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EW! A Blog.

December 4, 2017 02:20 PM

With humor, love and a deep well of obscenity, the Kinsey Sicks’ Things You Shouldn’t Say blows the roof off the house. These performers combine gorgeous harmonies with wit and shtick and silliness, and something more, too — with story, revealing history and biography, of themselves, the group and the long, painful struggle for gay rights.

Sure, they’re funny, and of course they’re talented. But in this show they challenge us to a new understanding. It’s time to witness the firepower of this fully armed and operational Dragapella Quartet.

There are so many things you shouldn’t say that Kinsey Sicks talk about openly and with great gusto; it’s delicious, and when they shared moments personal — and universal —it was especially poignant to hear at Oregon Contemporary Theatre, in Eugene, Oregon, on World AIDS Day.

The Kinsey Sicks bring the past to the present. This hatred? Bigotry? We’ve been here before.

The troupe offers solace, commitment, leading the charge to put the “rage” in outrageous — they welcome all to the flock of weirdos and delinquents, a ragtag group of freaks that this cis ally is honored to join. They’re made-up with pastels and boas and painted eyebrows, and because they’ve lived through vile hatred, and they’re still smiling, still creating, still loving, they’re each more “man” than most straight men will ever be.

I walked away from the performance with a new sense of humanness, an inclusion that’s made possible when we let down our guards. Aristotle notes that humor weakens defenses. We could all learn a thing or two from the Sicks — and their founders, and their communities.

Thank goodness, the Kinsey Sicks are here to stay.

The Kinsey Sicks played Nov. 30 – Dec. 2, at Oregon Contemporary Theatre.

April 10, 2017 12:51 PM

Portland, OR — Ronald K. Brown/Evidence presented a breathtaking evening of contemporary dance April 6-8 at Portland’s Newmark Theater. Sponsored by White Bird Dance, the performance was the crown jewel in a week of community events that included a public conversation with Brown and dance legend Judith Jamison (of Alvin Ailey Dance Company fame) as well as a host of community master classes.

In a moment of societal and artistic insecurity, when the arts and arts education are under fire, White Bird continues to beat the drum for more dance, more knowledge, more … humanity.

And Brown’s work is delightfully humane. Approachable, stylistically accessible, his movement signature invites an emotional response, a sense of ideation, as if audience members are somehow so intertwined with the dance that they themselves are up onstage.

2014’s Why You Follow/Por Que Sigues, with its glowing jewel-toned costumes by Keiko Voltaire, has an effervescent quality — a kind of invitation into a language so universally manifested that it’s like a roadmap back to spirit and home.

Set to music by Zap Mama, Gordheaven and Juliano, the Allenko Brotherhood and the Heavy Quartez, the piece explores themes of diaspora through a lens of the now, weaving and bobbing through history and the present, sliding and lifting through intricate patterning and shape. The results are technically virtuosic but appear effortless.

Brown’s company is a joy.

Arcell Cabuag anchors the men with a vivacious, irrepressible earthiness. Clarice Young embodies stalwart dedication and stewardship to technique, with long, exquisite lines and perfect placement. Annique Roberts, with her enthusiastic lightness and complete mastery over every step, finds freedom in each moment.

Demetrius Burns, Kevyn Ryan Butler, Janeill Cooper, Courtney Ross and Keon Thoulouis each contribute glorious strengths to the effort, powering through and pulling back, exploding and receding, defining and exploring. Their work in this piece is like an incantation, a prayer.

In 1995’s Lessons: March (Excerpt), Annique Roberts and Clarice Young dance to and with and through the indelible words of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. (Interesting to note: On alternate performances, two men — Demetrius Burns and Kevyn Butler — dance the roles.)

The piece sets up a syllogism, asking, as King asked: “What’s the value of man?”

Here, Brown discovers emotional nuance in King’s speech, already packed with meaning, but through the dance, the words are lifted up, placed in relief against a clear blue sky. It’s as if, through this dynamic duet, Brown can harness the forces of nature — the wind, rain and sun — and pour it all into dance that feels like verse.

An evergreen, Lessons: March, should be required viewing for every American.

The evening ended with 2011’s On Earth Together, a masterful journey through life that is set to the music of Stevie Wonder, with otherworldly lighting design by Tsubasa Kamei.

In this piece, Brown’s style is never ham-fisted, never overt. He holds back from the maudlin, the sentimental. Instead, his work focuses on the universal connections that foster compassion and knowing. His dancers find each other onstage; they take tiny moments, making eye contact, clearly enjoying the connection and creation they’re engaged in.

It’s a subtle act of defiance, a tangible drift from dance that once focused solely on form, for its own sake.

When Brown came out to dance, the crowd erupted in wild applause. In fact, throughout this evening’s concert, the crowd was responsive, cheering, whooping. The dance invites an atmosphere of connection.

In his own unique way, Brown charges the performing arts in this century with a new mandate: Make the world a more loving and compassionate place.  — Rachael Carnes

March 8, 2017 03:20 PM

Once in a while you see a performance that is everything: Beautiful, funny, developed but loose, open, sad. Montreal’s 7 Fingers Company (Les 7 Doigts De La Main) is like that. Their latest, Cuisine and Confessions, presented by White Bird dance at Portland’s Newmark Theatre last weekend, is a revelation.

Let’s start at the very beginning: Circus arts tend to make me grumpy.

I know, I know: I should love it, everyone loves it! Silks, tumbling, climbing, wall-walking, everyone enjoys it and I’m a terrible person for taking issue.

But, I mean, the tricks. What’s my beef? I’ll tell you: I get tired of showmanship for its own sake. I grow weary of acts divined not by creativity, not by reality, but seemingly by fantasy, the kind of elliptical, formless noodling that relies on the next death-defying spectacle, the roar of the crowd, the bread and circuses of distraction. Le sigh.

Typically, these shows sit on old tropes about gender, as women get hurled around by bigger, stronger men, and contort like origami, til we all ooh and ahh.

Where’s the theme and variation? Where’s the shape, the form? Where’s the arc, the narrative depth? Where’s the envelope we’re pushing? And are we pushing it enough?

Usually, circus arts shows leave me with that feeling like I’ve eaten a bunch of popcorn for dinner. I’m full, but I’m not satisfied.

But hold the phone: 7 Fingers has a new idea.

I adore White Bird. There, I said it.

Is anyone doing anything more for dance in Oregon? Nope. Producers Walter Jaffe and Paul King are worth their weight in gold. They know how to pick ‘em, and how lucky are we that they keep bringing this stuff to our leafy part of the world.

It would be a mistake to provide a synopsis of Seven Finger’s Cuisine and Confessions. I mean, don’t you hate that, when a reviewer gives away all the good parts? Who wants spoilers? NO ONE wants spoilers.

But this show has so many good parts.

Helpful hint: Get there early. The pre-show’s wonderful.

But when the show itself begins, here’s the powerful alchemic reaction, the artistic crucible that burns a bright new substance: Imagine the Icarian flying, the hand-to-hand work, the acro-dance, the floor work, tumbling, climbing, the juggling and music and the Chinese pole, and now — wait for it — combine all that with evocative, charming, heartfelt memoir theater.

I’ve never seen anything like Cuisine and Confessions, in all my years in the theater, all around the world.

Hats off to directors Shana Carroll and Sébastien Soldevila, and the entire cast and crew. From the onstage kitchen (yup!), to the powerful movement, music and words, the piece has the power to transform, like the banana bread they bake while the performance hums along.

Shows like this make you really damned proud to be a human.

March 3, 2017 12:28 PM

On Feb. 22, White Bird Dance, the Northwest’s stellar presenter of contemporary dance, offered the West Coast premier of France’s Centre Choréographique National — Ballet de Lorraine, one of Europe’s most acclaimed companies.

CCN’s 26 dancers (um, that’s a ton of dancers, state-supported arts funding is neat), under Artistic Director Petter Jacobsson, offered a wide-ranging program, including two recent pieces and an American masterwork.

A bit of background: As a company, Ballet de Lorraine explores new work while keeping treasures by modern dance heroes alive, with work by Merce Cunningham, Twyla Tharp, Trisha Brown, William Forsythe and more in their repertoire. (What does that mean? It means that at any given time, the company knows and can perform an astounding range of dances. Keeping dance in repertory is expensive and logistically challenging, but without these efforts, pieces are lost to the sands of time, like a painting on the wall of a museum slowly vaporizing over decades, until perhaps only copies of it — incomplete video or photos — remain.) 

The Portland performance opened with 2015’s Devoted, by Cecelia Bengolea and François Chaignaud.

Ducking in and out of cold, gray light, dancers cut and push through space, with angular turns, slicing leaps and gyroscoping patterns and repetitions. A hyperkinetic meditation, the effect is like watching the cellular process of photosynthesis, at once alive, yet autonomic.

Dancers course through space, whirring like spores released from a fern frond, like the piecing, dissecting fractal of a leaf, or the unfurling branches of a tree, opening and accenting patterns with a kind of stilted urgency.

The driving Phillip Glass score enlivens, and at times, overly ensconces the piece. (One wonders what the same dance would look like in partial silence.)

Some of the strongest moments find near stillness. In one, a trio of women stand en pointe for a torturous time, nearly motionless, their arms rapt to the ceiling, another dancer circling around them menacingly. It’s in this dynamic that emotions heighten, that the machinations and order seem to breakdown, revealing an animus, a stark revelation of lurid sexuality — waggling bottoms, pelvic thrusts — amidst the spectacle and distant beauty.

After the first intermission, Alban Richard’s 2015 Hok Solo Pour Ensemble made exquisite design of the space.

Set to music by Louis Andriessen, the work explores pattern and rhythm, progressing fluidly from the simple to the complex. From the individual pieces of the dance to the circular permutations that develop, the effort takes on a cumulative vision, machine-like, but human, with everyday gestures that are refreshingly pedestrian, doable. As the intricate work evolves, the movement vocabulary becomes more dancerly, relaxed and fluid, while maintaining razor-sharp patterning and relational groupings. The resultant dynamic takes on an orbital force, like witnessing heavenly bodies — Terpsichore in sneakers? — careening through a distant galaxy.

Finally, after intermission two, the evening culminated with Merce Cunningham’s 1975 masterwork Sounddance for 10 dancers.

Cunningham’s beloved Sounddance opposes the uniformity and unison that is often found in ballet and has been described as “organized chaos,” taking the form of fast paced, vigorous choreography. The stunning set design consists of a gracefully draped plush gold curtain, with the dancers entering and exiting as though thrust into the space from the curtain itself.

With Cunnigham’s signature movement motifs — the sprung jackknifed leap, the soft connection of a hand, between and among dancers, the sporadic, seemingly random dispersal of movement across the stage — as well as his undeniably sharp, clear intention, his directional genius and relational capacity, the work is nothing less than nature itself.

Having only ever seen terrible, grainy and incomplete videos of Sounddance, the chance to see it live was unforgettable, like a reset for the heart and soul.

One by one, the dancers exit, swallowed by that giant gold curtain.

Is it death? Life? Are they spirits, now heading to the next space? Does it matter?  

David Tudor’s trance-like score provides the perfect energetic accompaniment to Cunningham’s astoundingly fast-paced, yet richly rewarding, choreography.

February 23, 2017 01:54 PM

The University of Oregon Department of Dance presented its 48th annual Faculty Concert Feb. 16-18, to an enthusiastic audience.

Representing collaborations among UO dance and theatre faculty members and their students — in dance, lighting and costume design — the effort was a richly realized event, featuring only premieres, three with original scores.

The evening opened with Hannah Anderson’s Ecliptic.

Beginning in a tense unison, Anderson’s dancers unfurl, peeling from the center through sideways leaps, axial turns and earthy slides. They continually discover balance, only to lose grip of it again, creating a dialectical whorl of intention. One particularly strong moment — organic crosses from stage left to right and back again, set against Markus Johnson’s evocative music — show off Anderson’s knack for accented rhythm, dynamic relationships and explosive shape.

Brad Garner’s genesis, set to music by Caleb Burhans, walks a tightrope between free and bound flow. Garner explores a thematic motif throughout — digging one’s heel sharply while flexing arms backwards in a tight curve — as contrasted to the subtle, sinewy dappling of shared self-space. Through shifts in focus, Garner expertly divines changes in mood as he and dancer Shannon Mockli rise and fall and rise again.

Rosetta, by Darian Smith, has an alien look and feel to it — white unitards emblazoned with bold alphabet letters, the dancers wearing white grease paint — but underneath the façade there’s something tellingly human, almost fragile, at play. A moment pops out: One dancer, downstage, runs to the other side of the proscenium as dancers upstage do the opposite. It’s a simple idea, a counterbalance, but the effect is satisfyingly dizzying, like watching a pendular carnival ride.

Garner’s Admitting Light, about the work of physicist Nikola Tesla, ambitiously weaves together detailed, introspective dance, with animated projections by John Park and an original score by Jon Bellano and Jeremy Schropp. Lighting design by UO faculty member Janet Rose creates unity, as if we’re peering through a mechanical aperture into the mind of Tesla himself. At times joyful, other times deeply pensive, Garner’s work takes its breath through curving, taut shape. A powerful moment comes towards the end, as Garner braids together groups of dancers (and he has a big crew of them) through loose pathways from upstage to down. (Inspired by Tesla’s famous pigeons perhaps?) These dancers take flight.

Become, by Rita Honka, toys with angularity and changes in energy, from smooth and swingy to sharp, almost nervous. What begins as a solo morphs into a duet, and here Jessica Taylor glows. Though the UO dancers, as a whole, are strong and capable, Taylor’s technique, her expression, her powerfully integrated performance — is something to behold.

And Mockli’s Unearthed, set to an original score by Christian Cherry, cuts through levels as it heaves from a molten place. With blasts of intensity, Mockli’s work here is at once sad and playful, like a familiar nursery rhyme whispered in the shadows.

January 27, 2017 05:24 PM

London’s Ballet Boyz, the company founded in 2001 by two principal dancers from the Royal Ballet, were in Portland Wednesday, Jan. 25, to perform at the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall.

Co-artistic directors Michael Nunn and William Trevitt offered an eclectic, engaging evening of dance, featuring a company of 10 male dancers in a show presented by Portland’s White Bird Dance.


Opening the show, Rabbit, choreographed by Swedish choreographer Pontus Lidberg, took a thoughtful journey into a whimsical, at-times darker place, juxtaposing simple moments of interconnection with the focus and weight of group dynamics.


Although the costume designer isn’t credited, the piece is all about the rabbit heads, worn by nine out of ten dancers at one time or another. These heads are arresting and charming at once, with the scruffy, approachable ease of a well-loved favorite toy, but utilized with terrific effect by the dancers themselves.


A costume palette of grays and muted charcoals and browns gives the effect of yesterday’s schoolboys, late for class.


In a series of gentle interludes, the piece explores carrying and connecting, with sinewy, playful gambits into energy and force.


The mask work is first rate — dancing full-out while wearing a rabbit head cannot possibly be too fun — with dancers careening through intricate and bouncy folkdance patterns and lively rolls and falls, while maintaining their rabbit gaze.


Lighting design by James Farncombe offers an amber glow, or a gray glower, depending on the mood.


But the piece never tips over into the maudlin or scary, though there is something about the dynamic — between the central dancer and all these rabbits — that evokes a childlike response to the unknown.


Also on the bill, Javier de Frutos’ Fiction played with line, shape and pattern, as an access point to gossip, hearsay, even memoir.


In this cheeky exploration, the fanciful repetitions and ellipses in voiceover narrative — words provided by Ismene Brown and spoken by Jim Carter, Sir Derek Jacobi and Imelda Staunton — echo and reverberate throughout the fast-paced movement, like rivulets of electric current.


Centered around a portable ballet barre, used here as a climbing gym, a balance beam and even a wall, the ten dancers, clad in sweats and universal white t-shirts, seem to exhume a personal and public history, to redress masculinity only to subsume it all again and again in the fray.

December 19, 2016 06:42 AM

According to German folklore, nutcrackers were given as symbols of good luck and protection. And who couldn’t use a little of that right about now?

Inspired by Alexandre Dumas’ lighter adaptation of the E.T.A. Hoffmann story, the ballet was set to music by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, and originally choreographed by Marius Petipa, for its 1892 Moscow premier.

Though critically well received, The Moscow Imperial Theatre’s Nutcracker didn’t enjoy great success at first, and the acrimonious dynamic between the composer, and his Sugar Plum[p] Fairy, Antonietta Dell'Era, is legendary.

But the fantastical story of Marie (here Clara), her battle with the Mouse King and her journey to the Land of Sweets, endures.

The ballet’s ascendency, to a place of such beloved recognition and lore, is a testament to this music, and to the power of this incredible, indelible story.

After hopping the pond in ’44, with a performance by the San Francisco Ballet, and in ’54, with George Balanchine’s version in New York City, this ballet has delighted generations. The Nutcracker has become a no-miss holiday tradition for many, and as keepers of the torch, the Eugene Ballet Company’s sturdy production twinkles and delights as ever: There is much to love about EBC.

What a delight to enjoy live music.

Brian McWhorter’s Orchestra NEXT and the Cantible Collective, under direction of Chris Dobson, elevate the effort from enjoyable to resplendent.

Live music feels a salve these days, and McWhorter is clearly enjoying bringing terrific live music to audiences. He makes the work approachable, connected, inspiring audience members not to distance themselves from the music, but to enjoy it as though they are taking part in the making of it, through McWhorter’s irrepressible energy and spirit.

And not enough can be said about Toni Pimble’s choreography.

Have I seen this Nutcracker before? Sure, more times than I can count. But it works, and watching it, all I could think was “generous.” There is something inherently humane in Pimble’s eye for detail. Her deep passion for technique and perfection is there, and exacted by her dancers, but Pimble creates something so much more than that. This work is an invitation to audience members to access dance, many for the first time, or for the only time all year. Pimble stewards this art form, holds it, keeps it, with each moment of comic timing, every lush pathway or relationship, every lift, nod, gesture.

Pimble’s artistic acumen and vision stands shoulder to shoulder with giants.

Hats off to the production design team, sets, costumes, props, and lighting: They successfully create Clara’s mysterious and ever-changing world. This show is pure fantasy, yet it’s rooted in glorious, rich detail. The dance shines against an immersive and thorough backdrop.

On to the performances:

Isaac Jones lends a mischievous zip to Drosselmeyer, a character who can come off as a little scary to the younger set. Not Jones’ interpretation, though: His uncle is fresh and lively, with a bouncy, impish quality.

As Hans/the Nutcracker, Reed Souther lends cartoon pilot good looks, and tremendous energy and technique. Souther’s a pleasure to watch, strong and relatable, with terrific acting chops.

As Clara, Yoshie Oshima shines, an incandescent depiction of youth on the cusp of maturity, of hope, and strength. Clara’s a tough cookie! She has a really weird night! And Oshima is up for it: Infusing each step, each gesture, with meaning and connection. She seems fragile and doll-like one moment, and achingly sanguine the next. In her hands, we don’t love Clara. We are Clara.

Yuki Beppu as the Sugar Plum Fairy, and Hirofumi Kitazume as her Cavalier, are compelling and vibrant. They come along in act two as a kind of tonic, a pure, powerful expression of beauty. Even the tiny kids seated next to me couldn’t look away: They were simply transfixed. It’s like watching real damn fairies.

Children from the Eugene Ballet Academy add an element of genuine “Aw” to the effort, from baby mice to angels to Bon Bons and Party Goers: This show is special because there are so many kids involved.

And as an ensemble, EBC glows. Too many shout outs to mention, but the whole smorgasbord in the Land of Sweets – coffee, tea, cocoa, etc - delights. 

Can it be “Nutcracker” season again next week? Please?





December 11, 2016 04:55 PM

Ballet Fantastique warmed up a cold, rainy winter’s evening with its latest offering, “The Book of Esther: A Rock Gospel Ballet”, featuring the UO Gospel Singers and live original Persian rock music led by Gerry Rempel and band.

The design team shines here, with rich, illustrative costumes by Donna Marisa Bontrager and Allison Ditson, which transport, from the first moment the dancers enter from the back of the house, carrying warmly lit lanterns.

The gospel music is a soothing and stirring undercurrent, and the choreographers, Donna Marisa and Hannah Bontrager conceive of using these performers artfully, arranging their entrance and spacing cleverly, seamlessly, so that the singers become an integral part of the whole.

Hats off to Andiel Brown, UO Gospel Choir director, as Mordecai in this production. Brown’s voice is compelling and clear, his gestures relatable and connected. He even has a couple of lifts! Bravo.

As Esther, Leanne Mizzoni dances with a precise, yet earnest approach. Her delicate, lyrical quality is tempered by her strength, and as Esther traverses through this narrative, we see Mizzoni’s determination grow. 

A strong duet ends Act One, danced to music by Byron Cage: The pairing exudes a longing, a sinuous connection between Mizzoni and King Xerxes, played here by Justin Feimster.

Feimster anchors the men’s roles. He is physically grounded, convincing, with great acting chops.

As the antagonizing Haman, Gustavo Ramirez throws out a ton of passion, but one wonders if choreographically, there wasn’t something left in his back pocket. (Ramirez dances the hell out of what he’s been given, I just would have liked him to be a bit more of a baddie.)

The ensemble works together nicely, and as a narrative, this classic tale delights, especially with BFan’s musical choices, and a thoughtful and judiciously interwoven narration adding dimension.

At times, group dance work has a predictable rhythmic and patterning cadence, leaning heavily on the 4/4 power of gospel. Set to jazz, BFan’s choreography slips and slides and works over and under the beat, but here, especially in Act Two, the movement at times sacrifices organic dynamic intensity for adherence to the musical phrase.

But we quibble. Will most notice the technical dance structures, and see them repeating? Probably not.

 BFan sets a remarkable course here: Taking an ancient story, making it new and fresh, and presenting it for all audiences.

“The Book of Esther” is a story for the ages, and a timely one at that. 

November 18, 2016 10:32 AM

In Moses(es) last night at White Bird Dance in Portland, Reggie Wilson/Fist and Heel Performance Group took the audience on a journey across time and space, exploring the intricacies and indelible spirit of culture and people, through movement and song.          

            “Why do we lead? How do we lead?” asked Wilson in the post-show talkback. “ And why do we follow?”

            I have to admit, weary from the post-election sobriety and facing an uncertain future, I was ready to live for the next four years in the lobby of PSU’s Lincoln Hall, as the cheerful dance audience assembled there represented the joyful diversity that I think the world should embrace.       

            I’ve followed reviews, and seen snippets of this work on video, but what a glorious opportunity to see it in real life. And timely.

            There was something prescient and cathartic in the telling, something crystal clear. Through his work, with a big heart, keen intelligence and pitch-perfect study, Wilson offers solace, sojourn, and a way forward:

            Exploring the African diaspora and the human global diaspora, Moses(es) interweaves popular religious iconography and storytelling, about Moses himself, with a bedrock narrative about the African American experience.

            The stage opens with the curtain pulled back, seeing the skeleton of the theater for what it is. Project into that rigging a timelessness, a place that isn’t presentational or artistic, but raw, and everywhere. The hollow scaffolds and dangling ropes, the bins and boxes: This could be a ship, a plantation, a city or a citadel.

            Crumpled Mylar tinsel is strewn about the stage in wild ellipses, and Wilson himself stuffs it into a big, red suitcase, as dancers move to their places.

            At one moment, dancers create a low level shape, nestled downstage, their heads facing the audience, they’re packed together in a crowded, comforting tangle that seems regimented and prescribed. My mind leaps to the etchings I’ve seen of the slave ships, with human beings commoditized for expedient shipping, like cargo.

            Later, dancers move with a hieroglyphic precision, delving into the shapes and stasis of stained glass, or reliefs. They seem like superheroes, bigger than life, projecting outwards an image of transparency and hope.

            Wilson transforms dishtowels – dishtowels – into a riveting depiction of slavery itself, repeating the patterns and rhythm of the folding, brushing, snapping of endless labor.

            A large cloth cracks like a whip.

            At another moment, the dancers move in downstage diagonals, creating a parted line for one dancer to leap through, briskly, in a moment of faith.

            In Wilson’s choreography, we see a tremendous development of language and reason, but there’s ease to the telling of this story, too. His facility draws on a deep methodology into modern dance, but his effervescent structure lends a tip of the hat to the postmodernists.

            One of the most stirring moments finds a reimagining of “Wading in the Water” – made famous by Alvin Ailey’s ‘Revelations’ – but within its slow, aching tempo, Wilson explores violence, and accountability.

            Wilson is never overt or ham-fisted. And his company, stellar performers all, bring a lush and exquisite range to the effort, compounding every alchemic reaction with their own humanity.

            The piece builds, warmly, with invitation to project into it our own thoughts and dreams.

            Wilson says he was inspired by mathematical fractals, “The way something looks at a small scale is the same as at the larger scale,” he says.

            It’s a perfect metaphor for the cutting up of culture, the scattering of home and peoples, all over the world.

            In the post-show conversation, Wilson takes us to a salient moment in the Moses myth:

            “Moses parted the seas, and his followers found themselves walking through the sand, with walls of water on either side.”  

            What must that have felt like?

            Maybe we’re all still finding out.   

October 31, 2016 08:37 AM

Featuring haunting music by Adolphe Adam, and original staging by Louis Godfrey after Marius Petipa, Eugene Ballet’s Giselle stands shoulder to shoulder with any production I’ve seen.

            Set against the backdrop of autumnal, pastoral repose - the harvest is finally in, the latest vintage is ready to be poured, the Rhineland has never looked prettier than it does this fall - Giselle plumbs this bucolic moment for all its gothic glory. Giselle is a ghost story, after all. Boo!

            In the title role, dancer Yoshie Oshima is exquisite, possessing an effortless quality, like spun sugar, she dances with lightness and grace. But underpinning her work is a steel cage of emotion, as Oshima delves fully into the character’s transformative emotional range, from giddy peasant girl, to jilted girlfriend, to ultimate redeemer. Oshima finds the perfect, compelling balance for the role.

            Hirofumi Kitazume, as Giselle’s beloved Count Albrecht, is equally riveting. He moves like a coiled spring, synaptic and powerful, packing tremendous force, and yet he also possesses a nuanced tenderness, and an easy, approachable manner. These roles demand acting, as well as dance, and could easy tip over into the maudlin. But Kitazume never indulges in such frivolity, instead displaying genuine feelings: Ardor, shock, grief and fear. He carries the narrative for the audience, from inciting incident, to the last sad moments. (Newsflash: It’s a tragedy.)

            Reed Souther as Hilarion, Albrecht’s counterpart and another of Giselle’s suitors, also anchors the production. He has an earthier quality to his work, a grounded, sensible approach that offers an alternative to the flashy Albrecht. Spoiler alert: Things don’t end well for him, and throughout, Souther astonishes with his physical conviction and emotional conveyance.

            As a whole, this ballet really shows off Toni Pimble’s pitch-perfect musicality, and the ensemble’s flawless timing. Throughout, there’s little for the audience to do but sit back, relax, and take this mesmerizing journey. Pimble’s approach is precise, but always humane. Somehow, she never loses sight of the relational storytelling the dance is meant to convey, even as she dishes out technique that shines.

            The corps in Act One explores pleasing configurations and the geometric shapes, that harken back to the simpler time, and perhaps its folk dances, that this romantic ballet epitomizes. The pas de quatre towards the end of Act One exemplifies the versatility and strength of the dancers, with Victoria Harvey, Suzanne Haag, Mark Tucker and Colton West, all turning in terrific performances.

            And Act Two is all about the ladies: Danielle Tolmie as Myrtha, Queen of the Wilis, sets a gold standard for the corps, dancing with ferocity and a blithe fragility. Tolmie is a wonder, almost weightless, her technique extraordinary, and the faceless, blank stares of the Wilis that surround her create a sensation of coolness and reproach.  Has your man done you wrong? The ultimate squad, these punishing gals have your back. (Just wait until dark.)

            Costumes by Amy Panganiban and sets by Russell Coburn, lend magic, transporting the viewer from the warmth and conviviality of a Bruegel painting, to the cold, clear twilight of lost love.

            Happy Halloween.





October 23, 2016 04:06 PM

White Bird Dance presented Inbal Pinto & Avshalom Pollak Dance Company’s Wallflower, Oct 22, at Lincon Hall on the Portland State University campus.

            A richly luxuriant piece, Wallflower investigates relational connections in and around a contrived space, a two-sided wall, hard-sided and sturdy, that dancers can slide up and across.

            The performers are uniformly strong and committed, wearing brightly colored knit bodysuits, they move with a collective pulse and rhythm through ambient music by Unitaro Abe, Mayu Gonto and Hirofumi Nakamura.

            The piece has a methodical, somber quality, with mysteries and inventions providing some accent from the staid work. At times, the structures of the dance veer into the predictable, as canons and crossings give way not to variation, but simply repetition.

            Would the piece be as effective without these darn cool unitards? It’s hard to say. There is something overly wrought in the characters presented. Zvi Fishvon wears an enormous knitted costume, and seems to swallow other dancers whole, transforming into a monstrous, grub-like visage.

            Other moments, too, churn and crackle like verdant insects munching, and have a quality of unrest, of dis-ease.

            Jeremy Alberge is compelling, crisp and clean, his technique and expression in perfect harmony. Oz Mulay, too, has an intriguing presence, heartfelt, open. Cordelia Lange is also compelling, somehow raw yet elegant, a mover with broad and encompass capacity to communicate. All the dancers have an ethereal, yet earthy quality, stripped bare when the knitwear comes off, to reveal a universal: tank tops and men’s underwear for all.

            Clocking in at one hour, the piece generates more heat in its last ten minutes than  in the first fifty. It finds its legs and creates dynamic, gorgeous pathways and level changes, careening through space with a celestial cadence.  A fascinating meditation.

            This company is one to watch. 

October 17, 2016 06:24 AM

Ballet Fantastique delivered a warm and lovely confection in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, a Parisian Jazz Ballet.

            Set in jazzy 1920’s Paris, the performance swept through Austen’s enduring story with a breezy, yet thoughtful, pace. The Regency Era is a tough time to be single, and as the five “Bennette” sisters express varying degrees of ardor and rancor, at their potential suitors, BFan really comes alive.

            Hats off to the Gerry Rempel Jazz Syndicate, whose live music was an integral part of the production. Vocalists Amy LeSage and Susanna Meyer were especially transporting, evoking the unmistakable ennui, affection and joy that decades of Jazz produced. Their voices were like a time machine. Just delightful.

            BFan’s choreography is first-rate throughout, enjoyable, moody, lively and fun. Their work is accessible and approachable, and they utilize what they have to great effect. Ashley Bontrager as Lizzy sails, but all the sisters bring impish, devoted energy to their work.

            Natanael Leal is stunning as outsider George Wickham. Gustavo Ramirez retains a suitably haughty air as Darcy, and Justin Feimster has fun as Bingley.

            As character tropes, the five sisters and their paramours are progenitors of so many works that followed them, and they’re each quite distinct, in the way Austen writes them. To the degree that they can within the confines of ballet, BFan explores the subtleties between and among their stylistic approaches, though group numbers rely on unison.

            The dance looks polished and complete, and dances are uniformly confident and danced with great enthusiasm and rich, decorative detailing in the arms and footwork. BFan’s aesthetic doesn’t push across the space aggressively, it doesn’t shout or shock, but relies on consistently interesting relational connections, intricate pathways and nuanced characterization.

            Adam Goldthwaite narrates as Vicar Collins, and even gets into the action. Goldthwaite is clearly having a ball in his role, and carries the narrative forward for those who are unfamiliar. Still, there is room in Goldthwaite’s delivery for more modulation, a softening, especially when he’s speaking not his own character’s lines, but Austen’s precious narrative prose. This Austen-ite (named my firstborn daughter Jane!) could have used a tad more sincerity from Goldthwaite as the piece drew to a close.

            Costumes designed by Donna Marisa Bontrager and constructed by Allison Ditson fit the bill, as bright and full of hope as a box of macarons from the finest Parisian pastry shop.

            Genevieve Speer and Deborah Speer have helped to shape the libretto, no small task, surely.

            The set and backdrop were a darling diversion from the bleak rain outside, a ribald expression of dopey, adoring love. And why not?

            BFan has a good thing going. They received a standing ovation, richly deserved. They’re making an austere art form accessible to new audiences. I saw people of all ages in the audience, having a great time with movement and theater that they could relate to.

            A BFan supporter spoke before the show about their work to bring children from the Jasper Mountain treatment center to see BFan productions. Hats off to these types of efforts. We should all find ways to make dance a part of everyone’s lives.  

October 15, 2016 11:00 AM

The Northwest Screendance Exposition’s second annual presentation drew a variety of engaging short films, both elaborately creative endeavors and interesting documentaries, from around the world.

            What a rich endeavor! We’re fortunate for the Northwest Screendance’s effort to bring new, thought-provoking, international art right to our doorstep.

            In the documentary category, contributions train a light on the art of Screendance itself, with a fascinating look behind the scenes on how dance and film conjoin to create new vistas. Artists explore boundaries of shape and form, relational dimensions between and among dancers, as they connect with spaces, props, and places. These efforts push into new exciting territory, engaging whole cities and cultures with contemporary art.

            The Screendance short film category is equally compelling.

            Damien Smith’s Arrellah provides arresting imagery, both textural and strong. Wake by Holly Wilder and Duncan Wilder explores auditory impulses, and a deep inquiry into gesture.

            In Between, by Blake Horn and Liilian Stamey, is set in a beautiful natural setting, but the jerky filmic technique and repetitive movement led one to wonder: Would the dance be interesting if you saw it on a bare stage?

            That’s an overall question about this art form that walks a tense line between film and dance.

            In some instances, the medium enhances the human expression, brightening the filter, narrowing the focus.

            Such is the case with 1180+More, by Riccardo de Simone. This playful musing on line drawings that morph and transform in keen animation brings out new ideas, without taking itself too seriously.

            Another highlight is My “Best” Friend, According to Him, by Josh Anderson and Logan Hall. The piece thrusts movers into everyday situations, with physical comedy and full-contact gaffs, at the office, the gym, the grocery store. Is it more shtick than dance? Maybe, but it’s not trying to be more than what it presents.

            Another piece that balances dance effort with what film can do is Dance of the Neurons by Jody Oberfelder and Eric Siegel. The piece explores shape and form in whimsical ways, but loses itself at times in editing gimmicks.

            Some pieces seem like cool sketches that could evolve into completed works. Many feature nature, or decrepit buildings, as their settings.

            Mitchell Rose and Bebe Miller have collaborated on an ambitious international piece, Globe Trot that carries simple movement from one person to another, all around the world. Though ambitious, and artfully put together, there’s not much that’s new about this idea, as versions in music and dance have bubbled up and gone viral for the last decade or so. 

            Promenade by Cirila Luz Ferron, Florencia Olivieri and Manislla Pons plays with effects, close-ups, focus, filters, with a disembodied, dramatic edge.

            Eclipse, by Linda Arkelian and David Cooper, offers a meditation on the male dancer, in a well lit, slow motion exploration.

            As a viewer, a question arises throughout the program: Would I want to watch this, if it were just a dance? Is the movement itself interesting, or does the production rely on editing, camera angles, or setting, to create and suspend the effort? What do I get from the movement alone?

            One example is Without Boundaries, by Cara Hagan and Robert Gelber. Great location, fun movers – I just wanted to see dance that was more compelling in its own right, without the trappings of the film.

            It is a treat to see effort from all around the world, right in Eugene. Kudos to the Northwest Screendance producers for their vision and fortitude. We’re fortunate that they see the value of bringing something new to our shores.

            As a student of dance history, I’m fascinated by this new space that dance and multimedia artists are collaborating within. It taps into a current that reminds me of the modernists and post-modernists, and I’m enjoying seeing the further blurring between once-distinct art forms.

            Thank you to the Northwest Screendance folks: Parched for new work, this expo was a tall drink of water. 

October 8, 2016 07:59 AM

Xcape Dance Company presented X last night, at the Hult Center’s Soreng Theatre. Artistic director and choreographer Vanessa Fuller offered a high-energy evening, with her own company, and visiting guests.

            The first half of the program’s highlights included a salsa number, well-executed by Jenna Trotter and her partner. Nathan Boozer’s Work Dance Company made a splash with Pitbull, featuring Boozer himself on a leash. Ari Zreliak-Hoban and Cindy Zreliak’s ZAPP offered a cheeky entrée to HipHop. And the Dance Factory had fun with their tribute to Michael Jackson, with choreography by Roshny Bhakta.

            Fuller’s work is confident and stylish, as evidenced in Candy, and All About Dat Booty. Her dancers, of varying ability and technique, all work hard for her, expressing exuberance and joy of movement.

            Pieces, a group number featuring singer Isaac Turner and a projected film, suffered a bit from staging issues, as the various components fought for primacy.

            Singer Shelby Trotter brought the exciting element of live music to the stage for Latch,and while her performance took a few pitches, it was earnest and complimentary to the dancer’s freestyle explorations.

            Mason King’s solo was the standout in the first half. Thoughtful, compelling, and with an inherent structure.

            After intermission, Fuller offered her version of Cell block Tango, from the 1975 musical Chicago. Bob Fosse left some pretty big shoes to fill, and the question is: Do we imitate his unmistakable style, or do our own thing? Well-danced, this piece somehow felt disjointed, like a combination of sexy pedestrian movement, and dance tricks.  

            Drops of Jupiter, along with Say Something in the first half, expressed a more lyrical side for Fuller, with younger dancers gamely delving into the balance, extension and form required.

            Flex offered Urchin by Angela Dunham, a meditation on shape and relationships.

             And throughout the second act, Fuller’s work expressed a variety of moods.  Her solo for a young dancer in Hot Note was lively and appropriate, for the dancer’s age, and abilities.

            (Note: Individual dancers have not been credited in the program, except where they were also choreographers.)

            Aesthetically, Fuller’s work is vibrant and fun, but throughout a whole evening, one sees the same recurring lexicon of moves that she relies on.

            And the overall effort seems to focus on creating a multitude of shorter pieces, rather than on developing any one piece beyond the length of a piece of popular music. Throughout, dancers mouth the lyrics to songs.

            Most pieces are in unison, which is difficult to pull off with a variety of technical levels, and front facing.

            Izikuala Huntley presented a solo last night that underscores his technical artistry, and strong musicality. It would be interesting to see what he would do with a group work.