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Against All Odds
| Article
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19946 |
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Section : |
THE ARTS
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| Issue
Date : |
8 / 1992 |
2,067 Words |
| Author
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Maya Wallach
Maya Wallach is a dance writer, critic, and photographer
currently based in Los Angeles |
Before Helgi Tomasson's arrival, the San Francisco Ballet (SFB) was just another regional ballet company. Now, seven years after he became its artistic director, the company has been lauded by critics across the country for its provocative commissions, foreign starts, and brimming enthusiasm. The New York Times went so far as to proclaim "this virtually new crop of dancers from California the most exciting ballet visitors to New York in decades." Is the competition really that poor?
The SFB's best asset is also its worst: its director. Tomasson's influence is visible in every program--not just in the morale and energy of his dancers, but in his choice of choreographers. Besides the obligatory Balanchine (Tomasson was a New York City Ballet dancer) and established classics (Bournonville, Tudor, and Ashton) SFB's repertory has a risky number of new works. The company's 1992 season included three world premieres: Tomasson's own Le Quattro Stagioni (The four seasons), David Bintley's Job, and James Kudelka's The End.
Tomasson began choreographing ten years ago because, he told Balanchine, he loved music. But even a music lover would question Tomasson's latest selection. No offense intended to Vivaldi, but The Four Seasons is probably the most overplayed piece of classical music in existence. Walk into any Macy's store and tinny, bouncy "Spring" is dripping over the perfume displays and echoing off the walls of the elevators. On the other hand, perhaps Tomasson's choice was appropriate. If elevators had video monitors to accompany their piped-in Musak, Tomasson would be the perfect elevator choreographer.
Le Quattro Stagioni opens with rosy light silhouetting a horizon of very Italian cypress tress. A lace curtain hangs just in front of the view, suggestively half-drawn. Dancers in French romantic frills and flounces lounge on a small hillside. Springtime flirtations rule the choreography, the moves so cute they "look" tinny, tainting the music and making Vivaldi even more trite.
As the violins heat up for "Summer," a Southern Belle (Evelyn Cisneros) sidles languidly in front of the still-silhouetted cypresses. A hidden wind machine plays limpidly with her skirt. As she sulks and fumes across the stage, the second problem with choosing Vivaldi becomes apparent: The music is too mercurial for dance, changing tone and tempo in the space of a sixteenth note. Cisneros cannot keep up with its playful virtuosity. Nor are her overly dramatic but unoriginal movements strong enough to form their own harmony and work against the
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