Heidi Latsky’s “Summer Dance Riot,” performed in a stifling black-box space with no more floor footage than a walk-in closet, was essentially a cabaret of much bizarreness and occasional charm. It featured a handful of femmes you wouldn’t want to mess with and two guys who looked like mere enablers but turned out to possess their own quirky gifts. (One had aspirations to noble-princedom, the other to gangsterland ferocity.) Though many of the numbers aimed for sexual transgression, they arrived only at the level of sweet, wild imaginings typical of children playing dress-up. The further the material edged into the domain of modern dance, the less rewarding it became. But then Latsky herself—a diminutive vessel of energy, concentration, and passion—offered a concise, riveting solo in which she manipulated a long, blood-red Isadora-ish scarf, and it was à la gloire all the way. Latsky personifies that state every dancer aspires to—in which intent and execution are one.
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on July 20, 2004