Very well-written article, D.L. Groover. Knowledgeable dance criticism is rare. Houston's lucky to have you.
By Chris Lane
By Jef With One F
By Chris Lane
By Olivia Flores Alvarez
By Angelica Leicht
By Jef Rouner
By Jef With One F
By Jef With One F
Unless they're on strike or, maybe, charging the barricades in protest, French audiences don't stand up. It's just not in their genes. In the theater, they can bestow riotous applause, but a standing ovation is as rare as a fat Parisian. Houston Ballet's dreamy co-production with international pianist Lang Lang, the Lang Lang Dance Project, subtitled Sons de l'âme ("Sounds of the Soul"), premiered at Paris's famed Théâtre des Champs-Elysées, October 31 through November 4. The show brought the French to their feet the moment the curtain fell. It was a rapturous, appreciative response to this mesmerizing world premiere from Stanton Welch, Houston Ballet's artistic director.
Set to 12 Chopin piano pieces, played live by one of the world's pre-eminent musicians and danced by 16 of Houston Ballet's finest, the evening was one of rare collaboration between music, movement and even audience. There were times when the dazzling virtuosity of Lang, which is as prodigious as touted, took your breath away with the nuanced shading of a phrase or the sheer technical facility, which seems quite out of this world. But the connections the dancers made to his playing were just as sparkling and resonant. He watched them closely, phrasing along with them. Of the two shows I saw, he played differently each night. Some pieces had more rapture; some were drawn out with that special Chopin rubato; some were played as fast as his fingers could go — and they go at supersonic speed — yet he always seemed to intuit what the dancers needed. They were on the same level, feeding off each other, romping together or plumbing the depths of a fragrant pas de deux, so that we, too, were caught up in the dance-as-music, music-as-dance theme of the program. If Lang Lang delayed a note or took a pause, no matter how fleeting, so did we. If he and the dancers raced along presto vivace, we, too, panted quicker. We felt it. He and the dancers held us spellbound and breathless.
Chopin is an easy composer to dance to since most of his work is based on waltzes, polkas, mazurkas and polonaises. Europe was dance-crazy in the 19th century, and Chopin, perhaps the first international superstar pianist/composer, knew exactly what his audience clamored for. His concert works not only showcased his technical brilliance but also supplied the romantic era with a unique background score. You can't listen to Chopin and not be swept dreamily into gaslight, carriages, Victor Hugo and opera capes.
His ballades drip with reverie and haze, his sparkling marches militaires spur you to take up arms, his wispy nocturnes whisper moonlight and forbidden trysts. Chopin's patented musical filigree and chromatic melodies — supplemented by swelling fioratura and virtuosic ornamentation, like so many crystal drops on a chandelier — make for some truly gorgeous dance music. Chopin, forever after, transformed the piano into its own orchestra; he made it sing, sigh and boom. His elegant music was a revelation in its time and continues to inspire today. His appeal is universal, unabated in its emotional wallop, beloved for its timeless melody.
Michel Fokine might not have been the first choreographer to use Chopin as source music, but his plotless Les Sylphides (1909) set the standard: a dreamy poet in a moonlit wood, surrounded by ethereal females. It's all mood and chiffon. Jerome Robbins's Dances at a Gathering (1969) is plotless, too, but more of a family affair as a group of energetic young men and women express more basic relationships. Robbins gave Chopin sex.
Welch's new ballet is a bit of both worlds, dreamy yet strongly of the earth. The flesh-colored costumes — bandeaux and tight pants for the women, bare chests and tight pants for the men — strip away any story and lay forth the muscles, sweat and line. The drab, less-is-more look isn't exactly eye-catching or beautiful, but you immediately focus on the dance. There's no set, either, just Lisa Pinkham's mood lighting to pinpoint the dancers and give each movement its special feel. Nothing distracts: Sons is all essence.
Welch has pared his distinctive choreography to match the refined music. The overall mood is clean and elegant, technically brilliant and powerfully emotive. Is there another contemporary choreographer who can move dancers on and off stage with such proficiency and know-how? The classical vocabulary he uses doesn't only express the music but also illuminates. He makes us see Chopin. The view is hypnotic.
Sons is plotless, full of mood and terribly expressive. The nine men and seven women, who start off as a group and formally bow to the knee at Lang Lang's presence, might pair up for a pas de deux, but they're just as likely to dance with someone new the next time we see them, or to form a trio later on. Seven out of 12 dances are duets, so we're dealing with some sort of romance, except for the animated, high-stepping comic fifth movement, the famous "Valse Brillante," as Oliver Halkowich and Jim Nowakowski compete for the title of anything-you-can-dance, I-can-dance-faster. Full of panache and male bravura, these guys whiz around the stage in blurring chaînés turns and aerodynamic leaps. It's a full-frontal, perpetual-mobile assault, jaw-dropping and, as the French might say, très charmant.