Theater archives

The Tender Touch


Ashton Celebration

Metropolitan Opera House


Through Saturday

“And they were all sweet and kind and English,” Gertrude Stein observed in 1937 of the characters Frederick Ashton concocted for A Wedding Bouquet—a ballet accompanied by spoken phrases drawn from her work. Sweetness, kindness, and inevitably, Englishness mark the work of this great British choreographer, whose centennial is being celebrated this year along with Balanchine’s.

The Ashton ballets shown during the Lincoln Center Festival also reveal his wit, tenderness, and consummate classicism. The two trios of Monotones I and II (1965), beautifully performed by the Joffrey Ballet, reveal his love of contrapposto, that gentle twisting of the limbs against the body to create asymmetry; the one-armed gestures; the intricate footwork and little jumps executed in place; and the elegant spatial designs.

Set to music by Erik Satie, Monotones keeps its dancers clustered. The two women and one man of the first trio travel together as equals; in the second, two men slowly manipulate lithe Victoria Jaiani through beautiful contortions. In their gleaming unitards and elvish caps, molded by Kevin Dreyer’s lights, the dancing figures inhabit a frieze in process, dreamily making and unmaking it in a timeless golden void.

Monotones refrains from intimating character and emotion, unlike the exquisite 1968 Enigma Variations, superbly re-created by the Birmingham Royal Ballet. Edward Elgar’s 1898 variations are musical portraits of friends. Ashton brings these people to wander in Elgar’s autumn garden (magically evoked by Julia Trevelyan Oman), where the composer is awaiting word as to whether his score has interested an important conductor. Through rhythm, gesture, and the torsion of the steps, Ashton captures the many moods of the afternoon. His astute character studies include a fussy eccentric who arrives on a bicycle (David Morse), a flirtatious adolescent girl (Carol-Anne Miller), and the brusque, speedy whirlwind, “Troyte” (Robert Parker). Rapid, intricate Ashtonian footwork suggests excitement and complex thought; women, lifted, walk on air in their delight. The nuances of love and friendship are unforgettably displayed in the scene that Elgar (Joseph Cipolla) and his solicitous, adoring wife (the luminous Silvia Jimenez) share with a close friend (Jonathan Payn). She has gently interceded in what might be an edgy altercation between the men, when the music swells powerfully; in contrast to this climax, Ashton has Elgar lift her just a few inches off the ground. The suppressed tenderness of it wrings your heart.

A Wedding Bouquet, performed here by the Joffrey, is laid at a gathering in the country, and like Enigma, ends with everybody assembled for a photograph. But this is an uproarious party. Josephine gets drunk and is ordered to leave; the groom is an unredeemed lecher; mad, mournful Julia clings to his leg while he manipulates his bride in a pas de deux gone wrong; lustful men and disapproving women pursue their own ends; Julia’s dog has a tutu number. Ashton’s choreography and Lord Berners’s charming music match Stein in wit. The Joffrey manages this still fresh nonsense expertly, but Stein’s words, stylishly delivered by Christian Holder, can’t always be understood, due to faulty miking and occasionally imprecise articulation.

Ashton comprehended those moments when rapture all but melts the body. It’s not surprising that he was struck, back in the early 1920s, by Isadora Duncan. Without exactly copying her steps, his 1975 Five Brahms Waltzes in the Manner of Isadora Duncan evokes her maenad skipping, her breasting-the-wind runs, the way she, as Iphigenia, played at knucklebones. Except for a few too sharp gestures, Molly Smolen of the Birmingham Royal performs the solo magnificently.

Passion is the subject of the 1940 Dante Sonata, revived in 2000 by the Birmingham Royal. Children of Light and Children of Darkness rush and writhe to Lizst in a Zoroastrian equation—not only contending with but mingling with and balancing each other. When the male leaders of both contingents are lifted as if crucified, it is toward the one with the snakes twined around him that the leading barefoot woman in white reaches. As World War II broke out, Ashton’s battling groups articulated the torment and confusion besetting England; now the ballet seems overwrought, yet still full of striking groupings and startling movement events.

Rhapsody, set to Rachmaninoff’s florid Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini and danced by the K-Ballet Company of Japan, isn’t typical Ashton either, but it’s an audience favorite at the Met. Made in 1980 to celebrate the late queen mother’s birthday, it offered Mikhail Baryshnikov performing every bravura feat he and Ashton could come up with. Patrick Caulfield’s decor situates the dancers in an alarmingly vivid modern painting and dresses them to match. Rhapsody is a flashy ballet, but it’s also crammed with wonderful steps and clever patterns for the six couples led by company director and ex-Royal Ballet member Tetsuya Kumakawa, who dances with the requisite dazzle. Nice, the way Ashton has his premier danseur stimulate the guys to jump up like popcorn on the fire, and stand back to let them take turns partnering Viviana Durante, as if this were a deconstruction of the Rose Adagio for an on-the-go princess.

This week the Royal Ballet concludes the tribute to England’s master.

Kimberly Bartosik

Danspace Project at St. Mark’s Church

June 24 through 27

Are we indoors or outside? Some of the spectators sit on fake grass or white benches to take in Kimberly Bartosik’s I sat down on the bank the grass was damp a little then I found my shoes wet. Roderick Murray’s beautiful, shadowed lighting strikes the arches in St. Mark’s Church like beams of late-afternoon sun, and we hear crickets shrilling, frogs, distant thunder, and falling rocks in the score by Murray and Bartosik. The church architecture seems itself, yet not itself.

Bartosik is first seen in silhouette on the high balcony that runs around three sides of the space, laying her leg along the rail, studying the scene below, and walking away into darkness. Daniel Squire backs in through the entrance doors, limned in light. Derry Swan slides down one of the carpeted risers where the audience often sits for other events. During the course of the performance, Bartosik rushes toward one of the side doors, pursued just so far by Squire. Swan mounts steps at one side and waits, framed against a stained-glass window, before venturing between the benches and the rear portion of the audience. In all these quiet, watchful actions, it’s as if the church has been superimposed on a glade and we see both at the same time.

These forays and the resultant spatial illusions are the most compelling elements of the piece. But in Bartosik’s choreography these splendid dancers seem to be encountering one another in the course of private voyages of discovery, and finding what they can do together. There is a lot of alert stillness. The two women lounge decoratively side by side in twin poses to watch Squire travel backward the length of the church with big thrusts and circles of his legs. Sometimes he stares at them.

The movement style is what you might expect, given a choreographer who spent nine years dancing for Merce Cunningham, plus two colleagues from the same company. That is, it’s basically erect in stance and diligent in its footwork, and it emphasizes the body’s long lines, but the performers, as with the best Cunningham dancers, often extend the reach of the steps until they beguilingly risk clumsiness to gain humanity. The quiet moments where various of the three rest, or prowl as if pushing through underbrush, balance the strenuous, all-out dance passages. Yet, the end—when Bartosik is about to leave by one of the side doors and reaches back toward Squire, while Swan, approaching the main entrance, starts to rewind her steps—reinforces the notion that we’ve seen not just virtuosic dancing, but an adventure that stirs these people’s blood.

Guest artist Kathryn Sanders opened the program with a solo of her own, Loric Espials. Sanders, especially familiar to dancegoers for her performing in the Wally Cardona Quartet, is an arresting-looking woman—tall, fair-skinned, dark-haired, and very long of limb, with a coolness that can contrast interestingly with passionate action. Loric Espials is not very passionate, although in its striking opening sequence Sanders is draped back over a structure by Joseph Cairo that resembles an unbalanced pile of pieces of slate, and surrounded by a piercing hum and low growl (music by Vickie Mishoulam “utilizing Bernhard Günter”). She looks uncomfortable but somehow abandoned, as if she, like a lizard, were used to relaxing on this rocky bed. Then she sits up and looks us over. As the curious title suggests, she seems throughout the dance to be spying on us from within a protective carapace—slightly capricious, carefully alluring, always aware of what we might be thinking. I sense an idea that the choreography doesn’t fully expose.