Experimental Dance

Merce Cunningham and John Cage, exponents of the outre in dance and music, have joined forces to produce a bizarre performance that has (they claim) only projective meaning: it isn't what they say, it's what the audience thinks they're saying that counts. Last Saturday's concert of three pieces met with uneven success in its attempt to give some clue as to what it was all about, but it was still fun.

Cunningham nearly lost his audience at intermission, though, by running a piece like Aeon first on the program. Aeon was long: over a half-hour of posturing that looked more like a technique class than a dance, with each dancer exercising in his own private sphere, hardly seeing, not caring, what his partners were doing. Cunningham's technique of "choreography by chance" picked the wrong random combination of numbers this time and came up with a series of stiff, unrelated movements that took rather more muscle than grace.

Even the intimate duets were impersonal. Moving ever so slowly, hanging by the knees from a partner's shoulders, the dancers stared blankly from zombie-like deadpans. Occasionally the master himself relaxed into a sneer, but for the most part it was only by the glistening of sweat or the trembling of a thigh or a bent knee that one could be sure the dancers were human, and not just sinuous, supple machines.

It was unnecessary to follow every movement or watch constantly, just as it was unnecessary to listen carefully to John Cage's accompaniment of electronic whines, buzzes, piercing, shrieking tones, and cacophonous static. The endless, disjunctive movements and music discouraged close attention: without looking, without listening, one knew that it would be more of same, more of same. Variety at random is just plain dull.

The audience responded to Aeon with scarcely more than polite applause. The combination of Cunningham and Cage was clearly too much for those who found themselves outside the dancers' world: they could share neither in the dehumanized music nor the mechanical dance. To the extent that Cunningham and Cage left their audience feeling like an out-group, they failed to communicate their art.

Crises, the second piece, fared much better. Red and orange leotards against a light blue back-drop were eye-catching: and the sight of dancers pulling each other along the floor by elastic bands around the waist or thigh drew laughter and put the audience on the performer's side, for the first time. Abandoning the slow death of Aeon, the dancers came alive, though they maintained regulation disjunctively by counterpoising two groups on separate parts of the stage.

At one point in Antic Meet, the finale, Cunningham offered his partner a big red rose; when snubbed, he hurried off (face buried in flower) pouting like a little boy. Antic Meet was a study in absurdity. It told something of a story, a bit of a romance, with all the humor and the farce of a flirtation. The choreography really took off, exploiting the imagination and freedom of Cunningham's style: kicking splits swooping from the air to the floor, some acrobatics, and a St. Vitus Dance frenzy. In a spirit of whimsy and joy, the dancers switched from the deadpan love-making of Aeon to an enthusiastic dance that came very close to pantomime. Like pantomime, it told a story, and told it clearly. Finally let in on what Cunningham and Cage were up to, the audience loved every minute of it.