Sometimes it takes an outsider to break through to a new mode, a different look. When 40 NYCB dancers fled across the Koch Theater stage in unmanageable hordes, one knew right away that this was a different kind of ballet. To the music of Woodkid, and wearing variously dotted unitards, the dancers created tableaux that cast huge, heroic shadows on the backdrop (lighting by Mark Stanley). Spartacus for today.

Les Bosquets

JR’s installation last season, using NYCB dancers to form a huge eye, photo by me

This pièce d’occasion, Les Bosquets, was created by French street artist JR, who had wowed us last season with a design on the mezzanine floor that showed an uncanny choreographic sense. His stroke of genius attracted a younger audience, and Peter Martins invited him back to create an eight-minute dance for the week of 21st-century programs.

A lot happened in those eight minutes. The theme of a prince trying to reach his ideal woman amidst a forest of obstacles was familiar from classic ballets like Sleeping Beauty, Swan Lake, and Firebird. But here, the prince was jookin dancer Lil Buck, which made an aesthetic/cultural point. Since both Lil Buck and the ballerina, Lauren Lovette, were dressed in papery white, they seem destined to be together. And yet they never came together—except in live, ultra close-up film. As in Romeo and Juliet, everything aligned to keep them apart, even a line of other dancers. (if you want to see a duet between a street dancer and a ballet dancer where they really do dance together, check out this wonderful behind-the-scenes video of William Wingfield and Whitney Jensen.)

Les Bosquets with Lil Buck and Lauren Lovetter, photo by Paul Kolnik

In the end, when they all lined up for a bow, one could see that the thousands of dots, spread over the costumes of the 40 dancers, formed a pair of eyes—an echo of the collectively made eye that JR created last season. Les Bosquets has been dismissed as a novelty or a crowd-pleaser, but I found it tantalizing. It made me wonder what JR would do with a longer span of time.

Barber Violin Concerto with Charles Askegard, Megan Fairchild, Sara Mearns, and Jared Angle, photo by Paul Kolnik

Apparently Peter Martins helped translate JR’s ideas into steps,  and it’s interesting that this collaboration was on the same program with Barber Violin Concerto, which was a past foray of Martins into new territory. He originally made it in 1988 for two NYCB dancers and two Paul Taylor dancers—Kate Johnson and David Parsons. Megan Fairchild’s rambunctious jittery energy in the Kate Johnson role was as far from Martins’ comfort zone as Lil Buck was.

In the context of NYCB’s Balanchine and Robbins rep, Forsythe’s Herman Schmerman Pas de Deux (1992) is a breakthrough too. The movement is rangier, quirkier, and the walking—this may seem like a small thing—is done heel-first. How often you see ballet dancers walk like a normal human on the stage? They are trained to walk toe first, which I have always felt was unnatural. I loved the way Amar Ramasar, with his broad hunky shoulders, shifted deliciously as he took those insolent Forsythian heel-first walks.

Wendy Whelan and Tyler Angle in This Bitter Earth, photo by Paul Kolnik

My last comment about this program: In her comeback after a sabbatical and hip surgery, Wendy Whelan performed Wheeldon’s This Bitter Earth (excerpt) with Tyler Angle, gliding through the  piece with a calm force—or a forceful calm. But actually Whelan’s’ presence hovered over the evening. For years she was the go-to girl for Herman Schmerman and she had created a lead role in Ratmansky’s Namouna (the whole second part of the program). But more than that, her ability to imbue contemporary ballet with crystal-edged clarity and a completely unsentimental kind of spirituality makes her the ideal interpreter of 21st-century choreographers. Which is why it will be sad that she will give her farewell to NYCB this October.

I arrived at the Danspace Project benefit honoring Steve Paxton too late to hear Yvonne Rainer’s remarks. But now I’m glad because it gave me a reason to ask Yvonne to send me her written statement. And I love it so much that I am posting it here. They knew each other first from Robert Dunn’s composition class more than 50 years ago and were both co-founders of Judson Dance Theater. I think that’s all you need to know. So ladies and gentlemen, herrrrrre’s Yvonne:

Rainer & Paxton in Word Words, 1963, photo by Al Giese

“First off, I would like unequivocally and with utmost affection to assert that Steve Paxton is a Grand Old Man of post-modern dance. With that said and without offering definitive proof, let me proceed by giving an example of how Steve was always a step ahead of most of us and me in particular when we were both taking Robert Dunn’s composition class in 1960. In response to Dunn’s assignment to make a one-minute dance, Steve sat on a bench and ate a sandwich. In hindsight, I see this provocative act as a launch pad for an ongoing dialogue between Steve’s curious conceptual intelligence and his remarkable kinetic gifts, which sometimes, as in the latter case, he was wont to evade or outwit. I must say his exertions in this regard could at times baffle me.

Paxton in undated photo

“For instance, around 1964 he taught a half-dozen of us — if memory serves, the group included me, Trisha Brown, Lucinda Childs, Deborah Hay, Tony Holder, and Judith Dunn — he taught us a rigorous sequence of Cunningham-like phrases, some of which involved difficult off-kilter balances on one leg. Having struggled mightily to master the balletic Cunningham technique, I was especially proud of being able to keep up with the more skilled dancers, some of whom, like Steve, were already members of the Cunningham Company. The performance of this work, called Afternoon, was to take place in a forest in New Jersey. When we got out there, much to my chagrin, Steve expected us to execute the moves on the forest floor, recently softened by rain. It was only much later that I could appreciate the brilliance of his strategy. His somewhat academic movements had been transformed into something entirely new. By being forced to adapt to what seemed like exasperating conditions, we discovered compensatory tactics like clinging to tree branches for balance and outmaneuvering the uneven terrain with last-minute falls and recoveries. I had to admit that he had wittily anticipated the situation from the outset without telling us. Since then Steve has been my favorite wily choreographer.

Yvonne Rainer in Steve Paxton’s Afternoon, 1963, photo by Peter Moore

“In innumerable interviews and Q & A’s over the years I have taken giddy pleasure in asserting that Steve invented walking and I invented running. As always, however, Steve took his pedestrian moves to the furthermost limits of the limb, unadorned by music or other audience-ingratiating elements. Satisfyin Lover of 1967 was an eye opener. When about to see this dance more than a decade later in a Stockholm festival, I was sure that as a historical relic its relevance had passed. For the most part the 42 performers, in various combinations and diverse in terms of race, age, and training, did not face the audience, but, rather, walked from stage right to stage left while fulfilling simple instructions as to pace and pauses before leaving the stage. So it seemed until half way through, an adolescent girl paused stage left, slowly turned to confront the audience, and paused again before making her exit. Her visible youth and uncertainty in that slow turn brought tears to my eyes.

“I won’t go into all the beautifully perverse and clarifying dances that Steve has created, presented, and collaborated and performed in over the years, like his performance of Flat from 1964, which I’ve heard drove members of a 2002 Parisian audience out of the theater as Steve took his own sweet time transforming himself into a clothes rack; and Ash, his ode to his father’s death, at the culmination of which, to a voiceover description of the problem of scattering his father’s ashes from an airplane, he sat in a chair with his back to the audience and with a few compelling gestures invoked loss and grief. Then there’s his work with disabled performers before anyone else, and Proxy of 1961, which began with his promenading of Jennifer Tipton en passé on ball bearings in a washtub; and Steve’s glorious improvisations to Glenn Gould. Always we are riveted by his imposing presence and a solemnity that can morph unexpectedly into a wry comedic effect, and by the clarity of his thought so apparent in gesture, use of objects, movement, and stillness.

“And let’s not forget Contact Improvisation, the form invented by Steve in 1972 and to this day practiced all over the world, with its immeasurable influence on innumerable dancers and choreographers in both their technical and aesthetic pursuits. To the best of my knowledge Contact has never been patented, which I sometimes think was a grave oversight on Steve’s part. (Not to spoil your dinner, Steve, I’ll take that up with you later.)

Steve Paxton and Lisa Nelson in Night Stand, 2013, photo by Paula Court

“I must also mention the stunning Night Stand, a collaboration with Lisa Nelson in which Lisa moves and Steve hardly at all. I saw this dance for the first time at Dia last fall. It met my most ardent expectations of the evening, made all the more satisfying by the finesse of the Dia production. On a final note, I take this opportunity to congratulate both Dia and Danspace for their 40-year commitment to artists and choreographers. I know I speak for Steve as well as myself when I say that we have both been beneficiaries of the generosity and risk-taking of these vital organizations.

“Thank you all.”

Seeing the new production of Cabaret (which is terrific) got me thinking about different kinds of performing. Alan Cumming as the MC and Michelle Williams as Sally Bowles are both fascinating, but for entirely different reasons.

Alan Cumming in Cabaret, photo by Joan Marcus

In the tradition of Fosse dancers Ann Reinking and Bebe Neuwirth, Cumming’s body assumes highly designed shapes in which each detail expresses volumes. A mere crossing of the hands overhead suggests revelry, the curling of his fingers suggests appreciation of beauty, a sudden squat speaks of squalor. His face is a collision of expressive modes: smirking, childishness, calculation, hedonism. He lurks and prowls, enjoying his effect on the audience. He’s a stage animal.

Michelle Williams as Sally Bowles, photos by Joan Marcus

On the other hand, Michelle Williams, who has been so alluring in her movies (Take This Waltz, Blue Valentine, My Week With Marilyn), shrinks a bit from the stage. The camera loves her face for its vulnerability, sensuality, and honesty—and she projects those feelings in Cabaret too. But her body somehow comes off as less than the sum of its parts. It’s not the shape that’s a problem (she has nice legs and good proportions); it’s the energy. Any one of the chorus girls puts out more physical energy than Williams. Dancers are trained to communicate with every inch of their bodies. And that is accomplished partly by projecting pleasure in one’s own body.

Minnelli as Sally Bowles

That sense of pleasure is what’s missing from Williams. Just look at this YouTube of Liza Minnelli in the song “Mein Herr” from Cabaret.  She’s free, she’s brazen, she’s loving entertaining and lapping up the gaze. She’s exquisitely conscious of her power over the audience. She’s part of the recklessness and obliviousness that led up to Nazi power. She’s a danger zone.

Of course Liza was equally comfortable on screen and onstage, so maybe it’s not a fair comparison. And Williams is a very different Sally Bowles from Minnelli. She plays it more like the late Natasha Richardson did. I’m guessing here because I didn’t see the Roundabout Theatre Company’s original version in 1998, but this article spells it out.  Richardson too was called “brave” (as Williams was called in this review by Ben Brantley)  and played it as though she wasn’t really a professional entertainer—apparently more like the character was originally written by Christopher Isherwood.

Michelle Williams as Marilyn Monroe

But what it means for this revival is that Williams, though poignant in many scenes, is less compelling than Cumming. And that was disappointing to me because she was compelling when she played Marilyn Monroe. She held your eye constantly, which created the charisma that was essential for the story. Williams is a screen animal.

That shrinking in her portrayal of Sally Bowles  (I think it resides in the shoulders) wasn’t in evidence in My Week With Marilyn. She allowed the camera to come to her, to discover her. But when you’re onstage, you can’t rely on the camera’s lens. You have to be totally, unambivalently, willing to reach out across the footlights.

So…Williams is not a stage animal and she doesn’t help build the architecture of Rob Marshall’s Fosse-tinged choreography. But, by giving a truthful, emotionally complex performance, she does contribute to the powerful story that Cabaret tells.

Beckanne Sisk and Fabrice Calmels in Light Rain, photo by Siggul:Visual Arts Masters.

When two dancers performed an excerpt of Arpino’s Light Rain (1981) at the Youth America Grand Prix gala last week, I was happy to see it again. I was grooving on the rhythm—there’s a really strong hold after the first percussive beat—and the sexy, sinuous movement. I love the way, after many repetitions of that staccato rhythm, the music starts swirling and so does the choreography. It was performed with tantalizing boldness by Beckanne Sisk of Ballet West and Fabrice Calmels of the Joffrey Ballet.

At intermission, I ran into a friend who said she found the duet over-the-top raunchy. “Too many hip rolls, and that last position is—” she used a word that meant it did not belong in a theater. The New York Times review pretty much echoed her reaction.

That last position of Light Rain’s central duet is, to me, no more suggestive than some of the moments in Balanchine’s Bugaku or Kylián’s Petite Mort. Don’t most 20th-century pas de deux have an erotic component anyway? I started thinking about why something strikes one person as tasteless and another person as cool. There are certainly times when I felt a piece was tasteless, for instance I tend to react that way to Boris Eifman’s work though I know the Russians adore it. So why did I not feel it with Light Rain and should I feel guilty for enjoying it? Does perceiving taste or tastelessness have to do with time and cultural expectations?

Valerie Robin and Fabrice Calmels of the Joffrey in Light Rain, photo by Herbert Migdoll

During the 1980s, Light Rain was a big hit for the Joffrey Ballet. It showcased the super articulation of the dancers—not just in arms and legs, but in the pelvis too. It had a brazenness that was part of what marked the Joffrey as unique. With pieces like Arpino’s Sea Shadow (1962) and Trinity (1970) and Robert Joffrey’s Astarte (1967), the Joffrey was the sexy ballet company. (Of course, it was also the historic ballet company, what with its major reconstructions of Nijinsky’s Rite of Spring, Massine’s Parade, Jooss’ Green Table, and more.) Light Rain was well matched with the trippy music (by Douglas Adamz and Russ Gauthier) and well crafted in each of its sections. Audiences loved it—just as they did last week at the YAGP gala.

Perhaps when the Light Rain duet is taken out of context of the Joffrey rep, it’s more susceptible to charges of tastelessness. And maybe we’re not used to seeing such pieces at the Koch Theater, which is, after all, the house of Apollo (i.e. Balanchine). But then again, sometimes it’s satisfying to see a ballet that blithely crosses over from Apollonian to Dionysian territory.

The Joffrey Ballet in Light Rain, photo by Herbert Migdoll