Saturday Matinee

Sofiane Sylve and James Sofranko in Morris' Sandpaper Ballet. © Erik Tomasson

So much has been written about dance choreographer Mark Morris and the common threads that appear throughout his dances. His uncanny ear for music is unparalleled – I often hear melodies previously unheard until I “see” it through his dances. His irreverent sense of humor is unmistakable and oh-so-refreshing. Especially in his ballet choreography, although he’s clearly using ballet vocabulary to serve his purposes, yet it’s hard to shake the thought that he’s sticking it to the very traditions of ballet at the same time. His vision and ingenuity as a dance maker is courageous to the degree at how clearly we hear his voice, his individuality. He sticks to his guns, without what others think his dances should be. The result is I often see something I’ve never seen before, thrilling in its genius and authenticity. In San Francisco Ballet’s Program 5, Mark Morris’ personality was splashed in all its colorful glory across the stage in three very diverse pieces of his that exemplified his best traits.

So often Morris’ pieces are merely moments strung together like beads on a string, held together by the music. Simplicity reigns, and whatever meaning the viewer struggles with especially in the face of such annoyingly vague simplicity (how often do we need to find what the choreographer is trying to say?) seems unfair to impose onto Morris’ intentions. Yet always the master constructionist, I feel like I’ve been taken on a naturally evolving journey with discoveries each step of the way.

Morris’ A Garden is one such piece. The most classically derived out of the three pieces presented in the program set to Richard Strauss’ Tanzsuite for Orchestra, a cool yet dreamy tranquility pervades the piece. Dancers freeze into position – a motif of a standing person slightly leaning forward with hands palms down as if resting on top of an imaginary desk in front of them, has the feeling of waiting breathlessly for the next thing. Perhaps this is what a mannequin’s dream world looks like, when humans aren’t watching. Group dances are warmly communal, yet still respectful. Morris delightfully defies common gender stereotypes by setting male dancers to the music of the tinkling chime of the glockenspiel. The central pas de deux was my personal shining highlight of the night, danced with such gentle heart by Sarah Van Patten and Ruben Martin in choreography that embodied a myriad of opposites. Their movements flowed seamlessly from langorous to angular. Hesitatingly halting and lightly awkward yet constantly evolving, even a little sad. Volumes were spoken in silences that were quivering with anticipation, in a series of still poses where Van Patten mirrors Martin, one after another. The result is quietly stunning.

Sarah Van Patten and Ruben Martin in Morris' A Garden. © Erik Tomasson

San Francisco Ballet in Morris' A Garden. © Erik Tomasson

Even viewing it a year later after its premiere last year, Morris’ Joyride to me is still like watching Latin being spoken. Set to the uber-modern music of John Adams’ Son of Chamber Symphony, equally cacophanous movements copies the music with its constantly changing meter and sounds and moods. Dancers lunge, point, karate kick, and walk off nonchalantly, glaring at the next group of dancers to come in. Interactions between the dancers are as warm as the metallic bodysuits and the mechanical LED numbers that insistently flash numbers throughout the piece. Garen Scribner danced with a steely pointedness, and Pascal Molat with virility of attack. The driving momentum is an unrelentless rush, and the dance ends with one dancer triumphantly standing, with the rest of the dancers flattened on their backs.

Ruben Martin and Vanessa Zahorian in Morris' Joyride. © Erik Tomasson

The evening ended with Morris’ Sandpaper Ballet, which is more substantial than the crowd-pleaser it seems to be. Set to the buoyantly joyful music of Leroy Anderson, it opens with the infectiously joyful “Sleigh Ride” as a mini overture. This piece can be seen as a structural play in constantly shifting formations, and the study of one versus a crowd. The piece opens with a large number of dancers in straight lines. The geometric costumes by Isaac Mizrahi, with the bottom half of the body (including gloves) green and the top half white, has the communistic effect of camouflaging individuals and presenting the ensemble as a whole entity. One dancer drops out of formation and scrambles, with arms flailing, to the opposite corner of the stage, with everyone else watching. And the dancing continues once order is restored. After solos, the ensemble returns to surround the soloist in the straight line formation to swallow the soloist out of sight.  

The equalizing nature of this piece rendered certain dancers almost unrecognizable, including Sofiane Sylve, who was delightful as the girl that disappeared later, leaving three men to partner… er… air, in a comical reproduction sans Sylve. Witticisms are peppered liberally throughout, with lilting jazz inflected shoulders and skips. Morris refuses to shy away from “ugly” poses, as if to flaunt ballet to its face. But Pierre Francois-Vilanoba flinging his arms about wildly with his eye-tugging stage presence and height? Pure comedy, and an absolute delight.

Kristin Long and Pierre-François Vilanoba in Morris' Sandpaper Ballet. © Erik Tomasson

Other links:

• sfmike’s take
• Review in the SF Chronicle


• Joan Acocella’s biography of Mark Morris

The last showing of this program is on Tuesday evening on March 24. Click here for more information.