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
Reed lyrics sung by Nadine Medawar). A stroboscopic effect in John Munro's lighting fragments the first slashing, windmilling gestures, imprinting each millisecond on your retina. The dancers' lower limbs need no technical assistance. A spectator's eye can scarcely keep up with legs rapidly flicking from bent to straight. Spotlights further splinter the action by blacking out on illuminated dancers and beaming down in another place, where these performersor othersappear almost simultaneously. Lacy metal screens periodically descend to veil the stage action and intermittent video projections of a beautiful, lost-in-space female dancer.
Lock has said he was inspired in part by a transvestite he once knew and that he's contesting gender stereotypes. The men wear trousers and jackets, the women see-through black tops, short shorts (costumes by Vandal), and pointe shoes. However, gender issues are raised only in glancing, superficial ways, mainly in a duet for the Valkyrian blonde Zofia Tujaka and Billy Smith, in which both sport black suits and pointe shoes, and in another duet for Jason Shipley-Holmes and Bernard Martin (one of the few that hints at feelings). In all the partnering, one person (always a man) grasps the waist of another (most often a woman) and twists her or him back and forth while the manipulee shoots one leg in all directions. In Lock's earliest dances, performers hurled themselves into the air, horizontal and spinning, to be caught by others a risky distance away. Amelia is rigidly vertical, and any horizontality is about pose (a siren-like reclining), not about falling.
The performers (Andrea Boardman, Misteya Hemingway, Keir Knight, and Chun Hon Li, in addition to those mentioned) may find the work stimulating, but zest isn't part of Lock's plan. This is dance for the cyber age. Fascinating at first, icily brilliant in its virtuosic minimalism, trendy in its black-and-white palette, Amelia shocks the eye. Not far into the 90-minute, intermissionless work, the hammering repetition and lack of contrast become numbing, and the brilliant dancers inevitably begin to look like figures in your basic arcade video game, flashing through no-win wars while waiting for the coins to drop.
Like Amelia, Rear Light, choreographed for the Beijing Modern Dance Company by its deputy artistic director, Li Hanzhong, and his wife, Ma Bo, takes place in a gleaming monochromatic environment. All 13 dancers wear black trousers, white shirts, ties, and sometimes jackets or trench coats. Some of the action takes place on a huge structure that resembles silvery bleachers minus seats and sprouts trees of lights that shine out toward the audience. Unlike Lock, however, Li and Ma allow irregularities to disrupt standard behavior and let unison yield to individual expression, in the process creating brave and resonant passages. However, Rear Light becomes muddled or drawn-out at times, and at a few key moments the movement goes choreographically limprelying on the emotion in the music, Pink Floyd's 1979 The Wall, to keep us involved.
Only in the last decade have contemporary-dance companies like the BMDC appeared in China, and their difficult mission has been to refer to cultural roots and current issues while utilizing, but not aping, the Western techniques they've been exposed to. Rear Light obliquely addresses concerns in China today (freedom of expression, disaffected youth, commercialization, the wars men start). If there is little that seems overtly "Chinese," that may be because the company leaders, Zhang Changcheng and artistic director Willy Tsao, and the two choreographers wish to suggest that these issues are universal.
The choice of music is startling. However, Pink Floyd's drastic sound effects, snatches of old-timey song, post-Vietnam references to war, and the apocalyptic builds typical of 1970s rock somehow fit a fundamental theme of Rear Light: the contrast between concerted actionmarching in patterns, semaphoring in unisonand racing around, falling, and bursting into loose, wide-reaching, individualized dancing. Some of the allusions to war are obvious: Men hold women who point their legs like rifles. Others are more inventive: A spotlight descends until it almost touches the ground, scattering a crowd and felling one man. (This "bomb" is also swung as if in a dangerous game, and during the sardonic song "Bomb 'Baby' " people takes turns cradling it.)
The choreographers want very much to involve us. Dancers enter through the house and line up onstage to present tickets for their places in the "bleachers." Near the end, they re-enter in mildly gaudy attire and pull spectators onstage to join their discoing. But then they start falling and dragging at the volunteers' hands as if saying, "Help me up." It's a bright idea, if awkwardly realized (in artistic terms, the dancers don't really want to recover, they want us to see them struggle). Their impromptu partners' responses cross cultural boundaries; one woman keeps stepping in place and swaying her hips to the music, immune to the disaster before her, until a victim grabs her hand.