Christopher Williams Dances Review
June 28, 2022 | The Joyce Theater – New York, NY, USA
Touted as “original queer versions of legendary ballets from the Ballets Russes era”, Tuesday’s program at The Joyce turned out to be as candid as its title, Christopher Williams Dances. By candid, I don’t just mean straightforward but honest as well. Utilizing early twentieth-century ballets as a vehicle, Williams infuses his work with the honesty of queer love and queer life, even touching on the oppression of our still rigid binary society.
That third theme is presented in his version of Narcissus. A story from Greek Mythology, Narcissus (the etymological source of the term narcissism) is the tale of a young man who rejected all his suitors and fell in love with his own reflection in the water, which he is doomed to stare at the rest of his life. After his death, a flower grows in his place, now commonly referred to as a Daffodil.
All of this, and more, can be gleaned from the extensive choreographer’s notes. Be sure to arrive early to have time to read the ten paragraphs of insights. I, personally, love receiving this amount of exposition. Williams is not only intelligent but also a “forever student” in the sense that he seems to be always learning, researching, and connecting.
In the original Greek text, Narcissus rejects his suitor Echo, whom Williams decides to portray as an intersex being.
The piece begins with a lone Echo on stage, danced by Mac Twining, back to the audience. As Twining turns downstage, the full regalia of his costume (designed by Andrew Jordan) is revealed; a neon orange, corkscrew phallocrypt and the breasts of a woman.
Unexpected yet also delightful, the program notes reveal the thoughtful reasoning behind the adornments. Other nymphs (sans breasts) appear later but they are unaccepting of Echo’s ambiguity. Twining, a lithe, generous dancer, embodies the role through both physical movements and emotional connection. We sympathize and root for Echo.
Narcissus, on the other hand, we know is doomed and await his fate. Danced by Taylor Stanley, a principal with New York City Ballet, they carry the role with a steely, fixed gaze throughout.
What I am most struck by are the delicate, gentle moments between lovers. In this instance, it is Narcissus dancing with himself, his counterpart wonderfully portrayed by dancer Cemiyon Barber. A repeated configuration in this piece and previous, is a side-by-side reclined position. Barber and Stanley assume the pose, looking like marble statues caught in a private romance, both architectural and sensual.
Williams consistently chooses nice shapes. Statuesque, meditative, almost Art Deco feeling, the shapes look good on everyone. Unfortunately, the pieces lacked a dependable story line, often getting drowned out by long segments of choppy poses.
Christopher Williams Dances
Prior to Narcissus, is The Prayer of Daphnis & Interlude, which perhaps suffers most from an unclear narrative. Set to Maurice Ravel’s Daphnis et Chloe, we must assume the main character to be of the same story (no notes in the program for this one). A short solo for Daphnis and an eerie adagio between three nymphs dressed in celestial unitards plus an abrupt ending left a question mark on the stage.
Opening the night was The Afternoon of A Faun set to Claude Debussy’s classic of the same name Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune.
Dancing the faun, Stanley’s piercing gaze is well-matched to the role of the curious human/animal hybrid.
With the fourth wall broken, it felt as if they could have really been exploring a magical forest on a dewy afternoon. Williams pulls from the classic Vaslav Nijinsky version and recycles the recognizable faun hands; flat palms, hands perpendicular to the floor and a sharp bend at the wrist, the dancer becomes pancaked, almost like a hieroglyphic.
Seven other dancers represent a tribe of water nymphs called Naiads. They are willowy, soft, and deliberate in their movement. Here, we see Williams’ corps work start to shine. Using juxtaposing speeds, a pepper of dancers moving in synchronized adagios while others moved faster, and a disposition for asymmetrical spacing, the result is organic and lovely.
Again, the story was less prevalent for much of the piece (the Faun and the Chief of the Nymphs spend most of the time delicately approaching each other) until about the last thirty seconds where it gets a little wild. The ending is abrupt and dark. Although some chuckles arose from audience members, I don’t believe it was meant to be funny.
To be honest, at intermission I wasn’t sure I bought into what Williams had created.
Although three pieces had already been shown, I had only seen one style. The flat palms and delicate statuesque poses were repeated in different yet still similar shapes across all three. And while the shapes were inventive and pleasing, the pace of each piece was the same.
It wasn’t until I saw the second act that I realized act one needed to be viewed as a triptych. Like a children’s book of stories, the illustrator will remain the same across each tale but the paint strokes, the color palette, the weight of the pen remain cohesive.
Looking back from this perspective, the lover’s gazes, the decorative reclining, the profiles, they all work together even if the pieces lacked clarity.
If act one was an experimental appetizer then the second act is the main course, the $65 filet mignon.
I’m not entirely sure if the curtain ever went down after act one but near the end of intermission, I noticed a dancer on stage right out of the corner of my eye. Dressed in white knickers, a black vest, and white ribbon around his neck, he very much looked the part of a poet; his notebook and quill made for helpful context clues. He continued to scribble notes, ironically as I also scribbled, while the audience milled about, slowly settling down.
With the dimming house lights, the chords of Frederic Chopin, and the notebook tossed offstage, Les Sylphides started.
Our poet is met by mythically multiplying Sylphs and what follows is a mostly plotless ballet. While the steps in act one were meditative and placed, these are free and commanding perhaps because of the decisive score and lack of strict narrative.
I loved the rework of the Sylph costumes from the classical version (long white tutus and miniature wings at the small of their back). Instead, designer Jordan put the dancers in long, skin-toned skirts with a butterfly vein print, foraged crowns, and wings on their wrists. The lighting, designed by Joe Levasseur, was more stark than other Sylphides I have seen but it created a moodiness that felt right.
Twining danced the part of the poet with wonderful abandon and athleticism and Stanley appeared as the ethereal Queen of the Sylphs, regal and mysterious.
Stanley shines in their petit allegro and precise movements but it was their attentive gaze toward Twining which showcased the delicate honesty of a fresh love.
Williams curated precious moments for the lead couple, laying cheek to cheek, a hand caressing the face.
Care was given to the corps dancers as well. Huddled in groups while the leads danced, a tender hand might lay on a thigh, or a Sylph might gently tickle the chin of a faerie friend. It brought a new level of intimacy to the interpretation.
Again, Williams excels in the corps work. Creating a maze of dancers, he constructs patterns which begin in a circle only to have dancers spill off the orbit in new trajectories. It’s a tornado on the stage; the only reason dancers don’t tumble over each other is their methodical spotting. Infused with affectations like head nuzzles, wing vibrations, and flicking wrists, the tone balances on the edge of playfulness but it’s actually quite serious. It’s not campy (save for the fun ending) and it doesn’t mock.
Throughout the evening, Williams almost asks,
“What does it look like to be a being in love?”
I think the answer is that whether supernatural, or unrequited, or selfish even, love remains a truth worthy of exploring.
Featured Photo of Taylor Stanley. Photo by Maria Baranova.
