Wild ‘Björk Ballet’ caps Unbound night
The three varied premieres that make up Program D — the last program of San Francisco Ballet’s historic Unbound Festival on Thursday, April 26, at the War Memorial Opera House — were swathed in an aura of contemporary chic. One might have expected this from Arthur Pita, whose company bow with a wildly modern “Salome” last year had taught us that, with this South African-born choreographer, anything goes.
It assuredly did in Pita’s “Björk Ballet,” both inspired and propelled by the Icelandic singer-composer. If Björk, who wrote most of the nine
musical excerpts, is Pita’s muse, then surely costumer Marco Morante (known professionally as Marco Marco) is his accomplice in this mostly inconsequential, bespangled venture into dancing dada. Whether the work will appeal depends on the order in which you attend Un-
bound. See “Björk Ballet” early on and you’ll suspect that Artistic Director Helgi Tomasson is putting you on. See it at the end of your fourth visit and you may find the outrageous antics rather refreshing (if, like most festival entries, too generous).
Four rows of tall grass, which descend from space, and James F. Ingalls’ exceptional lighting frame a series of ostentatiously costumed dancers uniting in what seem like leftovers from a PG-rated Roman orgy. There’s an earthy duet for Dores André and Luke Ingham, a corps garbed like centurions, a fellow (Wei Wang) in chalky white makeup, alternately toting a gold fishing rod and standing on his head and a general air of decadence. Maria Kochetkova, Sarah Van Patten and Ulrik Birkkjaer were the other principals in various costumes and headgear.
Still, Pita boasts a genuine flair for knowing excess and a command of dance theater. The movement here often captures the combination of sweetness and sophistication that goes to the heart of this composer. I wish I could say the same about all the participants in Unbound.
Fortunately, Edwaard Liang has the measure of Oliver Davis’ minimalist score in “The Infinite Ocean,” a thoughtful, if scarcely profound, meditation on death for four principals and a corps of eight, performing in front of Alexander V. Nichols’ huge sun and steep ramp. Everyone resists and succumbs. What Lang conveys in his neoclassical style is how we respond to that final and inevitable act. Tiit Helimets is all passionate resignation as he repeatedly lifts Sofiane Sylve and tumbles with his eyes fixed on her. Yuan Yuan Tan’s feathery bourre es and ethereal port de bras seem to challenge time, as she and Vitor Luiz float, enraptured with each other.
These duets, respectably made, are not earthshaking. Liang treats the corps more imaginatively once he gets over those groupings of outstretched arms. Martin West conducted. Dwight Rhoden’s “Let’s Begin at the End” also uses a corps of eight, but it’s the seven soloists who inflame the piece with a sinewy energy.
The lower center of gravity, the undulant torsos and the uninhibited phrasing certainly make this the sexiest of the festival entries. Angelo Greco, Esteban Hernandez and Frances Chung get the solos they deserve. And the passionate attacks of Sasha De Sola/Benjamin Freemantle, Jennifer Stahl and the indefatigable Birkkjaer (rounding out a brilliant season here) compensate for some awkward entrances and exits. The score, mixing Bach, Philip Glass and Michael Nyman, worked well under David Briskin’s leadership.
Arthur Pita boasts a genuine flair for knowing excess and a command of dance theater. The movement here often captures the combination of sweetness and sophistication that goes to the heart of this composer.