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DANCE REVIEW Coco Nut James Canfield wants to make a name for himself as a contemporary choreographer with vision, but some of his ideas about women and sex aren't so cutting-edge. BY CATHERINE THOMAS 243-2122 EXT. 353 |
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James Canfield Signatures Portland Civic Auditorium, 1500 SW 3rd Ave., 222-5538 7:30 pm Thursday-Saturday, March 11-13 $12-$75. Choreographer James Canfield's annual Signatures program for the Oregon Ballet Theatre includes four works--Jungle, Drifted in a Deeper Land, Anaïs and Go Ask Alice--that he choreographed between 1990 and 1995, as well as the premiere of Coco, part of Canfield's "tragic women" trilogy. Some of these works reveal that Canfield has the ability to create contemporary ballets with the romantic aesthetic of the classics. But others rely heavily on gratuitous and redundant depictions of sex to create their contemporary feel, resulting in flashy productions that lack depth. Canfield's depictions of women can be one-dimensional; despite his fascination with women as tragic figures, they sometimes become temptresses or stereotypes, derivatives of the men with whom they are cast. Signatures begins with Jungle, which is set against a neon-colored, vaguely cubist backdrop. The piece begins with its best part, a series of solos in which the dancers' athletic movements combine vigorous ballet and less constrained modern moves. Animal mating-dance motions and simulated sex reveal Canfield's fondness for having dancers lie on the floor and roll around on each other; this gets old as soon as we see it in more than one ballet on the same program. Jungle as a whole is too long. While some performances are technically stunning--Matthew Boyes' strong solo, Vanessa Thiessen's sharp lines and whips in her duo with Alexandrous Ballard--the choreography doesn't always do justice to the dancers' range. A chorus-type lineup led some audience members to remark that Jungle could be a Blazers half-time show. The second piece, Drifted in a Deeper Land, is one of the best in the program. Danced by seven males against a gorgeously lit white-tiered backdrop, it is a work of lyrical choreography expressively rendered by the dancers. In solos and partnerings, Robert Deskins' and Scott Trumbo's movements are a melody of strength and ethereal grace. Anaïs, one of Canfield's "tragic women," follows. Visually, the piece is beautiful. Three dancers perform the wavelike series of pairings with expressive emotion and impressive technique; the pas de trois is particularly powerful. Anaïs is certainly poignant: Eric Roberts presents a believable portrayal of a commanding Henry Miller, Tracy Taylor is lyrical and expressive as Anaïs Nin, and Alison Roper portrays Miller's wife, June, as passionate and unpredictable. But Canfield has rendered Nin not as a self-possessed individual, but rather as a woman who is defined in reference to Miller; her only solo is the finale, a slow, yearning retreat from her lover. Nin's diaries reveal that it was creative inspiration, not love, that she derived from her encounters with him, and her writing style was never derivative of Miller's own. As remote as Canfield's choreography is from the woman he is portraying, however, Anaïs is well crafted as a romantic, expressive ballet. Coco is the story of fashion empress Coco Chanel, an arbiter of taste for a generation of women. Why Canfield considers this maven of couture a tragic figure is a mystery. Canfield loves fairy tales, and Chanel's life certainly has a rags-to-riches, Cinderella flavor, but what's tragic about a woman who made her way out of poverty with her determination and talent? To Canfield, Chanel's tragedy lies in her true love for the man who dumped her. If a tragic woman is one who never gets the man she really loves, then Monica Lewinsky must be tragic too. While not tragic at the level of the great classics, Canfield's choreography reads well as romantic fairy tale. Principal ballerina Katarina Svetlova is ideal for the role; her Chanel is strong, independent and elegant. The ballet opens like a 1940s musical, to the emotive voice of French cabaret singer Edith Piaf; a corps of five male dancers performs saucy dances with mannequins. The light mood continues as the chic, heavily accessorized Svetlova teases the male line-up, then selects James Thompson as her partner. The two are well-matched, executing difficult moves with easy finesse. One of the best images of the evening occurs at the finale; as Svetlova lies tragically still, the backdrop glows pink, revealing framed silhouettes of women in ultra-fashionable poses; like mannequins come to life, they slowly turn, peel off clothing, and return to evocative still images. Canfield's rock ballet Go Ask Alice concludes the program; crafted as a stage epic, it befits the musical score, Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon. The surreal tale begins with ballerinas in skin-revealing hospital gowns. Their hair is wild, they beat their fists against their heads, stare vacantly and freak out at nothing--tip-offs that they're mentally ill. Foreboding figures pass through the discomfiting spectacle, and orderlies grab the unwilling inmates and shove them, fighting, into shopping carts. Enter Alice in pink tutu and nurse's cap, riding a shopping cart pushed by her cavalier. She takes pity on an inmate and gives the girl her tutu. The enraptured girl dances her freedom--but Alice wants the tutu back, and makes the servile girl fasten it around Alice's waist. Then she puts her foot against the girl and pushes her over. But wait--there's more. A phallic arsenal of missiles rises from the orchestra pit. Money magically floats down onto the audience. Huge balls propelled by sinister figures float about, lending an unpredictable element to the careful choreography. The large backdrop reveals silhouettes, at times asinine (an air band rocking out) and at other times deeply disturbing (an orderly yanking an inmate by her hair and raping her). Canfield's rock ballet looks like a big-budget MTV video, with plenty of gratuitous sex and violence, excellent effects and a masterful soundtrack to keep us enthralled. It is certainly visually impressive, with superb dancing and a larger-than-life presence, but Canfield falls victim to the same excess that Pink Floyd's lyrics expose. Ironically, of all Canfield's pieces, the "little lunatics" (as one Go Ask Alice character is named) are the truly tragic women.
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