There's a lot to look at. The setting sun flames the windows of Brooklyn buildings across the river. A breeze ripples the tassels of late-summer grasses. Javanese dancer Restu Imasari Kusumaningrum nests in a patch of grass. While the men stagger like old drunks, she sinks into the plants and disappears, or raises her delicately rippling arms. She seems more connected to the site than the men do. Surrounded by masks, she tries each one on, handling them tenderly. When she finally emerges to dance, her red skirt and filmy top billowing, she's wearing a fierce mask (male, I think). She tiptoes elegantly, sinks into wide stances, and stares at us unnervingly. Picking up the mask of a beautiful woman, she gazes at it the way an old woman might seek her youthful reflection in a mirror.
The men, who've aged about 40 years, hobble away, but they rise out of the weeds to throw something that smokes briefly. Blessing the place, the passage of time? In an hour or so, the movie will start.