By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
But Marshall tells no stories. She doesn't identify Fire's character; she doesn't try to make us see one dancer as a sister or another as a husband. Hints of relationships swell up on a tide of memories, retreat, and resurface pulled apart. David Lang's rich, churning music (played live by the Bang on a Can All-Stars) may suddenly yield the sound of dripping water. Occasional words (by Christopher Renino) that Fire speaks shift in meaning. A sentence about a knife splitting a melon, repeated with subtle changes, becomes suddenly about sex. Or childbirth. Or abortion. A child in a pool...has she drowned, or is it the way she's floating and a trick of the light that stop a mother's heart? Sometimes performers wear Kasia Walicka Maimone's silvery clothes in stead of her lovely warmer-hued ones; at such times, they seem ghostly, or somehow elsewhere.
Although there are always people running or passing through with big, soft, uncomplicated dancing, the place is pitted by obstacles. In the beginning, Kristen Hollins worth, Krista Langberg, Eileen Thomas, and Fire rear range themselves against a freestanding wall; sometimes a force so strong slams them at it that one of them is lifted off the ground. A single chair or another's limbs become fences to crawl through. Langberg clamps her self onto Omar Rahim, but leans out awkwardly, anchored by his hand hooked around her forehead. At the big, angled wall created when stage hands join two smaller ones (Douglas Stein and Zhanna Gurvich are credited with set design), Hollins worth, reading a book, wanders away to a chair; each time, Mark DeChiazza grabs her and hurls her back against the wall until Marlon Barrios Solano rescues her from this cycle.
Stagehands not only move walls; to ward the end they pry Langberg from an embrace and carry her to a ramp they've made by tipping a wall. Later they lug her offstage, like the anonymous policemen or caretakers who sometimes intrude into family life. But looming larger than any of the actual obstacles are those that rise between what happened and what we believe happened. In the final moment, Fire remembers seeing "Jean," in the window, smile and raise her arm. Safe. Happy. Loving. Opposite her on the ramp, Eileen Thomas stares motion less. Whose is the gesture, whose the memory?
Marshall doesn't compose elaborate dance steps. She has a rare gift for transmuting everyday movements and drives into poetry. A man reaches out, a woman touches another's waist; we know these acts. She makes them luminous.
For almost 20 years, the company Terry Creach founded with Stephen Koester has been disproving George Balanchine's assertion that if you put a bunch of men onstage, "it's no body." At the beginning of Creach's new Boy's Town, five guys line up, facing across the Joyce Soho. They watch calmly while Peter Schmitz assaults their formation, bumping into it, wedging himself between people, grabbing onto them. Staggering, harried, compelling, Schmitz looks as if life has worn him down yet made him anything but smooth. When the others finally do move, they periodically cling to him, all of them, while he thunders around the spacea mad relative they're trying to restrain or a hero they're empowered by touching. Later, when he and Creach embark on a series of considered challenges, he twice contemplates a villainous attack from behind and drops the idea.
In Creach/Company, physical contact can stand for all of life's interchanges. These men, plus alumni who join them at each performance, use one another's bodies as fences to vault over, bridges to slide under, beds to rest on. Watch them going full steam, and you see a constant resilient flow, every move triggering or responding to others, every man responsible for his buddies even while he's daring them to bolder maneuvers.
Andy Teirstein's music for Par Terre, recorded by a string ensemble, is sweeter than Fast Forward's score for Boy's Town. And these men are more mannerlyat least the first two, Paul Matteson and Richard Patten, who hold hands with the delicacy of an 18th-century ballroom couple. Mostly walking or running, they trace the Z patterns of a minuetpassing chest to chest (in a real minuet, this moment seethes with genteel eroticism). Engaging in this lovely dialogue, which has only a trace of the usual athleticism, the men seem intriguingly out of sync with their own gestures; their arms slash out, then go soft, their heads turn elsewhere. In a second duet, Maurice Fraga and Lionel Popkin are less constrained, more apt to tumble about. When all four assemble, Creach plays masterful games with mirror images breaking apart and recombining. Pace Balanchine, you don't simplyho humwatch men at play; you see a little world.