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
On one of the Hawkins company's programs during its recent season at Playhouse 91, the 1961 Early Floating was followed by the 1988 Cantilever Two. For the first lean and beautiful the composer plays the "timbre piano," bowing its strings, altering their sound with objects. It's a delicious surprise when a wisp of a waltz floats from the keyboard and the dancers acknowledge it with their feet. In Cantilever Two, while the dancers leap like dolphins, Dlugoszewski plays the keyboard as if she were shaking down the universe.
In addition to showcasing dances by the late master and pieces sketched out at the time of his death and staged by Dlugoszewski, the season also marks Dlugoszewski's official debut as a choreographer, with two solos for the marvelous Pascal Benichou and a group work. The ensemble passages of her Radical Ardent were a bit smudgy at the first performance, and the musicians bass trombonist David Taylor, "multiple percussionist" William Trigg, and the composer looked slightly on edge. But the core of the dance, a series of male-female duets, is sound as a nut, and the music caresses them, deliciously undercutting sweetness with a slightly raucous or abrasive touch. In the small theater, your eye travels from the complicit bodies to a musician shaking a sheet of paper or tinkling little glass chimes.
The duets don't travel much; these people are more interested in exploring the terrain of each other's bodies and the spaces between them. Their eroticism is without violence or urgency. Lara Bujold hangs by her knees from Louis Kavouras's clasped arms, and while he swings her gently, she brushes the ground with her cheek. Although Beth Simon keeps diving onto Sean Russo for the sheer pleasure of it, the duets are notable for the partners' equality. Joy McEwen leaps onto Rod Rufo, but she also carries him. Every surface of the body seems to generate a mild charge. Rachel Margolis walks up Kavouras's prone body, pressing her feet into his calves, his thighs. Carrying Georgia Corner, Peter Kyle rakes his fingers down her leg as if he were combing it. Benichou places his hands on the floor, one by one, palms up, for Katherine Duke to step on. A composer makes a successful beginning as a choreographer. Amazing!
Among the dedicated performers, a few stand out: Bujold warm, supple, and aware; Kyle with his bold reach through space; Benichou, intensely alive; and Kavouras, who performs Hawkins's solo in Early Floating with a fine blend of soft muscularity and sudden decision.
In the second half of the 19th century, science rubbed unwilling elbows with charlatanism. People frequented séances for both solace and thrills. Hypnotists staged public displays. It's this world that the husband-and-wife team of Danial Shapiro and Joanie Smith evokes often brilliantly in Notes From a Seance.
They focus on the theosophist Mme. Helena Blavatsky not as a writer of mystical-intellectual tomes, but as the leader of a cult practicing sexual freedom as a key to self-knowledge. The opening brings to the Joyce stage the atmosphere of near hysteria and repression. Rapt onlookers in Victorian attire surround Mme. B. and her crystal ball. A chaise longue is backed by potted palms whose fronds filter the light (Matt Lefebvre designed the set, Joanne Trakinat the period clothes, and Sean Murphy the lighting). A chandelier rises and descends at odd moments. Tadeusz Majewski plays marvelously music by Chopin, Beethoven, et al., his live notes erupting from a taped score by Scott Killian that includes high, distant voices and other spooky sounds.
Paul Selig's text, read by Gayton Scott with the careful elocution of a British schoolgirl, takes the form of letters from a new devotee, who gradually sheds her prudishness to become, perhaps, the medium's successor. Susie Bracken plays this young woman, awed when Mme. B. (Smith) befuddles her with arcane card tricks, sensationally abandoned as she's flung about and entwined in many arms. Discarding their confining clothes for Lynn Steincamp's exotic silky lounge attire, the performers sling themselves into temporary embraces the way marathon runners grab cups of water from onlookers and dash on. The couch spins as if those lounging on it were dizzied by their own sensuality. Shapiro, as Mme. B.'s helper and paramour, rouses John Beasant III to mad-dog fury with his card play, but most of the time he handles the women, notably Kelly Drummond Cawthon. Running, shaking, tumbling into fits, sliding into candlelit orgies presided over by Mme. B., the performers including Midori Satoh, Mathew Janczewski, and Wilson Mendieta are spectacular.
Shapiro and Smith slightly overdo the loose-limbed wildness. Editing and direction might make Notes and its timely and subtle anticult message even more compelling as theater. I regretted that, once the Victorian clothes were off, they never appeared again, and the connection between public image and behind-closed-doors fanaticism was lost.