Playing the Fool
Heather Kravas & Antonija Livingston
" -- a situation for dancing."
PO.V.S. Tanze
"3petiX"
Dance Theater Workshop
New York, NY
February 9, 2006
by Lisa Rinehart
copyright ©2006 by Lisa Rinehart
There's a saying, "A century you should live, a century you should learn—you'll die a fool anyway," and in their divergent ways, these two semi-improvisational dance theater groups echo that message. Founders Alexandra Konnikova and Albert Albert take PO.V.S. Tanze for an Eastern European wallow in human imperfection, while Kravas and Livingston use nutty entertainment to distract themselves from despair. Neither group quite succeeds in taking their work beyond intriguing collage, but it's fun to watch them try. The defining difference in approach is cultural—Konnikova and Albert of PO.V.S. Tanze are Russian and Latvian, and have a Chekovian resignation to the frustrations of self-awareness—we are ridiculous, we are flawed, miserable creatures without hope of redemption, but what the hell, let's have a few stiff drinks and talk about it. Conversly, the North Americans, (Kravas and Livingston are American and Canadian, respectively), embrace human inadequacies with a goofy enthusiasm. They want us to question ourselves, but when things get too dismal, they have the good sense to send in a marching band—literally. Trombones, spangles, the works. Can I just say right here that the spectacle of the Hungry March Band gallumping through the seats of DTW, on to the stage, into the lobby and out on to 19th Street is pure genius.
As for the wallowing, Konnikova and Albert are highly trained performers with resumes as long as an arm. Their exquisite bodily control allows them to transform themselves in shape and mood until it seems there are ten people on the stage instead of two. Konnikova is especially adept at shape shifting—she moves from a seductress swinging her hips at us, to a shuffing and grunting ape, to an old geezer stomping determinedly across the floor and finally, to a floating angel, balancing on her knees with arms outstretched and feet lifted. It's unclear what any of it means, but she's fascinating to watch and one admires the technique. Albert is more of a straight forward mover touched with a loopy release influence. His sorrowful clown's face and mop of curly, thinning hair (think a tiny Gene Wilder) colors the movement with the hurt of a disillusioned innocent. It's as though he's fresh from a scolding and dance is supposed to dull the humiliation. When the two work together (as well as when joined briefly by a third, Brad Aldous) the effect is that of secretly watched children clowning for each other out of desperation. They ping pong from one idea to the next with forlorn intensity, convincing us that the world is a dark and dour place that is tolerated only by gamely playing the fool. Unfortunately, their proficiency is lost on the formless material and they rely too heavily on charming foolishness for us to take them seriously.
Kravas and Livingston, I suspect, take themselves seriously indeed. Like an Absurdist play, they turn the tables on their audience and poke fun at themselves poking fun at us. Sporting overblown fake beards and pillows strapped to their fronts, these two gals revel in extremes of pretense designed to knock our preconceptions awry. They hop around in their underwear with tiny bunny tails attached to the appropriate spot and bend over, tushies to the house. They parrot obscenities at one another, tipping back and forth like bobble-head dolls until we're not sure whether to giggle, or leave. They flip their beards up over their heads and become curly headed starlets with pouty lips. They apologize to a bearded man seated prominently in the audience (an obvious participant), saying in soft whispers, "I take responsibility for your apathy, I take responsibility for your anger, I take responsibility for your love." I think this was about when the band showed up.
There's at least one magic moment when the two stand beneath a ladder as an assistant drops paper snowflakes from above. The cut-outs fall on the dancers and into a pool of light like absolutions from the gods. And since Kravas and Livingston describe their work as a dance conversation, each of the four evenings is different, so I imagine there may be other lovely images. The effort, however, is not for the sake of imagery, or exhibitions of physical prowess, but an attempt to draw the audience into the experience by forcing us to question why we are watching. Instead of being charmed by an artful clown—a generally pleasing, but dispassionate experience—the performers defy our expectations until we either get angry, or join in the folly. With cerebral gutsiness and minimal movement, Kravas and Livingston create the more powerful conversation, even when one is stumped by what's going on. Or maybe it's just human nature to admire the fool who can play us like a violin.
Volume 4, No. 6
February 13, 2006
copyright
©2006 Kate Mattingly
www.danceviewtimes.com
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