Silver Toe Shoes and Chandeliers
"Etudes," "Rabbit and Rogue"
American Ballet Theatre
Metropolitan Opera House
New York, NY
June 3 and 4 (matinee)
by Susan Reiter
copyright © 2008 Susan Reiter
You can certainly sense the meeting of two inquisitive, omnivorous, expansive minds – and the molecular energy their ideas must have sparked in each other – behind “Rabbit and Rogue,” Twyla Tharp’s new 45-minute work to a commissioned score by Danny Elfman. The exhilarating action pours forth -- shifting gears, offering surprises, perplexing with its non-sequiturs. The dance evolves, in look and tone, from chicly ominous darkness and incipient chaos to a gleaming promise of transcendence. Along the way, it veers from silly to sublime, from frantic to incantatory, from gestural shtick to pristine allegory. Just as Elfman’s vigorously nourishing score keeps shifting gears and introducing new elements, Tharp’s choreography veers towards overabundance. Occasionally, one longs for some breathing space. But compared to anemic new ballets that politely mark time and beat a hasty retreat, this one asserts itself viscerally, if at times perhaps a bit too pushily, and much of what it offers is exhilarating.
After a brief shimmering, pulsating overture, Ethan Stiefel -- who is Rogue to Herman Cornejo's Rabbit -- opens the work. He's alone on a mostly dark stage, slicing, swiveling, launching into the air, with brashness and a glint of mischief. His hair is tousled messily; his eyes gleam with manic delight; he could be an incipient Tim Burton hero. Ten years ago, Tharp unleashed a robust, sensual performance from Stiefel in the memorable "Junk Duet" segment of "Known By Heart," and clearly the two stimulate each other creatively. A supreme classicist with an easy, all-American glow, he brings his luminous center to the proceedings, and Tharp launches him off his axis, embroidering an array of quirks and quips and a hint of danger into the luminous texture of his dancing.
Emerging from the upstage darkness, Cornejo bolts onto the stage, his fierce precision harnessed and focused. He less of a swaggerer, more a nimble, amiable figure with the sly aura of a French mime. Both lead men wear sleeveless black jumpsuits with a single silver diagonal stripe; Stiefel's zigs across his front, while Cornejo's zags across his back. Stiefel radiates a goofy arrogance, and at first reacts to Cornejo as an interloper. But theirs seems to be an ongoing playfully competitive relationship, as though they enjoy annoying one another, engaging in one-upsmanship.
A group in black becomes discernible in the murky upstage area -- some, but not yet all, of the ballet's two demi-soloist couples and six ensemble pairs. Wearing sleek black costumes by Norma Kamali (the men seem to have half skirts, though the lighting keeps you guessing) they appear grounded yet fleet. The stage is ringed with darkness, with just enough light -- far from full brightness -- on the space the dancers inhabit. This makes them appear enclosed, perhaps trapped, and suggests danger lurking just around the corner.
The substantial opening section, "Frolic," builds and expands, with often-rigorous partnering for the demis and ensemble, and alternating, sometimes intersecting trajectories for the two central men. They often suggest a playful camaraderie, yet one senses they are not fully cooperative, that each may have his own agenda. The Quartet, as the demi-soloists are identified, are fearless and bold; ready for anything.
One of the men, Craig Salstein, is often presented as a mischievous rascal who has his own agenda concerning the two leads. At several points, he stands and watches them, and sometimes intervenes. He could be the youngest of three brothers, the one who's never allowed into his older siblings' world. Sometimes his antics seem to come out of nowhere and are left dangling, but Salstein is such a deft, vibrant performer (and a proven Tharpian, after "Baker's Dozen" and "In the Upper Room") that somehow we sense that his odd role is a crucial element in Tharp's mix.
Elfman -- whose many film scores include his moody, evocative contributions to many Tim Burton films -- propels the action with constantly shifting sounds and textures. At one point, there's a burst of raucous, circusy sound, and the two men act like goofy kids. There's moment of wild klezmer-like sounds, led by a trumpet. The music's primary sound is a shimmering Steve Reich-like pulse with marimbas leading the way, but it also veers into that haunting, patented Tim Burton tone. The episodic nature of the score keeps things interesting, but sometimes has Tharp rushing to keep up, and one "episode" barely registers before the next takes over.
By the end of "Frolic," Stiefel is exasperated enough to kick Cornejo towards the wings. He then grins and wipes his hands in satisfaction, having regained the stage for himself. The next section, "Rag," is dominated by an alluring, sophisticated couple, Gillian Murphy, who make their entrance, from that mysterious gloom upstage, in a ballroom stance to which they continuously return. The music does have ragtime's bouncy rhythm, but it also veers into bluesy territory, and often the couple's positions and attack evoke the tango. They seem to purr with sensual contentment at the start -- Murphy, in a glittery sheer black leotard, black tights flecked with sparkles and silver toe shoes (which all the cast's women wear), has never looked sexier.
Stiefel's return to the action is marked by an accelerated tempo and churning energy in the music. It's as if whenever he claims the stage, there's a hint of unease and potential danger. He required to be less of a "character" in this section (Cornejo remains banished) and it's a pleasure to just observe the luminous phrasing with which he powers through Tharp's plush, often tricky phrases. When Murphy gets a chance to cut loose, with a kicky, aggressive attack, there are amplified, syncopated percussion sounds that don't seem integrated with orchestra. The score veers toward a Milhaud-like symphonic jazz sound, and suddenly for some reason Murphy and Hallberg are having a spat. He has his hands on his hips and looks exasperated. The quartet, with the women now wearing two-piece bathing suits in sparkly black, which has been weaving in and out, pursuing their always intricate, fascinating course on the sidelines, also veers into more mime-like, busy activity.
There is no resolution offered before the music diminishes into silence, the couple exits, and Cornejo gets tne churning engine of the piece revved up again, leading the way into a brief interlude titled "Lyric." He and Stiefel meet up but not further insight is offered into their connection, before they cede the stage -- not aglow with misty criss-crossing diagonal beams of light to a completely new world. The sleek, black look is replaced by softer pale costumes. Paloma Herrera and Gennadi Saveliev lead the way, retrained and polite, as though they'd been sent to restore order and harmony. She wears a lovely, draped Greek-style tunic of very pale grey (or possibly white - it's hard to tell); he has a white blousy top and silver leggings.
Their section, "Gamelan," does feature hypnotic music that at times evokes a kinship with Lou Harrison. When the quartet and ensemble (all wearing smilliarly pale costumes, the women with longer skirts) join in to echo and reverberate their movement , everyone is much more orderly and well-behaved; the hierarchy is presented in a more traditional manner. Earlier, entrances felt more unpredictable (and wonderfully surprising), but now everyone seems to know his or her place. Herrera, all fluid grace and unforced purity, here provides a similar anchor of classical poise that she brought to her "In the Upper Room" role. (At one point here, the quartet performs a recognizable "quote" from that work, and certainly the upstage entrances from, and exits to. an apparent void recall that work.) Saveliev gets some juicy, grounded movement that evokes yoga in its centered, forcused lushness and meditative balances.
With the return of Stiefel and Cornejo, pursuing their private dramas upstage, the seciton takes on a schizoid flavor, with bursts of big movie-music phrases alternating with the calmer gamelan sounds. The clam wins out -- at least momentarily - and the section ends serenely, with Herrera and Saveliev backing away, facing the audience, into the upstage darkness.
The finale has a rushed, inconclusive feeling, as though the pressure to bring everyone back, fit them all into a framework, and come to a conclusion, led Tharp into a more formulaic, less spontaneous mode. Cornejo, mow more than ever a capering, mercurial figure, soars through amazing, effortless phrases, while Stiefel has to do alot of swaggering. The two become contnetious, and Salstein takes on the role of referee. Somehow the on-the-edge-of chaos, where-to-look-now stage picture resolves into a culminating, if not altogether convincing, harmonious group pose.
The second cast provided a fascinating contrast, led as it was by Marcelo Gomes' magisterial performance as Rogue. With his silky, expansive phrasing and juicy way of investigating every movement ot its fullest potential, his was a less overtly wild and wacky figure, although he did know how to have fun, such as the little Charlie-Chaplin moment in the finale. Sascha Radetsky was a muscular, intense Rabbit. One sensed less brotherly fmailiarity and more wary rivalry between these two. as the "Rag" couple, Kristi Boone didn't have quite the distinctive allure of Murphy, but Cory Stearns caught the ideal casual elegance. Maria Riccetto and José Manuel Carreño provided a lovely, glowing center for the restorative "Gamelan" section. Inboth casts, the quartet responded to the intricate challenges and freqeutn appearances Tharp requires of them with aplomb. Salstein alone, as one of those four, appeared in both casts.
A second viewing confirmed the exhilaration and sheer vigor of the work. It is marked by a feistiness and quirkiness one associates wth Tharp herself. She seems to be thinking big in her ballets these days, and one can certianly understand and appreciate that, in her return to the company after eight years, she wanted to give the excellent ABT dancers alot to chew on.
In this sole mixed program of the company's Met season, "Rabbit and Rogue" was paired with Harald Lander's "Etudes." Created 60 years apart, both have almost the same duration, and a black/white/grey costume palette, but nothing else is remotely similar. Lander's methodical, clunky traversal of the classical ballet lexicon is certainly inclusive -- from the opening tendus, performed by the precise legs of women invisible from the waist up, through pirouettes, beats, jumps up to the concluding massed forces in full flight. But what a tedious, wearying way we travel to get there, made even less bearable by the frequent blackouts and the incessantly insipid music.
At the first performance, the orchestra seemed to have skimped on rehearsal in favor of working on Ekfman, and the dreary overture was made even more so by fluffed horn entrances and a general lack of togetherness. The indisposition of Angel Corella, who can be counted on to liven things up with his unquenchable bravura, dimmed the wattage, but his replacement Jared Matthews, once past an initially cautious pirouette sequence, provided some impressive fireworks. Radestky was efficient and precise in his thankless assignments, and Xiomara Reyes gave a small-scaled, reticent performance in the ballerina role.
In the next day's cast, Irina Dvorovenko provded some real ballerina spark. She knwos how to make an entrance, and how to connect with an audience, and thus made more of the empty academic posturings of this part. Maxim Beloserkovsky was her reticent, noble cavalier and Mikhail Ilyin was occaosnally rough but oftne exicintg in his debut as the other lead man. But hearing that plodding score -- whose plodding melodies keep returning just when you think they've been mercifully banished -- a second time through is a trial. And when one starts counting the chandeliers that descend in accumulating numbers as a distraction, one realizes this is a ballet of diminishing returns.
Photos by Rosalie O'Connor:
Top: Herman Cornejo, Craig Salstein and Ethan Stiefel in "Rabbit and Rogue"
Middle: female ensemble, "Rabbit and Rogue"
Bottom: Sascha Radetsky in "Etudes"
