Review: Baryshnikov and Barton
Baryshnikov was in Berkeley this weekend, and he brought with him a dozen of the most beautiful young dancers in the world, a troupe called Hell's Kitchen Dance, in part under the leadership of dancer and choreographer Aszure Barton.
The program began with Barton's Over/Come, a celebration of the suicidal delirium of fresh love set to a couple of tunes that seemed to combine the best of the American 1950s with Spanish jazz. The beautiful dancers, each and every one infatuated with a dozen other lucky youths, dropped to the floor with the ecstasy of Cupid's shots. Barton's vocabulary was instantly pleasing: comic, beautiful, a work for ensemble but intimate. Barton never allows the dancers to feel like a chorus; each maintains his own gesture and focus. Each is, in fact, deep in a role, although the work (like the world) is not directly narrative.
The second work, Years later, brought Baryshnikov to the stage, but also to the large screen behind him, which showed him dancing in sandy landscapes. As a document that will outlast his body, it might have value, but it was redundant and overwrought: close-ups of the dancer's majestic face, fades to the dancer too alone in a already-lonely landscape, double exposures forcing the dancer to meet himself. The choreography, by Benjamin Millepied, let itself be restricted by fears of the dancer's age. Later, the Baryshnikov's shadow danced against videos of a much younger, leaping dancer, sometimes for comic purposes. It was and is unnecessary now to view Baryshnikov as an "older" dancer. He still moves.
The final work was a happy return to Barton's choreography. Baryshnikov led the company through Vladimir Martynov's rapturous work for orchestra and solo violins, Come In. I was at this point most transported, and my memory is of a dozen beautiful, sad, and happy creatures moving with emotion and purpose while the violin reached slowly higher and higher. I was brought out of reverie during a solo for Baryshnikov in which he seemed to float in a rapid series of jumps and turns. It was a bravura solo executed with ease and modesty. Some of us clapped excitedly; others were perhaps too far gone in bliss to have awareness of their own mechanics.
The final applause: a steady house bringing the curtains up a staggering five or six times, the dancers smiling and laughing at the surprise of gratitude.
The program began with Barton's Over/Come, a celebration of the suicidal delirium of fresh love set to a couple of tunes that seemed to combine the best of the American 1950s with Spanish jazz. The beautiful dancers, each and every one infatuated with a dozen other lucky youths, dropped to the floor with the ecstasy of Cupid's shots. Barton's vocabulary was instantly pleasing: comic, beautiful, a work for ensemble but intimate. Barton never allows the dancers to feel like a chorus; each maintains his own gesture and focus. Each is, in fact, deep in a role, although the work (like the world) is not directly narrative.
The second work, Years later, brought Baryshnikov to the stage, but also to the large screen behind him, which showed him dancing in sandy landscapes. As a document that will outlast his body, it might have value, but it was redundant and overwrought: close-ups of the dancer's majestic face, fades to the dancer too alone in a already-lonely landscape, double exposures forcing the dancer to meet himself. The choreography, by Benjamin Millepied, let itself be restricted by fears of the dancer's age. Later, the Baryshnikov's shadow danced against videos of a much younger, leaping dancer, sometimes for comic purposes. It was and is unnecessary now to view Baryshnikov as an "older" dancer. He still moves.
The final work was a happy return to Barton's choreography. Baryshnikov led the company through Vladimir Martynov's rapturous work for orchestra and solo violins, Come In. I was at this point most transported, and my memory is of a dozen beautiful, sad, and happy creatures moving with emotion and purpose while the violin reached slowly higher and higher. I was brought out of reverie during a solo for Baryshnikov in which he seemed to float in a rapid series of jumps and turns. It was a bravura solo executed with ease and modesty. Some of us clapped excitedly; others were perhaps too far gone in bliss to have awareness of their own mechanics.
The final applause: a steady house bringing the curtains up a staggering five or six times, the dancers smiling and laughing at the surprise of gratitude.
posted by Paul G. McCurdy at 8:52 AM
3 comments
