Musical America Blogs

By Rachel Straus

Developing a proficiency in a dance form has its perks, especially if you travel. In any foreign city or town a dance studio can become your temporary home. Inside its four walls, you’re no longer a tourist. It doesn’t matter if you understand the language spoken by the teacher. Dance is overwhelmingly taught by copying what is demonstrated. A good set of eyes and a willing smile are crucial.

Take my recent experience in Madrid’s Centro de Danza Karen Taft with contemporary instructor Bárbara Fritsche. The class began at 8:45 p.m., when most U.S. studios are shuttering their doors. The school can be found in the barrio Chueca, famed for its gay bars and discos. As the street lights illumined, the black-clad Fritsche began her class without turning on a single overhead light. Only in Madrid, the city of the night, would teaching in the dark be just fine.

Fritsche explained in Spanish, inflected by her German accent, how her warm-up was set, how one should follow along as best as one can. The challenge of embodying Fritsche’s continuous motions, both exquisitely beautiful and organically fashioned, required every bit of my concentration. The goal became clear: To try not to hurt myself. I couldn’t bother with being nervous, maybe because I’d arrived on a red eye a few hours before and was exhausted. Maybe it was because Fritsche could see me about as well as I could see her, which it to say, not very.

In the gloom, Fritsche’s warmup gave clues to her dance experiences. (She is a graduate of Dresden’s famed Palucca School). Her warmup incorporates ballet’s leg articulations, the Graham technique’s contractions of the spine, the Humphrey-Limon technique’s fall and rebound, the Horton technique’s extreme side bends of the upper body, and the Release Technique’s ceaseless movement from floor to standing.  By the time we learned the culminating dance study, steadily built over the past four classes, I was drenched with sweat.

Since no one could execute her choreography with any degree of accuracy, Fritsche became mildly frustrated. Herein lies the downside of teaching open classes in big cities: Students come and go; their training is uneven, spotty or not extensive enough. Nonetheless, Fritsche didn’t dumb down her intermediate-advanced level class for the sake of her students. As was the case with Martha Graham, Fritsche appeared to find inspiration by performing her dance phrases. She made choreography, not routines. And her resume confirms this. Last year she was commissioned by Madrid’s leading contemporary dance troupe, Compania Nacional de Danza. She also performs; her body is in peak condition.

A little before 11:00 p.m., Fritsche ended the class. As is the tradition, everyone clapped. Perhaps because I wasn’t the greatest offender of Fritsche’s two-minute choreography, I was asked by my fellow classmates (four Spaniards, ages 20 to 30, and one Pennsylvanian on a Fullbright) when I would return. Soon, I said.  Soon!

Barbara Fritsche’s website page at Centro de Danza Karen Taft

By Rachel Straus

Small is beautiful. That has been Miro Magliore’s approach to dance making since he created the New Chamber Ballet in 2004. On September 6 and 7, at New York City Center’s Studio Five, Magliore presented five short ballets. His selection of a salon-size cast—five female dancers and two musicians—and his decision to annually present his two-night seasons in a bare bones studio are not just practical responses to the dire state of U.S. arts funding. They express his aesthetic vision. Magliore’s ballets cleave to modesty. His City Center evenings, which offer neither sets nor lighting, bear a similarity to the experience of sitting in one of the spare Lutheran churches of his German homeland. In contrast to the baroque spectacle of Roman Catholic churches (and Broadway theaters a few blocks west of City Center), Magliore’s presentations, which always feature live music, are the opposite of the razzle and dazzle. A large number of his sixty plus dances explore classical ballet as modernist minimalism (think Mondrian’s grid paintings or Balanchine’s Agon). His works demonstrate how ballet can occupy a space, and develop a small, loyal audience, beyond its visible position as an elite opera house entertainment for the rich and powerful.

Magliore’s newest work Oracle, seen on the 7, is for three dancers and it’s a departure for this trained composer, who has a penchant for dissonant classical music. The only sound in Oracle comes from the rhythmic rattles and propulsive stabs produced by the dancers’ African-style anklets and by the wooden blocks of their pointe shoes. The Oracle of the ballet’s title is Traci Finch. She rushes onto the stage and throws herself onto the floor. When she enters the dance space, marked by a square of white tape, she places the rattles, made of dried seeds, around her ankle. She disturbs a pastoral tableau created by the supine Sarah Atkins and Holly Curran, who, like she, are wearing Greek-style tunic dresses and golden bands in their hair (created by Sarah Thea Swafford). Finch spurs the sleeping pair into dance, and when she does, the trio performs triplet rhythms reminiscent of galloping horses. But instead of running, the lithe women execute échappés (open and closing of the legs) and passes (balances on one leg), which in pointe shoes develop pliable and steely pointe dancing. When the three women circle the space in sets of three unison lunges, which pause long enough for their rattles to cease their echoing of the movement, they resemble three Greek muses, floating.

The subject of Oracle certainly references ancient mythology. Finch, who is as an outsider and is abandoned at the ballet’s end, is the soothsayer. She sees a dire future, becomes frenzied (her ankle rattle becomes possessed by a shuddering invisible demon), and then she drops dead. She’s seen the worst, but what it is is anyone’s guess. Magliore’s approach to these events isn’t particularly interesting. It’s difficult to create epic drama without music, a sizable cast, and danceable music. But this new work should be perceived as a failure. It’s a highly imaginative use of two traditions: pointe work from Europe and instruments from Africa (or the Middle East). When the dancers break into Dionysian solos, each undulating their torso to the accompaniment of their fellows dancers’ rhythmic stamping, Magliore is in new territory. I hope he continues this cross-continental pollination.

The other works on the program were Klaverstück (2008) to Karlheinz Stockhausen’s Klavierstück IX (as played by pianist Melody Fader and danced by Elizabeth Brown and Holly Curran). In A Simple Black Dress (2010) to Pierre Boulez’s Anthèmes (as played by violinist Doori Na and danced by the remarkable Amber Neff), Anna’s Last Day (2013) to Rebecca Saunders’ Duo for violin and piano (with a cast of Na, Fader, Sarah Atkins and Neff) and The Letter to Joseph Haydn’s Piano Sonata No. 50 in D Major (with Fader, Brown and Curran). In each ballet, the musicans performed with or next to the dancers.

In Magliore’s world, music and dance are given equal weight, both visually and aurally. In Magliore’s world, small isn’t just beautiful, it expresses something of the divine.

* The New Chamber Ballet’s 2013 season isn’t finished. For more information, go to Magliore’s company website or click upcoming performances.

By Rachel Straus

To many, Bob Fosse’s style, with its pelvic thrust, razzle-dazzle hands, and slumped over set of shoulders, is immediately recognizable. Fosse championed the vaudevillian delinquent, the burlesque maven, the professional huckster. He bucked the post World War II musical theater tradition of happy boys and girls and their dancing feet. Yet despite Fosse’s unquestionable influence on musical theater dance, his most important contribution may be his film work. Fosse rejected the tradition, best exemplified by the dance numbers in Fred Astaire films, of capturing the dancing figure from head to toe. Press on the link below to see Astaire dancing and singing to Irving Berlin’s tune “No Strings (I’m Fancy Free)”; the camera is more or less stationary, and the dancing section of this scene looks like it was shot in one take: Astaire in Top Hat (1935)

In contrast to Astaire, Fosse dispensed with the notion that a good dance sequence had to be continuously shot, that dancers had to project bodily ease, and that the viewer was a good samaritan ready for some light entertainment. In Sweet Charity (1969) Fosse’s dancers appear as burlesque matrons. They barely move, and when they do, they look like zombies trying to be sexy. Through his directorial and choreographic choices in the film, Fosse makes the viewer complicit in the vulgarity of The Big Spender number. He shoots, in fast whiplash cuts, the dancers’ bodies from the perspective of one male customer, sitting in the front row and smoking a cigarette. By shooting their body parts in isolated shots, Fosse aggressively tenders the idea that these gals are broken. Bust and flanks, bones and flesh, brimstone and fire. That’s what Fosse captures. Take a look: Big Spender number in Sweet Charity (1969) No doubt, the Big Spender number is a brilliant conceived use of film and dance.

So what’s Fosse’s ultimate legacy? For my money it’s Fosse’s mature dance-film style, seen in the Big Spender number. Too many people have imitated it. His gestural-driven (and sleaze-riddled) dance numbers are completed by the camera’s close-ups and the subsequent multiple edits, which give one the sense of a hungry eye, roving from one dancer to the next. This pasting and cutting approach to filmed choreography became, after Fosse, the defacto tradition for mass media dance film. It can be seen in Michael Jackson dance videos, the famous Maniac (1983) dance number from Flash Dance, and in Maddona’s Vogue (1990). In each case, the choreography takes second place to the ingenious, energetic filming and editing. Jackson’s music video Bad may be the pinnacle of the Fosse dance-film style. The performers are shot from below (as though one is begging the gang members for mercy—underneath their very chins). The dancers’ pelvic thrust isn’t insouciant, as in the case of Fosse dancers, but outright aggressive. Jackson and his crew’s gestures are mechanical. The zombies have become machines.

Michael Jackson’s Music Video Bad (1987) In the next posting, I’ll explore how mass media dance, like So You Think You Can Dance and Bunheads, may not be doing much for the art of choreography, but they have shed the Fosse dance-film style. The powers that be have actually returned to the tradition of shooting the full dancing body instead of parts of it. What is conveyed, however, is not a integrated moving figure, but something quite different.

By Rachel Straus “Shucks!” Clark grunted. “Do you good to step out. You don’t have to dance—just get out there on the floor and shake.”—Tales of the Jazz Age (1922) Three years after F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote this dialogue, the author immortalized America’s obsession with free spirit-ness in The Great Gatsby. Though Fitzgerald made no specific mention of the ultimate free-spirited trot—The Charleston—it was this dance that became synonymous with the “Roaring Twenties.” And it is the Charleston’s kinetic craziness that film director Baz Luhrmann channels in The Great Gatsby (2013). Actually John O’Connell, the film’s choreographer, creates a Charleston on Crack. It’s intravenously fueled with hip-hop and it looks as if it’s been injected into The Gatsby’s decadent partygoers, who riotously flail in the opening scenes. Thanks to Luhrmann’s team, the partygoers’ dancing and dress bear a greater resemblance to Kostume Kult, the underground New York party organization with roots in Burning Man, than a 1920s Long Island soiree. And that is Luhrmann’s point. He fashions a bad-ass party, an orgy of writhing bodies. Luhrmann isn’t interested in conjuring white folks in cream-colored gowns and black tuxedos, doing a watered down version of the famous 1920 dance—even though that would be closer to the historical truth. To see what I mean about Luhmann’s dancing scenes and costumes, check out this clip: The Great Gatsby In these party scenes, Lurhmann hardly focuses on the dancing (or the dialogue, or characters for that matter). He’s interested in making us blurry eyed, as though we are drunk on hooch. Lurhmann wants us to revel in, or be disturbed by, the decadence of this scene—just as 1920s folks reveled in or were disgusted by the Charleston, back in 1923 when the all-black Broadway revue Runnin’ Wild brought the dance to widespread attention. The traditional Charleston features “peekaboo, now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t opening and closing of the legs,” writes dance historian Sally Sommer (International Encyclopedia of Dance). And like most American social dances, its true development stemmed from improvisations made by great dancers. To see what I mean, check out this clip of Al Minns and Leon James doing the Charleston. They transform the four-step dance into a symphony of limbs. They look like jazz musicians riffing on a melody: The Charleston It’s not said (or written about) enough how the great American vernacular dances, like the Charleston, originated with African-Americans dancers. They combined the rhythmically complex and looser-limbed style of West African dance traditions with European dances like the waltz, which privileged upright torsos and couple dancing. Unfortunately, during the 1920s and 30s, mostly white actors and dancers were filmed performing the vernacular dances created by African-Americans. As a consequence, the Charleston isn’t clearly associated with African-American dancing. Here, for example, is Ginger Rogers dancing the Black Bottom and the Charleston in her role as Roxie Hart in Chicago. She’s not bad: Ginger Rogers Last words: A good definition of the Charleston: The Charleston is a fast-paced and strongly syncopated American social dance that was especially popular in the 1920s. It took its name from Charleston in South Carolina, and was originally performed by African-Americans as a solo dance. By 1926 it was accepted as a ballroom dance. — The Oxford Dictionary of Dance (2010)

Note: This review marks the continuation of a series dedicated to showcasing the best student writing from the Dance History course I teach at The Juilliard School.

By Tiare Keeno

As the curtain rose at The Joyce Theatre on February 3, the Working Women program commenced with Monica Bill Barnes “Luster (part 1: the set up).” This highly theatrical, energetic piece from 2012 warmed up the audience. The eight works that followed also held this dancer-writer’s interest. They included Janis Brenner’s extraterrestrial-like solo “Contents May Have Shifted” (2002), performed by Holly Farmer, Loni Landon’s world premiere “Rebuilding Sandcastles,” Carolyn Dorfman’s lighthearted duet “Keystone,” (2012) and Sidra Bell’s world premiere “Beyond the Edge of the Frame,” a regal ensemble work.

But one work far exceeded the others, and that was Camille A. Brown’s “The Real Cool.” The solo is part of a full-length dance “Mr. TOL E. RAncE,” which will premiere April 2-6 at The Kitchen.

Brown, a well-known African-American choreographer, has been lauded for her character-driven, highly physical dance works that combine vernacular and concert dance traditions. Judging from “The Real Cool” excerpt, Brown’s “Mr. TOL E. RAncE” will deftly explore the experiences of African-American performers today, and yesterday.

“The Real Cool” begins with Brown standing in a pool of light; her head is down, her knees are bent, and the palms of her hands are exposed to the audience. Wearing black pants, a blazer, and white gloves, Brown moves behind two magnified projections; they create a large, haunting silhouette of her figure on the cyclorama. Brandon McCune’s tune “What A Wonderful World” is used to ironic effect.  Wonderful world? Not in the least. With raw, precise, fluid movements, Brown appears like a puppet being manipulated by an outside force. Her audible rhythmic breaths evoke a sense of frustration and entrapment.

As she repeatedly slices her arms, Brown looks as if she’s trying to escape the world. Then in a blink of an eye, she resembles a clown, a black minstrel performer. She exhales miserably as though the clowning exhausts her. In these moments, Brown poetically conveys the exasperating history of the African-American performer who was made to perform stock roles, all of which were demeaning.

The brilliance of Brown’s “Real Cool” not only lies with its content but with her impassioned performance. As the piece nears the end, Brown strips off the white gloves, revealing the brown color of her hands. Then tears stream down her face.

Tiare Keeno is a first year Dance Division student at The Juilliard School.

Note: This review marks the continuation of a series dedicated to showcasing the best student writing from the Dance History course I teach at The Juilliard School.

By Zoë McNeil

Although it’s been 22 years since Martha Graham’s passing, the Buglisi Dance Theatre continues to perpetuate her legacy. The company, seen February 9 at The Joyce Theater, was founded by a handful of former influential members of the Graham Company. Jacqulyn Buglisi and Donlin Foreman, its founding choreographers, seek to reflect Graham’s dramatic aesthetic in which emotions, characters, and movements are boldly etched.

Buglisi and Foreman’s work features Graham’s signature gestural and movement vocabulary, such as cupped hands, contractions (in which the spine forms a concave shape) and split falls (in which a dancer executes a split and a contraction as she sinks to the floor). Today Buglisi, the company’s sole artistic director, reinvents Graham’s ideas through her distinctly romantic voice.

Of the six pieces presented, the highlight of the program was Buglisi’s 2001 work Requiem. Originally inspired by the Italian Baroque painter Artemisia Gentileschi’s portraits, Buglisi shifted the work’s focus after the 9/11 New York terrorist attack.

"Requiem" by Jacqulyn Buglisi

Breathtaking from the start, Requiem features chiaroscuro light by Clifton Taylor that cascades onto the stage as if from the windows of a cathedral. The five illuminated dancers rest atop five black boxes, positioned in a V formation. The stirring chorale music of Gabriel Fauré permeates the space. Despite the subtle and nearly statuesque nature of the movement, the dancers’ cohesive energy and emotional intensity makes Requiem appear kinetic. Each movement and gesture initiates from the core of each female dancer. When the dancers slowly descend from the boxes to the floor, their richly hued asymmetrical draped dresses, designed by Jacqulyn Buglisi and A. Christina Giannini, appear to grow larger, like a painter expanding color across her canvas.

Terese Capucilli in "Requiem"

Terese Capucilli, a member of the original cast of Requiem, navigated Buglisi’s choreography with elegance and passion. Her dancing is captivating for its deeply human approach. Capucilli doesn’t look like she is acting. Her aura of tragedy feels real.

Another impressive piece was Prelude, performed by Ari Mayzick and choreographed by Donlin Foreman. This 1997 solo epitomizes the essence of male vigor and power. Mayzick’s impeccably sculpted body is used to demonstrate his complete, physical control. In the face of Foreman’s physically demanding choreography and specific theme (overcoming struggle), Mayzick didn’t resort to dramatics; his dynamic dancing did all the talking. In a series of spirals that descended to the floor, Mayzick transcended gravity with some remarkable suspended, standing balances on one leg.

In Rain (2004), the first work on the program, Buglisi’s environmental activist voice is expressed. Inspired by her trip to the Venezuelan rainforest, Rain is a commentary on the magnificence and vulnerability of nature. The entirety of the dance takes place behind a scrim, designed by Jacobo Borges, that projects images of nature’s elements, such as waterfalls, oceans, rocks and trees. The performers appear to float in this environment, becoming visible and then shrouded by the scrim. The music, composed by Glen Velez, Villa-Lobos, and Mahler, alternates between the percussive energy of drums—as if one was enveloped in the beating heart of the jungle—to the softer quality of the piano. Overall, the dancers give the impression of being in the rain, of embodying the ever-changing nature of water through sections that alternate between solo, duet, and ensemble performing. Though the scrim creates a boundary between the nine dancers and the audience, the performers’ energy and strong technique transcend it.

"Rain" by Jacquilyn Buglisi

It’s no surprise that Buglisi Dance Theatre has survived twenty years. The company’s works possess theatrical range. The dancers are top notch, and Graham’s important legacy continues through the voices and spirit of her progeny.

Zoë McNeil is a first year dance division student at The Juilliard School. She is studying the Graham technique with Terese Capucilli.