sarma

Who is the New York Dance Festival for? Any old lovers with nothing better to do? Dancers on late summer lay-off catching up with work of friends and rivals? Bargain hunters? Dance freaks? Maybe everyone who makes the scene at the Delacorte is a dance freak of one kind or another: Black, Beautiful, and Sullen as Hell, who freezes out the usher and one whole row of people and then turns to jelly, screeching "Look at George go!" when George Faison (or George Faison Universal Dance Experience) lets loose with a lickety-split leap; Old, Fierce, White, and Shabby who stands beady-eyed in the aisle watching for un-pegged-down seats, ready to bare claws and beak against leggy young dancers in the 7:50 dash of the no-reservations set.

At the Delacorte, acclaim is seldom widespread. Five (?) staunch pairs of hands applaud Dennis Wayne's solemn entrance in Richard Wagner's pas de deux, "Youth". (By the end, the house is warm with approval: Bonnie Mathis is on pointe and very lovely, and we can all empathize with guys who like each other but, despite perfectly matched pirouettes, can't quite get together.) When Ze'eva Cohen bravely appears in Rudy Perez's almost immobile "Countdown", three impeccable dark clawmarks of makeup on one cheek, a woman mutters concernedly "How'd she get her face so dirty?" Heavy, polite sighs punctuate Cliff Keuter's "Visit", perhaps because the choreography, and the four lovely women performing it, keep avoiding the climactic moments they have induced. I mean, are they beautiful, edgy creatures fighting and playing and loving each other in a perpetually-pink sci-fi dusk or are they just dancers obediently reiterating themes? When Ze'eva Cohen performs (wonderfully) "Escape" from Anna Sokolow's "Rooms", conoscenti approvingly situate the solo in its place in the dance; a few chuckle as if they thought Cohen were some mawkish, out-of-date creature instead of a gifted performer playing a lonely woman who is dreaming extravagantly; the rest applaud the skill and effort, accept the offering, but wait for the flash and sparkle of Faison or the liberated ballet of Dennis Wayne's Dance Repertory Theatre.

This company of Wayne's is composed mostly of Joffrey dancers, when the Joffrey isn't working, but only Wayne and Mathis are appearing at the Delacorte. "Youth", a relic of the old Harkness company, is an odd vehicle for them. Wayne is an ardent, vigorous sort of dancer, and in the icy wind that's blowing in clear weather his knees and ankles look unresilient: he has trouble sinking from the smooth, slow, balancing steps that move the dance along. Wagner's pas de deux has a couple of striking lifts, but the dancers must perform a curious mixture of yearning gestures and ballet steps that are as perfectly placed and plannedfor as class exercises. Norman Walker's "Lazarus" is a meaty vehicle for Wayne, who stumbles backward onto the stage, rosy bare buttocks peeking boldly from under his flimsy grave-wrappings. Death has ruined his clothes, but not impaired his pirouettes, thank God. Throughout the solo, Walker's dramatic sense wars disturbingly with his love of beauty and virtuosity, and, as a result, Wayne often looks stylishly grotesque, but never completely bewildered or out-of-control. When he stumbles, his falls are pleasingly to earth. This Lazarus passes through many states -terror, confusion, pain remembered, lust for life; finally with inexorable magnetism, the grave drags him back. This draws many bravoes, especially from a man who's spent the whole evening saying, "God, they must be cold!" or "She's really cold, I'll bet." For certifiable bravery in the face of coldness, Wayne in his white loincloth carries the day: "Now that's COLD for you."

George Faison's dancers, in his "Reflections of a Lady", wear lots of clothes, make many clever costume changes. They portray the dreams, memories, visions of reality that haunt a despairing Billie Holiday. Since I last saw Faison's work he's gotten more skillful at what he's trying to do (inching in on Ailey's market may be part of it). He's slicker about the way he maneuvers choruses of savagely strutting dancers, more savvy about the uses of stage space. "Reflections of a Lady" is not exactly a dramatic piece about Billie Holiday; it's a suite of dances relating to the neighborhoods in Holiday's life, the climates of her songs. (Ironically, Holiday gets no collaborative credit for her taped voice -"Tape collage, George Faison.") What holds the dance together is the figure of Billie wandering through, joining in, breaking away. Another potent force is Hope Clarke's performance in the central role. She has extraordinary theater goodlooks -big eyes and mouth in a broad, beautifully shaped face. Her every expression is clear, and her acting wonderfully honest and intelligent.

Some of Faison's dances are flashy, compressed, and symmetrical. You feel as if you might be watching them on a giant television set. Others are bitter -Clarke trying to smile ("Smilin' Again") in a world of fixed smiles, white evening gowns, and dinner jackets and finding that her mouth doesn't like making that smile. A few are witty -Clarke trying politely to get the attention of a stony-backed judge (Faison in robe, holding gavel) while Holiday sings "Take All of Me."

Faison's dancers tear the place up. They're all terrific -vivid and scornful and blazing with dance power. They can do all the tricky semiballet Faison requires plus the Blackdance hip swings, speedymean direction changes, struts, and slides. What I like about them is that they let their bodies change character: the prettiest and neatest of them can slouch and stumble and hobble as junkies, whores, scrubwomen if necessary. Even when the characters are super-slick clichés, the dancers' transcendent honesty can grab you and hold you.

It's no surprise that the park audience is wild about the George Faison Universal Dance Experience, but how interesting that Katherine Litz's famous old solo, "The Fall of the Leaf", should be instantly recognized for the funny/sad classic it is, and laughed at and loved. Litz's comic sense is subtle, but it's also clear and wise, and her body tells no lies on stage: maybe that's why most people like her. Here she is, a lady of uncertain age and very certain refinement, wearing an elegant gown of autumnal red and a big ruffle of a hat. She is both the reluctant leaf itself and the poetic soul undone by every hint of the onset of winter. We howl at the occasional small, sharp, pained gestures that punctuate her wellbred swaying, at the puzzled, but resigned look on her face, at her pattering little walk. She sets her jaw and doesn't give up, even as she tugs the hat (it has no crown) down around her chest, then -ever obedient to some urgent dictate of The Scheme of Things- around her knees. By the time she leaves, the hat is around one ankle, but she, hobbling slightly, is so brave and dignified that you almost hate to notice what's making you laugh so hard.