JOFFREY BALLET
One of the premieres, Charles Moulton’s Panoramagram, starts promisingly with 18 dancers arranged in three horizontal rows of 6 on risers: I thought of school photos, cheering sections on bleachers, the sit-down dancers of the old American Bandstand who made do with upper bodies alone. But ultimately the appeal of this “corps” is its abstract visual texture: Moulton expertly manipulates the dense weave of dancers, animating them in varying contingents of six, or one by one, or in duos or trios. The effect is of a living, breathing woven sculpture (subtly lit to maximum effect by Debra Dumas). At times the dancers grasp or toss spongy colored balls, and when they each hold one at the end of an outstretched arm, the effect is of a field of pistils or insect antennae moving in unison.
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Nerfballs aren’t the only prop: the corps also sports some bright red Mickey Mouse hands. And the ensemble isn’t the whole show–in fact for most of Panoramagram it’s just the backdrop for a duet, a trio, and a solo. Costumes for the featured dancers unaccountably refer to the 60s: two of the women wear short dresses with rows of feathery polyester flounces; a third wears white pants with tiers of sculptured ruffles like pagoda roofs and a white bra. In the duet a man and woman (Beatriz Rodriguez and Pascal Benichou) alternately pursue each other; the trio (Philip Gardner, Jodie Gates, and Brent Phillips) involves some vaudevillelike glad-handing; and the solo, for Valerie Madonia, places her at the top of a movable tower in some gyrating, trapped choreography that’s almost a parody of her serpentine performances in such works as Arpino’s Round of Angels. So why the elaborate props and pop references? Why the sharp division into ensemble and featured dancers? Yes, Panoramagram nicely interprets the music, but it doesn’t add up to much more than a clever goulash of mismatched contemporary-looking elements.
But though the details of Cotillon may be ambiguous, the overall thrust of the ballet is not. It reverses our expectations: at first it seems a dance merely about dancing–the narrative focuses on a formal ball–but it quickly turns into a dark story of initiation, marked by fortune-telling and card-playing motifs. Clearly the Young Girl (LeBlanc) is the protagonist, and the opening and closing images illustrate her evolution: Cotillon begins with her standing on a chair, gazing at herself in a mirror; it ends with her gazing out at us from a sea of whirling dancers, as if she were drowning and beseeching us to help her. Movement deftly reinforces character. The female partygoers have a side-to-side, almost circular motion of the hips that’s confiding, sensual but domestic, like the confidential chat of women among themselves. The Hand of Fate repeatedly removes the Cavalier’s cupped hands from his eyes: she’s definitely stronger than he is, but is she kind or cruel?
Some works in the Joffrey’s repertory may be more disposable than Stierle’s final work, others less. But in these days of threatening financial ruin, you have to pray for the Joffrey’s life even if you don’t care for every single dance. This company is 35 years old. It dances classic works we might not otherwise see and incubates new ones, and its performances are frequently masterful. It would be devastating to American dance if the Joffrey were to perish.
