Merce Cunningham’s “Nearly Ninety”
Like those of his longtime collaborator and composer John Cage, who passed away in 1992, Merce Cunningham’s methods are informed by the ancient Chinese Book of Changes, I Ching, which lays out a structure for gaining answers through the application of chance procedures. The idea of “chance” has been an important element in Cunningham’s choreographic process since the 1950s. He creates sequences of movement by drawing numbers to see what goes where, or by using a computer program called DanceForms, which he helped to develop and began using in 1991. Today, at 90 (Cunningham’s birthday was April 16), his mobility is limited; therefore, the computer program has an added benefit. DanceForms affords him the opportunity to see what combinations might look like before he teaches them.
With the premiere of his newest work, “Nearly Ninety,” at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, it appears that nothing is slowing Cunningham down. Perhaps it is because he has been ahead for so long that he is galloping so easily next to the front-runners of the avant-garde. (For some time now, he has been routinely referred to as the world’s greatest living choreographer.) His work still seems cutting-edge, though his style and methods have remained fairly consistent since he began his company in 1953. While Cunningham’s movement is heavily influenced by ballet, it appears as totally non-traditional. Like Balanchine’s work, it is abstract and angular, but somehow unquestionably radical. Cunningham has said he is often inspired by nature, but his dancers appear tonight, as they have always appeared to me, like beings from another planet—and not just because of the set (which I will get to next).
As the evening begins, the scrim reveals the outline of what looks like a giant, looming ship populated by pirate-like musicians who begin to play the dissonant, wild score by Led Zeplin’s John Paul Jones, the mixed-media sound artist and music director for the company Takehisa Kosugi and Sonic Youth (Kim Gordon, Thurston Moore, Lee Ranaldo, and Steve Shelley). The menacing silhouette of this large structure moves from one side to the other and then begins to spin. When the curtain opens, an enormous, space station-like island housing the musicians is revealed.
Melissa Toogood, Brandon Collwes, Daniel Squire
Photo by Stephanie_Berger
The structure, designed by Benedetta Tagliabue, is so large and shiny that it draws attention away from the dancers, and that is a shame because the dancing is impeccable. The performers, who each appear in three different striking unitards designed by Romeo Gigli, seem to be able to stop time with their endless balances, smooth shifts of weight and clean lines. ¿ la seconde extensions and attitude positions appear so frequently and solidly that I almost forget how difficult it is to execute them with such skill.
In keeping with the practice that began when Cage was composing music for Cunningham, the dancers did not hear the score until the dress rehearsal, and as is usually the case, the dance and the music seem bold, relentless and unrelated. They simply charge forward together simultaneously.
Appreciating Cunningham’s work for me has mostly to do with his philosophy. I enjoy the peculiar and complicated ways the body’s parts relate to one another in his dances. I find excitement in the feeling produced by disparate elements coming together and creating beauty. I appreciate his avoidance of climaxes and tricks, which creates a feeling of purity; the work is the opposite of manipulative, the opposite of cheap. But—and know I should steer clear of this line of thinking— I cannot get the nagging question out of my head: What in the world does it mean?
Much of Cunningham’s work is beautiful the way that hawks or gazelles are; they are stunning to watch—full of power and strange magnificence—but you would be disappointed if you expected them to deliver a message aside from what they reveal by their nature alone.
Between the loud, boisterous explosions of sound, there is one quiet, more melodic section. A landing pad unfolds from the towering structure. The dazzling Julie Cunningham suddenly appears on this new surface high above the stage. She dances boldly toward the edge and back. She appears to be preparing to jump. I watch anxiously, unsure whether she will fall or fly, but certain that she is at some kind of momentous ending. Of course, as the choreographer would have it, neither happens. When the solo comes to close, she simply walks back down and off stage. “Not yet,” she seems to say. “I’m done, but only for now.”
Near the end of the nearly 90-minute piece, there is a build of sorts, as the whole cast rushes on stage. Suddenly, a cannon bursts forth. Something new is emerging. But, just as soon as the charge gets going, it slows again. Movements we have seen before resume. Then, inexplicably, the dancers run off. It is a non-ending, a “to be continued…” The performers seem not to have seen the end coming, but rather run themselves right into it. I think that’s probably the way it should be done.
Upcoming performances of “Nearly Ninety” will be held in Champaign-Urbana, Paris, Berkeley and London. Visit www.merce.org for more information.