Antic Meet—Twyla Tharp Dance at The Joyce

Miriam Gittens, Daisy Jacobson, and Skye Mattox, by Steven Pisano.

The choreographer Twyla Tharp loves dancers, and they love her, of this there is no question. At 82, she is indefatigable, creating new pieces every year and bringing back old ones. Each time, the dancers who join her—they come from various companies and dance backgrounds—look energized and elated, grateful for having been chosen. In return, she gives them choreography that challenges and pushes them, but also celebrates their personalities and endless proficiency. The performances are as much about this mutually beneficial stream of energy than about the choreography itself.

Which is not to say that the choreography can’t be thrilling. Usually that thrill is conveyed by the pre-existing works, which she combines with new pieces tailored to her current slate of dancers. The Joyce season that began last night, featuring eight, is no exception. The choreographic highlight is, without question, “Ocean’s Motion,” a work from 1975 in Tharp’s signature popular-dance-mixed-with-ballet idiom. The music is by Chuck Berry, and the dances depict high-strung, edgy, sexy, cool, gum-chewing adolescents with enough nervous energy to burn down a high-school gym.

These “kids” (danced by twenty and thirty-year-olds) exhibit a hard-driving cool; they know they are in their prime, and they use their power and speed to show off for each other and themselves. The music is rock and roll and it makes their hands, legs, and shoulders twitch. They grind and high-kick, run in place, bump hips, jump and slide. Daisy Jacobson’s pony-tail has a swishing choreography of its own. Miriam Gittens dances with the confidence of an it-girl who knows she will always get her way. Even though the message is “I don’t care,” the dynamism and intensity of the movement says, “actually, I care a lot.” (Only Sky Mattox and Jake Tribus soften their steps with a certain blasé reticence.) As is often the case with Tharp, the technique of ballet functions as a clarifier, a tool to make the steps as distinct and crystalline as they can possibly be.

“Brel,” a new solo created for Herman Cornejo (of American Ballet Theatre) and Daniel Ulbricht (of New York City Ballet), who perform on alternating nights, is a star vehicle of a kind we don’t usually see these days. It has a strong kinship with Tharp’s “Sinatra Suite,” for Baryshnikov. In fact, one could easily imagine Baryshnikov stepping into its portrait-of-the-dancer-as-hero scenario. Like the songs, by Jacques Brel, to which it is set, it presents a romanticized, almost wistful idea of the artist. “I feel things!” Brel’s wounded, gravelly voice tells us, and the message is echoed by Tharp’s steps for the lone man. He looks out—at what exactly?—and lifts a fist, one knows not why. And then launches into a double turn in the air, slides to the floor, rises on to a high relevé, and does another big jump. Or he repeatedly takes a bow and opens his arms wide, looking at his hands, as if to say, yes, I’m still here, but for how much longer?

Herman Cornejo in Twyla Tharp’s new “Brel.” Photo by Steven Pisano.

It goes without saying that such a portrait requires a dancer of great charisma, and I’m happy to say that, at least in the case of Herman Cornejo, she has found one. (I did not see Daniel Ulbricht’s rendition.) Cornejo, like Ulbricht, is nearing the twilight of his ballet career. Through the experience of dancing for over a quarter century, this wunderkind has acquired serious gravitas, and the ability to hold the audience’s attention by make it feel like it is listening to his thoughts. His face, as he danced this solo Tharp created for him looked pale, gaunt, almost drawn. (In fact, it brought to mind the pale, sorrowful expression of the 1960’s chanteuse known as Barbara.)  As Cornejo sketched the steps, never forcing, or stepped into a beautiful attitude position, he projected the image of a man who has done great things and is now looking backwards over his life and his career. The idea is sentimental, but he made it work. It was touching.

As for “The Ballet Master,” the work that closed the evening, it is a not-atypical product of Tharp’s recent imagination. None of it quite makes sense, and the technique and vocabulary are pushed to an extreme. It unleashes an antic world of people coming and going, jokes flying, ballet steps crashing against pratfalls and hard-driving, athletic moves. The foci of activity are John Selya (a Tharp veteran), as the “ballet master”, and Cassandra Trenary (of American Ballet Theatre), who dances the role of a Dulcinea del Toboso-like muse. Over the course of the dance, she gradually transforms into a cool dynamo in gold-colored hotpants and sneakers.

In the first section, Selya coaches two dancers (the energetic Reed Tankersley and Jake Tribus) in a series of steps, which they repeat over and over to an irritating score of rhythmic syllables by Simeon ten Holt. Other dancers come along, lacing and unlacing shoes, talking on the phone. Then the “performance” begins, with Selya dressed in a partial Don Quixote costume, assisted by Daniel Ulbricht as Sancho Panza. Trenary drifts past, on pointe and wearing a veil, as the other four dancers enter and exit, dancing hard and fast.  Selya dances a happy dance. Until finally, throwing caution aside, Trenary and Ulbricht engage in a forceful, athletic duet, a sock-hop on amphetamines. Along the way, we recognize the steps from the first section, now executed as part of a semi-narrative scenario, driven by exaggerated mime. There is a quite a lot of mugging. “The Ballet Master” is not built to last.

Tharp’s message remains the same: dance your heart out! And the dancers do just that.