense here for shifting groupings. It’s more than simply a fun and uplifting work—it’s enduring.   

Les Ballets de Monte Carlo, photo by Alice Blangero

Les Ballets de Monte-Carlo was up at the Segerstrom Center’s international dance series, with the U.S. premiere of artistic director Jean-Christophe Maillot’s “Choré,” on Friday night (Feb. 12). It struck me as 75 minutes of strange and frustrating work—occasionally engaging thanks to its theatrics; choreographically sleep-inducing (Eyelids, stay open!); and ultimately a mix of just too many weighty intellectual topics.

Let’s start with the title “Choré.” What Maillot is referencing here is also known as Syndenham’s chorea, chorea minor, and Saint Vitus Dance—a nervous disorder in which irregular, jerking movements are caused by involuntary muscular contractions, often a result of rheumatic fever. (Thank you, Webster’s New World Dictionary.)  “Choré,” however, is not about illness. But it is about the compulsion to dance. Dancing is a natural part of being human, “Choré” tells us, and the forms that dance takes are a direct reflection of its makers and adherents, of culture and history, and how it metamorphoses over time. These are issues that the choreographer has been obsessed with throughout his career.

French author and librettist Jean Rouaud approached Maillot with a proposition: Make a ballet that looks at the developments of dancing in light of the American movie musical and, oh yeah, throw in major world events, including the Depression, World War II, the Holocaust, the atomic bomb, and so on. That is “Choré.”

I have to say that Maillot is more sophisticated than Russia’s Boris Eifman, who attempts to tackle some of the same issues but turns all his ballets into the dance equivalent of a melodramatic nightmarish scream-fest. Still, Maillot was not able to present any insights into the woven threads that connect life and art.

Rather, Maillot, with the essential collaboration of costume designer Philippe Guillotel and stage and lighting designer Domique Drillot, created some striking stage pictures. Not original, but eye-catching nonetheless.

They present a world that is first sepia-toned and then black and white. Amid a group of elegantly attired couples—stand-ins for Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers—is one faceless masked duo in coal black, very eerie. A Gene Kelly character and his surrogates enter later, in polo shirts.  The second scene, a stereotypical look back at Hollywood movie-making, concludes with the dancers performing on a painted flooring of M.C. Escher-like stairways, which when reflected in the giant mirrored backdrop made for an ingenious recreation of a Busby Berkeley routine. Quite fabulous.

The “war” sequence places most of the cast in head to toe black-and-white convict-striped unitards, shades of Alwin Nikolais’ breakthrough designs. Dancer Mimoza Koike, the efficient secretary harassed by her superiors on the movie set, is now in shredded skirt, alone and horrified, the audience’s representative to war’s disasters. The aftermath is a surprisingly still, a denuded landscape of two couples on platforms, the women flying on aerial harnesses. Perhaps they are angels.

Mimoza Koike, photo by Alice Blangero

The ending is an incongruously and abruptly happy sequence of boogeying and shimmying. And there is color for the first time, the entire cast walking on with punctuation marks of orange, green, and yellow jackets, shoes, and so on.

For his score, Maillot commissioned music from Bertrand Maillot (the choreographer’s brother), Yan Maresz and others, and used various existing compositions from John Cage and Danny Elfman.

The irony, I suppose, is that the actual dancing in “Choré” was the least interesting part of the production. Maillot has given his highly accomplished and enthusiastic dancers  run-of-the-mill group phrases, a chirpy solo here, a string of fouettes there. Koike was the night’s standout and it was lovely to see Bernice Coppieters (who has otherwise retired from the stage) come back; unfortunately her part as the “star”  was largely forgettable.

Next up at Segerstrom Center: Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater, April 7 through 10