“Jason,” “Ruins,” “Janet,” “Spirits of the Air,” “Dardanus Suite”
Christopher Williams (Douglas Dunn, guest)
92Y Buttenwieser Hall
New York, NY
June 28, 2015
by Leigh Witchel
© 2015 by Leigh Witchel
If he wasn’t presenting an excerpt from an opera, Christopher Williams’ lush and theatrical dances always looked as if they were from an opera – but one with a buttload of male nudity. You couldn’t complain; he has good taste in naked men. Along with guest Douglas Dunn, he presented a program with a distinctive imagination.
Jason Collins and Janet Charleston in “Janet”
Williams is both a dancer and puppeteer; he’s worked with Tere O’Connor and Basil Twist. That full sense of visual and theatrical effect, as well as a love for the fantastic and historical, informs his work. The costumes were always striking. “Spirits of the Air,” originally created for Peter Sellars’ production of “The Indian Queen,” set two men and two women in skullcaps designed by Andrew Jordan that had colorful winged flourishes.
“Jason,” Williams’ languorous take on the Argonauts, laid talented newcomer Jason Collins to sleep atop four other men, a Greek chorus who formed a disquieting chaise longue filled with whispers and grumbling. Collins wore a trademark Williams prop (again by Jordan): a magnificent golden ram’s head. The quartet touched Jason and called his name in worship; he silenced them to dance, spiraling about the stage decoratively. Collins, with his blond hair neatly braided in a line down his scalp, is as slight and boyishly handsome as a painting of David or St. Sebastian, but Williams’ imagination of the Argonaut owes something also to Maurice Sendak’s “Where the Wild Things Are” – with Max turned into a twink.
Williams’ “Janet” was presented only in excerpt because of an injury, but it was a pungent excerpt. As with Sendak, Williams’ world is filled with invisible spirits and goblins both threatening and benign. Collins and Janet Charleston, whose lengthy career has been with Lucinda Childs and Dunn among others, came out in Scottish plaids. While Collins stood at the back, voices and hands picked at him, growing in intensity until whoosh, he was swallowed behind the curtain. Charleston seemed weirdly unperturbed and began a deliberate solo, revolving side to side in piqué turns with her arms arcing upwards. Collins finally reappeared, but who knows what happened to him: his sash was still intact but his shirt went missing. The two danced together calmly to the strains of Stephan Micus' songs as the section moved to its close.
And suddenly five naked guys appeared. And the excerpt ended. It’s not fair to judge that sensational apparition in a truncated dance, and the nudity is part of the myth that formed the source (the Scottish tale of Tam Lin). Williams has used nudity often, and it walks a line between titillating and part of a lushly sensual aesthetic.
In the second half of the program Williams fell down Jean-Philippe Rameau’s rabbit hole. “Dardanus Suite” was created for a septet of dancers, dressed in red and crowned with flowers. The suite jettisoned Williams’ theatrical tendencies for pure dance. But Rameau’s agreeable, mild dances have a million differences with no difference; they’re music by the yard and Williams cut way too much off the bolt. After fifteen minutes, you were ready for a finale. It came half an hour later. For all the things Williams has going for him, he doesn't seem to know when to stop.
While Williams choreographs for an opera house, Dunn choreographs for a pavilion. Dunn’s long career started with work for Yvonne Rainer and Merce Cunningham as well as his own group. You can see Cunningham’s influence on both choreographers – with Williams in the arm postures in particular. Dunn and Williams both have an absurdist streak, but the older man’s absurdity runs more to Beckett than Sendak.
Dunn presented “Ruins,” a work for six couples in striped shirts and bright tights, as well as for himself and Grazia Della Terza as both his partner and occasional antagonist. The music, by Steven Taylor, was a quiet score of live strings and winds. The colors and setting of the dance give it a feeling of happening en plein air. The corps, lying down, seemed to be lying on grass. When they rolled in someone’s arms or the men lifted the women on their backs, it seemed like a playground game.
Dunn, in a red sweater and pants, came in gesticulating and stood on a box like a statue on a pedestal. Della Terza ripped up newspaper and stuffed it under his sweater. They faced us and gave a silent lecture, declaiming though no sounds emanated. The others went about their business in trios, rotating and bending. Della Terza brought in two bamboo poles and gave them to Dunn, who used them to perform an incantation. She draped him in a cloth – or was it a shroud – and led him away. The dancers gamboled, then fell to the ground.
Both Dunn and Williams have distinctive voices. Williams’ mix of history, puppetry and unabashed queerness is entirely his own. Dunn’s Watteau-meets-Godot-sur-l’herbe has the comfortable authority of years of skill – and no need to flaunt it.
We’d be fortunate to hear more from either of them.
© 2015 by Leigh Witchel