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The Dark Side

“Spindrift,” “Banquet of Vultures,” “Brandenburgs”
Paul Taylor Dance Company
City Center
New York, NY
March 11, 2006 (evening)

by Susan Reiter
copyright 2006 by Susan Reiter

It was hard to enter the theater for a first viewing of “Banquet of Vultures” and not have a strong sense of what was coming. Advance publicity, and a New York Times feature with quotes from Taylor and company members, made it clear that the dance was an anti-war piece, with (according to Taylor) intentional allusions to “The Green Table.” But nothing could prepare one for the utter darkness and depravity of this dance.

It is literally dark; sepulchral lighting by the ever-brilliant Jennifer Tipton keeps the viewer on edge by making it difficult to discern exactly what is going on during the early portions of the piece. But it is also wrenchingly gloomy in the utter cruelty of its encounters, and the cruelty is on a larger scale that, by implication, society tolerates and even requires in order to function. Its images of brutality are more wrenching than in “Last Look.” And its grotesque horror transcends those of “Nightshade,” which evokes more imaginary, fantastical situations. “Banquet of Vultures” reflects the heart of darkness within the dealings and machinations that we have come to take for granted.

What is amazing, and crucial to the dance’s searing power, is how non-literal it is, even if the ensemble of desperate, flailing victims of a brutal, oppressive dark-suited figure are wearing camouflage fatigues. It has moments that summon up allusions to the horrific images of Abu Ghraib prison, and can certainly be viewed as reflecting the current frustration and despair within this country. But in its presentation of a looming, implacable man in a business suit (Michael Trusnovec) who shows no mercy and leaves a path of destruction behind, it reverberates with multiple allusions. Its bleak depiction of manipulation and helplessness will summon up different parallels for each viewer.

Its bleakness is established and sustained by the music Taylor has so brilliantly selected, Morton Feldman’s “Oboe and Orchestra.” It is amazingly spare, with haunting wails and bleats from the oboe punctuated by stretches of silence. Every note bespeaks sorrow or terror, and those pauses seem to suggest a hesitation to continue in the face of some inevitable crisis.  

Before any human figures are discernible, the stage is filled with small yellow lights, like votive candles. They glide back and forth, as if unseen bearers seem to be using them to search tentatively sand warily. Their number diminishes, until nothing illuminates the gloom. Three primordial figures are discernible in a cluster, grappling and slithering along. Others dash through or advance stealthily, some flinging themselves wildly in moves reminiscent of “Last Look.”

Once Trusnovec, an eerie image of corporate propriety and straight-laced blankness in his suit and red tie, comes into view, he dominates mercilessly. Try as they may to preserve themselves, the others—wearing dark eye-masks that render them disconcertingly anonymous—cannot escape. Everyone is under his control, at his mercy.  When they encircle him, they become prisoners of his orbit, robbed of free will.

What has made Trusnovec such a natural Taylor dancer in recent years has been the looseness in his joints, an ability to “get down” with a loping earthiness but also counter gravity with muscular abandon. Here, his movement is all locked-in and fierce; his natural looseness is held in check. He buries his innate amiable stage presence to become a figure of demonic implacability. His ferocity comes through most frighteningly in the climactic encounter with Julie Tice. She rushes on, without the eye mask and holding a candle—the last free spirit, perhaps, bravely making a last stand against the inevitable. Trusnovec shows her no mercy; during their struggle, her breathing is audible amid the tossing and flinging. Trusnovec drags her inert body offstage, and no sooner has he left than his replacement appears—Robert Kleinendorst, also in a suit and red tie. In a bleak spotlight, he repeated hurls himself to the ground, grunting with the force of his actions. Is he brutalizing himself in preparation for the awful work ahead? The final sight, before the curtain falls, is of him advancing ominously but haltingly downstage.

“Banquet of Vultures,” though clearly a commentary of war and the forces that set it in motion, is so focused and riveting that it in no way comes across as a message piece. Trusnovec’s role comes across not so much as Death – a contemporary counterpart to the figure in ”The Green Table”—but the embodiment of all the forces that conspire behind the scenes to produce the carnage of the battlefield. It resonates with the times we are in, but its reach and resonance transcend them as well.

Surrounding the premiere were two of the season’s major revivals. “Spindrift,” form 1993, an extremely different showcase for Trusnovec (in the role originated by Andrew Asnes), presents him as a nature boy rising form the sea. He observes—perhaps receives instruction from—clusters of men and women, and is occasionally mesmerized by a muse-like figure (Heather Berest) who glides through on a diagonal and never joins the others. Trusnovec has an extended adagio solo with echoes of the “Aureole” solo but in a less majestic mode, with more of a gymnastic touches: he rolls and twists on the ground, springing back up. Trusnovec makes the journey of this novice intriguing; we sense him watching, learning, making decisions. But in the course of the the five movements of Schoenberg’s “After Handel” concerto, the piece does have its dull moments, although Taylor comes up with some wonderful dolphin-like body ripples and onrushing circlings that course with robust energy.

When “Brandenburgs” premiered in 1988, it seemed to celebrate Christopher Gillis in all his athletic, golden majesty. Joined by three women in the luxuriant bursts and swirls of lyrical dancing, he was a modern-dance Apollo, celebrating with his muses. In its current incarnation, with costumes that are more glowing and regal, it seems to be more about the three women, each of whom was resplendent in her own way. Parisa Khobdeh’s lightness and crisp phrasing made her every entrance magical. Amy Young brought a luscious quality to her more stately role, and Lisa Viola rode the brisk, churning rhythms of the music with glorious ease. The five men (including none other than Trusnovec filling in for another dancer listed in the program) who sail through and augment the central figures now seem more substantial and worthy of attention themselves. Before they seemed like cheerful acolytes. “Brandenburgs” exudes both gravitas and joyfulness, and is another example of how transcendent things occur when Taylor turns his attention to Bach.

Photo: Michael Trusnovec behind Jeffrey Smith, Sean Mahoney and Orion Ducksteiin in Paul Taylor's "Banquet of Vultures." Photo by Tom Caravaglia.

Volume 4, No. 11
March 20, 2006
copyright ©2006 Susan Reiter
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last updated on March 20, 2006