Primitive Mysteries (“Episodes” at NYCB, Wally Cardona at the Kitchen, and Noche Flamenca at the Joyce)

As I watched Wally Cardona last week at the Kitchen (in “Tool is Loot,” his collaboration with Jennifer Lacey), I suddenly had a flash from Balanchine’s “Episodes,” currently being performed up at New York City Ballet (the final performance will be on Oct. 9, at Charles Askegard’s farewell). In particular, I thought of the second section of the ballet, in which two dancers, a man and a woman, seem to enact a series of mysterious scenes (or episodes) abetted by chiaroscuro lighting on a bare stage. The feeling is one of impenetrability (“what are they doing?!”) combined with the recognition that something very specific and loaded with meaning is going on. A series of ghost stories, chopped into tiny fragments and revealed out of order and missing crucial bits of information. The dancers begin a scene, stop in the middle, reset, shift position, begin again. But despite the fragmentation, the vividness of the stories comes through; there is danger (running from something, running in place), sex (the woman, on pointe, towers over the seated man, her pelvis close to his face as she steps dramatically over his shoulder), and even a kind of demonic possession: the woman clings to her partner’s back, upside down, like a strange insect, and her legs become long, powerful horns that emerge from behind the man’s shoulders.

Cardona has a similar capacity to suggest stories. What struck me while watching him in “Tool is Loot,” at the Kitchen, was the potency of his imagination, and its specificity. One may not understand what story he is telling, but there is no doubt in one’s mind that there is a story, or perhaps, as in “Episodes,” many stories all jumbled up into one. “Tool is Loot” is not a perfect piece; it fails in several regards, especially as a collaboration, but, when Cardona is onstage, it is never less than interesting. As he emerges from behind a curtain, accompanied by a trumpet flourish (the sound-score, by Jonathan Belpre, is consistently vivid) and wearing simple trousers and a grey linen shirt, open at the neck, he begins to swivel his arms almost violently, like the young god playing at the beginning of “Apollo.” He walks on tiptoe, with knees bent, and then begins to prance about like Isadora Duncan unhinged. Then the mood shifts, he caresses his neck, kisses his hand, and stands, forlorn, eyes full of tears and fingers trembling (a whimpering voice can be heard in the sound-score). His solo is neurotic, charming, and crazed.  One could watch him tell stories for hours.

Unfortunately, Jenifer Lacey’s contributions to “Tool is Loot” are not on the same level. It is almost as if there were two pieces in one, overlapping only in the most superficial way. It’s interesting to read in the program that that the two artists worked apart for a year (Lacey in France, and Cardona in NY), honing their ideas with input from people unrelated to the dance field (an astrophysicist, a sommelier, and an opera singer, among others).  The outside influence is difficult to gage, but the distance between the two artists’ worlds is quite palpable. There is only one short section of perfunctory partnering at the end. The idea of overlaying the two solos might be intriguing if they were more complementary, and if Lacey’s ideas were as intriguing as Cardona’s. Her piece seems to be mainly about a chair; she speaks to it, caresses it, studies it, balances upon it, and—surprise!–makes out with it. The makeout session is a low point; it feels crass, and a little desperate. Here, even Cardona’s presence doesn’t quite manage to bring things back into focus: he prances about in the background and eventually indulges in his own “onanistic moment” (as a disembodied voice helpfully points out). Lacey has stage presence—her flirtatious one-sided dialogue with the chair got quite a few laughs–and a gritty sex appeal, but it’s not enough to pull us into her world or hold our interest, at least not mine.

“Tool is Loot” culminates in a kind of apotheosis: concentric circles of colored light projected onto a screen at the back of the stage, accompanied by a Coltrane-like crescendo. It’s a beautiful moment, but completely inorganic, disconnected from the rest of the piece. That said, kudos to Jonathan Bepler; the sound-score is swimming with ideas, contrasting colors and textures, and punctuated with curious sounds that make one sit up and listen. (The list of instruments used includes a viola, percussion, a saxophone, a flute, a children’s choir, and a group of people playing the recorder.) A far cry from the kind of amorphous electronic soundscape we’ve become so used to—young choreographers, take heed!  I was especially struck by a strange, keening setting of a poem about a man waiting in a garden for a secret assignation with a sailor, sung in a squeaky, distorted voice. It doesn’t sound out of place or unnatural in any way, but rather like the kind of voice one might hear in a dream.  Like Cardona’s performance, it has a quality of whimsy and wonder.

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Whimsy is not something one usually associates with the art of flamenco, and certainly not with the artistry of Soledad Barrio. Her ensemble, Noche Flamenca, performed at the Joyce last week. I have seldom seen Ms. Barrio crack a smile, even when taking a bow. When she does smile, it looks unnatural, almost painful, as if the muscles of her face weren’t really meant to move that way. Flamenco is serious business, especially in her solos, where she seems to explode with rage, channeling all the pent-up frustrations of the world, her mask-like demeanor turning inward to a hidden source. She is not a virtuoso in the classic sense: no awe-inspiring “tricks” or particular physical gifts stand out, and she’s not particularly theatrical either—no showy dresses or studied care in her self-presentation. It’s refreshing, given the over-production most Flamenco shows suffer from these days. Thankfully, there is no dry ice or deafening amplification either. Flamenco isn’t really a theatrical form; it’s meant to be experienced in the informal setting of a tablao rather than in a theatre, and to be participated in by the audience, who traditionally encourage the performers with exclamations of ole and anda Soleá!

One of the pleasures of watching a good flamenco group is seeing the close interaction between singers, musicians, and dancers. On Oct. 2, there were two guitarists (Eugenio Iglesias and Salva de María), two singers (Manuel Gago and Emilio Florido) and three dancers (Barrio, Alejandro Granados, and Antonio Jiménez). Percussion was provided by the clapping patterns of the dancers and singers, and, of course, by the dancers’ feet. With the exception of two stylized set pieces (“Oda al Amor” and “Caminando”), the dancers and musicians tended to revert to the more informal tablao mode, remaining in constant communication with each other, creating that living, breathing atmosphere so particular to flamenco. The participants watch, listen, and encourage each other, building each number from the ground up. There are a few set pieces: the opening group piece, the final farewell, in which all the performers cluster together and the musicians dance a few steps of their own. But what happens in between is a ritual composed on the spot. Of course, this feeling of spontaneity is difficult to reproduce in a theatrical show with a printed program and a silent, seated audience. But, unlike many flamenco groups these days, Noche stays close to this form, and mostly succeeds.

One trick to achieving this spontaneity may be changing the playlist from night to night; my program contained an updated program list. Another is to have performers like the guitarist Salva de María and dancer Alejandro Granados. De María doesn’t sit back and play his instrument for its own sake; his eyes never left the dancers, and he was quick to respond to each shift in mood, shaping his sound in order to open a new chapter of dialogue with the dancers. Granados, who looks like the most senior of the dancers, is simply a stage animal, a ham, a piece of work. He could be in a tablao, onstage, or at a family gathering, no doubt he would be the life of the party. Well-fed, beefy, and a touch disheveled-looking, he seems to dance for the fun of it, without much care for precision or nuance. He, more than anyone, seems to focus his attention on the musicians, egging them on, teasing them, showing off a bit; they responded in kind, the singer echoing his footwork: “tra, tra, tra!” Granados is the least technical of the three dancers, and yet, because of his sheer joie de vivre, he got the loudest applause at the performance I attended.

There were a few theatrical flourishes in the show; some worked, some didn’t. I liked the moment when spotlights illuminated only the performers’ hands as they rapped out the complex rhythms. Antonio Jiménez’s tightly choreographed “Caminando” solo was well-crafted, and he has a has the most intricate, soft, quick zapateado, as witty as a passage of patter in Rossini; he also uses his torso in interesting ways, twisting a shoulder to complete the arc of a foot. He’s the most arty of the three. But the concept of “Oda al Amor”, in which Soledad Barrio and Jiménez dance a tormented, tango-inflected duet, while a cloaked figure hovered in the background, was slightly hokey, verging on the comical. All the ghoul needed was a scythe and he could have done a solo turn, as death does in Ratmansky’s “The Bright Stream.”  But, the urge to giggle notwithstanding, this number was saved by the beauty of the song itself, “Chuscales,” which contains many a wonderful line, including this one: “Amor, como la sombra de los helechos.”

At the end of the show, Ms. Barrio performed her searing solo, “Soledad.” As always, she looked possessed, like an angry witch casting a spell. She circled and lunged, and dug her heels into the floor, raising her skirt to show off her piston-like legs. At times like these, she is a formidable force. When she took her bow, she still looked angry. And then, as her musicians crowded around her, there it was, that strange, stern, almost disapproving smile. Dancing is serious business.

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