‘Dance Nation’ a jarring look at adolescent angst
Adults portray preteen competitive dancers in SF Playhouse show
“Dance Nation,” the play by Clare Barron now playing at San Francisco Playhouse, is about a team of preteen competitive dancers in Liverpool, Ohio, training to try to make their way to nationals in Florida.
That quick description, however, would most likely give you a wildly misleading idea of what kind of play this is. This isn’t “Glee” for dance. It’s a hard-hitting, deeply difficult and at times revelatory glimpse into the most gut-wrenching parts of the preteen psyche.
In that sense, “Dance Nation” makes an interesting companion piece to other plays that use sports as a window into messy adolescence such as Sarah DeLappe’s “The Wolves,” now playing at City Lights Theater in San Jose, or Ruby Rae Spiegel’s “Dry Land,” which Shotgun Players did last year.
The kids are played by adults of various ages and body types, and the play is filled with very frank body and sex talk that’s awfully uncomfortable (though not unrealistic) given the age of the characters. There’s also some nudity and a surprising amount of blood.
There also isn’t all that much dance in “Dance Nation,” though what there is (such as an amusing interpretive dance number about Gandhi) is entertainingly choreographed by Kimberly Richards.
The focus is more on what’s going on backstage. We watch the teammates trying sincerely to be super supportive of each other while choking on their own ambition, jealousy and disappointment. The play digs deep into everyone’s individual insecurities in a way that deftly veers from heartbreaking to comical and back again.
Although there is an overarching plot of sorts, the play is structured as a disjointed string of vignettes that don’t entirely fit together in the generally powerful staging by director Becca Wolff. Still, there are moments of absolute brilliance that pack a tremendous wallop.
The scenes are interspersed with monologues offering a glimpse into the interior lives of people who otherwise keep these aspects of themselves locked away. While many of the sections speculate about the future, a couple of the more overtly poetic ones seem to be looking back on the present from the perspective of the future or simply flashing forward to future days in a way that doesn’t seem like speculation at all.
One speech is a gripping tour de force about body image and selfesteem, about feeling beautiful and smart and feeling like she has to hide that from everyone, devastatingly delivered by Lauren Spencer as Ashlee.
A lot of the story centers around Krystle Piamonte’s achingly anxious Zuzu, who’s incredibly hard on herself and sets ludicrously high standards for herself. She has failed if her dance doesn’t bring people to tears. She has failed if it doesn’t cure cancer.
Zuzu’s insecurities are reinforced at every turn by her berating coach Dance Teacher Pat, portrayed with nagging artificiality by Liam Robertson, but also by the demanding support of her urgently intense mother (Michelle Talgarow, who plays all the moms).
In contrast, everything seems to come easily to Indiia Wilmott’s Amina. Not that she doesn’t train hard, because she does, but she’s generally accepted as the best dancer in the crew, and opportunities just keep coming her way. She’s also incredibly sweet and supportive (despite Ash Malloy’s Sofia trying to talk smack with her about other dancers), but the more she stands out the more it alienates her friends and isolates her.
Julia Brothers’ Maeve is full of wide-eyed childlike naivete, and Mohana Rajagopal is earnest and eager as Connie. Bryan Munar is bashfully introverted as Luke, the only boy on the team.
A haunting group affirmation, a hilarious pep talk as war cry — some parts of the play are so transcendent, so stunning in themselves, that it almost doesn’t matter if a few other sections feel awkward or ill-fitting. After all, what could be truer to adolescence than that?