Dendron‘s publicity and notes invited the audience to move about and gaze upon Mark Jarecke’s dance from different perspectives. But opening night started without introduction, and nearly everyone stayed put. We had been issued pretuned radios with earphones, the better to hear sound that would vary as we roamed. Most went unused. A video was briefly projected at a hard-to-see, overhead angle. How many noticed? So much for a work about how “people have the power to control their experience of the world.” Maybe people just want to sit on their bums and watch. On offer was clean, organized chaos performed by Andrea Johnston, Molly Poerstel, and Netta Yerushalmy. Swaddled in off-white fabric, their bodies sprang, lashed, and writhed like long banners billowing and snapping in a wind. The piece, though well performed, grew tedious. As it wound down, an unexpected collaborator found voice—a babe in its mother’s arms, crying.