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
Known by Heart Duet (not on the New Jersey program) was first seen in Manhattan as half of a 1998 work Tharp choreographed for American Ballet Theatre. This combative duet, to Donald Knaack's wacky percussion (excerpts from his Junk Music) is like a rough-and-tumble version of a '30s Hollywood movie: A made-for-each-other pair meet cute and spat their way to happiness. I love the fact that this pas de deux has almost no lifts; the couple is too busy teasing, sparring, and backing off for that kind of nonsense.
Tharp has revived The Fugue (1970), a kind of touchstone, exhibiting in blazingly pure form her brilliance at structure. A 20-count phrase is varied in all possible ways: speeded up and slowed down, taken apart and reassembled, turned upside down and run backward, and more. The three performers work in unison, in canon, in counterpoint. Since there's no music but the sound of their shoes on a mic'd floor, their drop into synchrony at the end of a phrase can seem like a miracle.
July 17 through 20
Union Square Park
As technically crisp as the performances by Whitney Simler, Jason McDole, and Dario Vaccaro are, the castthe men primarilydoesn't have the knack of interested neutrality that seems to me a crucial part of The Fugue. With these three, a sharp move that metamorphoses into a slow, smooth one comes to look like languidness. A simple clap to establish a rhythm shows attitude. Concentration becomes studied grimness. I don't want to wonder what's up with these people, I want to see the steps.
In fact, my only quibble with these terrific performers is that in all the dances except Surfer, their faces are as busy as their feet. When the expressions are overdone or don't seem to come naturally out of the action, they're distracting (Vaccaro has a new reaction every few seconds). I'm grateful for Charlie Neshyba Hodges's smile of pure pleasure in Westerly when Emily Coates tosses him an encouraging glance. Tharp wants lively, expressive performing these days, and that's reasonable, as long as it stops short of looking fabricated.
"I am you, and you are my reflection!" That's the last line of a printed statement by the South African dancer-choreographer Vincent Mantsoe, and in the two riveting solos he performed at Jacob's Pillow, he either compelled or cajoled the willing spectators into his worldnot just looking at us, but seeing us. Mantsoe is one of those rare performers whose mind, body, and spirit fullymagnificentlyinhabit their movements. And those movements, in a style he calls "Afro-Fusion," are rich: weighted and responsive to emotions or to perceived changes in the habitat that he (with the help of lighting designer Hans-Olof Tani) creates in the Doris Duke Studio Theater. In his 2000 Barena (Chiefs), he carries a staff and a cloaksymbols of authorityand enters walking with careful majesty, inhibiting the suppleness of his torso. But often, as he slashes with the stick or uses it as if to track game or dances hefting it or drapes the cloak over it, he watches us. Walking away, he stops and snaps his head around to pin us in a fierce gaze; we are his restless people and need to be impressed. This is a chief uncertain of his power.
As he sets the regalia aside and gets into his dancing, his thoughtfulness persists. A change of music, from tribal chants and percussion to Erik Satie's Gymnopédie I and back again, enlarges the field of reference (and impels some new straight-up jumps). The piece, however, ends with the conflict between mature calm and torturing insecurity unresolved, and he strides away from us on his knees.
In Motswa Hole (person from far away), Mantsoe, wearing ragged pants, becomes another person (or another side of himself)uninhibited, mischievous, delirious with pleasure. His hips start rolling, and his feet rebound from the floor to the changing sounds of voices, drums, rattles, bells, and thumb pianos. His center of attention is the water holea large bowl. In a parched landscape, just being near it turns him on, and he teases himself with its proximitydipping a toe in, rubbing a little on his chest. When he sprays the first crystal plume onto himself, he grins and wags a finger at us. When we laugh at his deepening love affair with the water, he laughs with us.
Enclosing the bowl in a semicircle of white cloth strips, he opens a "gate," and invites us in. When we don't come, he scoops up what's left of the water from the floor, puts it back in the bowl and comes up the aisles, anointing us with the dregs and the more generous benison of his performing.