Pale breasts in the gloom, birds on a wire
The Lyon Ballet is here--at the Joyce, with a great program that feels as if it's made for New Yorkers (no Eurotrash, for example, or almost none). It includes Cunningham's Beach Birds, which the dancers do with loving conscientiousness, if not quite the amplitude and eccentricity of the late choreographer's own, soon to be "redundant" (as the British put it) dancers.
Anyway, here's the first few paragraphs of the Financial Times review coming out tomorrow:
The Lyon Ballet gives the ubiquitous category "contemporary dance" a good name by doing something else. The company's repertory is distinguished not by attitude - complacent gloominess, say, or cool sexiness - but by language, startling language.
The programme at the Joyce this week concludes with Maguy Marin's cutesy take on Sisyphus, in which people roll the rock up the hill not because that's life but because they are obsessive-compulsive. But the evening begins with Merce Cunningham and William Forsythe. Typically American in their strivings, these choreographers do not care what the movement says, they care what it does. Advocating nothing, they offer the vast, disinterested freedom...
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