By Alexis Soloski
By R. C. Baker
By Alexis Soloski
By Tom Sellar
By Araceli Cruz
By Brienne Walsh
By Alexis Soloski
By Alexis Soloski
Thirty years ago, Arthur Mitchell and Karel Shook opened a dance school in Harlem, where, for very small fees, neighborhood kids could study classical ballet. The shooting of Martin Luther King Jr. had roused Mitchell's political conscience, and he wanted to bring a form he loved and practiced into the black community. Like George Balanchine, in whose New York City Ballet he danced for 15 years, Mitchell knew that you started with a school and grew a company. His dream, realized, made a point that sadly still needed making: young African Americans could achieve a classical line and demonstrate an elegance and courtly decorum that would eventually bring DTH recognition as a major ballet company at home and abroad.
From the beginning, Mitchell has labored to reconcile the two halves of what sometimes seemed like a split personality: the company's desire to tackle neoclassicism, exemplified by the Balanchine ballets in its repertory, and its black cultural roots, shown early on in works like Geoffrey Holder's Dougla (revived for this City Center season). The company wanted needed an audience that could yell "bravo!" and "right on!" and feel at home with either.
Mitchell didn't pick his troupe's name out of a hat. It's not "The Harlem Ballet." The "Dance Theatre" label informs a lot of decisions and capitalizes on the dancers' dramatic abilities. They attacked Fokine's Schéhérazade, a venerable exotic from the Diaghilev era, as if it were fresh meat. The Balanchine ballets they perform so well (The Prodigal Son, Bugaku, and The Four Temperaments play this week) tend to be ones with elements of narrative or emotional tension. Some classics received a makeover: a Giselle transplanted to the bayou, a Firebird set in a Caribbean jungle.
Dance Theater Workshop
September 30 and October 1, 9, 10
Black choreographers contributing to the repertory may be ballet-minded or not. The brand-new Return by resident choreographer Robert Garland forces classical steps and pop dance into a slightly uneasy mating. Spectators yelp with recognition when long-legged women in scanty beam-me-up silver outfits strut in, hard-eyed as runway models, to James Brown singing "Mother Popcorn." But they're equally enthusiastic when the same dancers strike out on point or grab a partner to perch in arabesque. Men whip their hips around, then shoot into assemblés battus and double turns.
An avowed Balanchine disciple, Garland keeps the dancers weaving in and out in neat lines and squads. What bothers me is not so much the insouciant eclecticism, but the fact that when the ear hears James Brown and Aretha Franklin, the eye craves choreography that honors the groove, whatever the steps. And lights up the words. No wonder we melt in delight during "Baby, Baby, Baby" when Lenore Pavlakos oozes and twines her way from Kip Sturm to Kymm Clayton to William Isaac, while Franklin's voice velvets out the line "I love you, I love you, I love YOU." The piece's sudden ending comes as a surprise; maybe the talented Garland is still working on it.
Augustus Van Heerden, Laveen Naidu, and Mitchell, the triumvirate responsible for South African Suite, couldn't ignore the lilt of its music if they tried. The wonderful Soweto String Quartet, augmented by percussion, sits high on a scaffold behind the dancers and dares your feet not to tap, although the music, simple and tuneful, can also be mournful. The choreography sometimes evokes flora and fauna, as when tall, luxurious Caroline Rocher glides into slow, sculptured moves (a woman walking on all fours on point is suprisingly giraffelike), or Kellye A. Saunders and James Washington crouch and lunge like cats. But Paunika Jones (what a nuanced dancer she is!), Kevin Thomas, and Andrea Long radiate pure, adroit human vigor, and eight men indulge in some rivalrous virtuosity reminiscent of Robert North's Troy Games, a former repertory staple. One of the most interesting dances comes just before the hunkered-down, clap-and-slap finale, when Camille Parson dances to tablas alone, a subtly East Indian cast to her wheeling arms and thrust-out heels.
Some years ago, DTH's original Firebird Stephanie Dabney was beginning to let an absurd staged curtain call (a slow, staccato stalk) affect her whole performance. While we were waiting for her to learn to feather the steps, to develop moments of softness in order to point up her speed and strength, she got sharper and harder. Andrea Long, who came to DTH from New York City Ballet, attacks the choreography with the precision and unaltering dynamics of a sparkly windup toy. Hers is no mysterious, flashing magic bird, but a hectically spiky little creature who can ace all the difficult steps but as yet has no idea how to live in them. Still, it's good to see again John Taras's fine version of the classic tale, with the Stravinsky score played live, Sturm and Pavlakos excellent as the lovers, and DTH's beautifully disciplined, passionate ensemble of maidens and monsters splendid as always.
A man is lying on his back, a woman draped over his upraised feet; as long as he keeps his knees bent, she can embrace him, but his impulse is to straighten his legs, one jerk at a time, lifting her out of contact range. She makes the small hand waves you'd use to tell a driver to keep backing up, and he lets her down. For a few seconds.