Ending with Vitality and Verity: PNB's Director's Choice Round Two

Pacific Northwest Ballet company dancers in the world premiere of Rena Butler’s Cracks. Photo © Angela Sterling.

In the final days of Pacific Northwest Ballet’s fifty-second season, edge-of-summer energy roared through McCaw Hall with ineffable vigor. The end of a season always feels particularly full of sentiment, but closing on a program so finely tailored to the company’s vast range seemed to encompass extraordinary gratitude for what we’ve been allowed to witness this season. With spritely neoclassical nimbleness, revealing revelations, and a soaring nostalgia that simply makes one happy to be alive, the second weekend of “Director’s Choice” left me wishing it would never find its end.

Spectacular is the word that comes to mind every single time that Kiyon Ross’ …throes of increasing wonder bursts forth as a spark of felicity. From its first glimmering note, to the final glimpse of twenty-four silhouetted dancers, …throes of increasing wonder abounds in possibility. Athletic and relentlessly bright, it holds within its brief splendor the power of many to overwhelm the stage with a whirlwind of fine-tuned precision. Endless fancies of technical prowess, brisk footwork that the eyes can hardly keep up with, and an undeniable joy gleaming everywhere make it a true celebration of this art form’s highest peaks.

Dancers barely seem to touch the ground in …throes of increasing wonder, choosing instead to take to the air. As Elle Macy recently put it in a post-show Q&A: “When do you see people in the air? It’s just not very often”. That alone, the ability to defy gravity, to rebound to higher pursuits, makes …throes of increasing wonder a work that highlights the particular wonder of humans choosing to take to the air in search of freedom, and within these cascading patterns, they certainly find it.

The magnitude of exuberance that fills …throes is due in part to the fact that Ross does not let a single moment of Cristina Spinei’s score go to waste. Whether it be a jubilant entrance or the finest articulation and emphasis of the beat’s most minuscule delights, dancers pounce upon the music, inhabiting its every curvature with ecstatic thrill. Spinei’s score holds an intense power to initiate joy, and intoxicating optimism pervades it all. 

In the last few performances, the final push of the season was a rush of zeal. Ross manages to showcase the entire cast, but to mention a few extraordinary sights: Audrey Malek dancing like the music flourished within her, the absurd height of Madison Rayn Abeo and Noah Martzall’s first entrance, Yuki Takahashi’s swift, swift clarity, and Lucas Galvan proving once again that gravity does not apply to him. Clara Ruf Maldonado seemed to dance on the tip of a needle, so spritely was her weightless precision, Rosalyn Hutsell and Kuu Sakuragi consumed both space and music with boundless aptitude, and Emerson Boll’s expression of pure delight in the far-too-brief duet was one of almost mischievous revelry. 

As she so often does, Juliet Prine overflowed with spirit, gleaming with every beat of accented joy and finding all the lovely flourishes even at the most mind-blowing tempo. With Zsilas Michael Hughes’ triumphant magnitude at her side, and gleeful glimmers passing from eye to eye, they were an unstoppable force. Sarah-Gabrielle Ryan, a vessel of joy in this tightly packed ballet, melted into every extension of beauty, pushing gestures of lyrical radiance further and finding moments of anticipatory thrill before pouncing upon the music’s syncopated current.

(L-R) Pacific Northwest Ballet company dancers Yuki Takahashi, Ashton Edwards, and Kuu Sakuragi in Kiyon Ross’s …throes of increasing wonder. Photo © Angela Sterling.

 And yet, amidst all this joy, there’s a melancholic breath of beauty which leaves one at a loss for words. Angelica Generosa and Jonathan Batistia left the rest of the world behind every time they stepped into the sweltering notes of the fourth movement. During the final performance, the depth of their emotivity seemed to land with newfound potency, for all around, I heard the effects of the magic they’d conjured up in each serene gesture and frozen arabesque. As Batista swung Generosa to rest suspended upside down upon his shoulder, and Michael Jinsoo Lim’s heavenly note aligned with Generosa's pointe shoe tracing down her shin, it was a moment of overwhelming, heavenly bliss that consumed them.

When Leta Biasucci and Dylan Wald fill the stage with bewitching wonder, even the simplest things: offering a hand with pure intention, a glance, the uncurling of some wondrous limb, become a captivating sight. Silhouetted against the purple haze, there’s no narrative, yet between these two, there certainly is one which closes with a delicate resolution and a bit of wit. Later, though chaines turns might be highly underrated, and though I’ve had my breath stolen many times by the sight, as Wald spun faster than any top, it was a blur of splendid ease and precision that should have received roaring applause.

When the fifth movement finds the stage dark, wings fill with light one by one to let a dancer burst into the dusted light. Between near-collisions in the dusk, and fleeting glimpses of beauty finding a beam of illumination, suspense hangs in the air. It is a declarative celebration that overtakes the stage in the jubilant finale, a celebration of this company, this art, and of movement itself. All the lovely lines catching the light, all the adrenaline-driven airborne vitality that made me not want to blink, …throes of increasing wonder is a work whose heartbeat still races long after the bravura has come to a still. 

It’s always a wonderful thing when, after two weekends of performances, a work still falls before your eyes brimming with new mysteries and breath-robbing meaning hidden in every nook. Rena Butler’s prolific world premiere of Cracks is one of these wondrous works that evokes more than two eyes can perceive over the course of eight performances. Like the best works of art, it lingers somewhere in your heart, mind, and bones long after the curtain has fallen. Days, weeks later: a melody, some soulful gesture or breath comes dancing by and an essence of the fleeting meaning returns, fondly haunting. With a backbone formed by the rounded tones of Michel Wackenheim, Gabriel Fauré, Claude Debussy, Antonio Vivaldi, Ljova and The Kontraband, Francis Poulenc, and Michael Praetorious, the world that Butler builds within Cracks is one that feels potently significant.

Cracks is shaped by the inner motion of questioning. It is unafraid to express what it needs to in whatever form it can. It seems to exist without boundaries, without a set vocabulary, or strict adherence to a singular movement identity. Perhaps that is because Butler has woven her own tapestry of physicality, a fluid beauty broken here and there with fractured accents, like shards of sea glass in a flow of falling sand. Butler describes her work as “having bite”, and while Cracks is a step closer to the ethereal than her previous works, it still has the guts to take a phrase somewhere unexpectedly raw and human. Repetition builds the ground beneath the dancers’ feet, builds a world of its own with every pointe shoe twisted into the ground, each forceful stomp, and the rippling spines that find their taut core again and again. They are rituals in their own right.

Pacific Northwest Ballet company dancers in Rena Butler’s Cracks. Photo © Angela Sterling

The distinctive beauty of Cracks often lies in the smallest gestures that resonate beyond comprehension: a leaning body rocked back into place (recentering, conforming); eyes that peer timidly around hands raised in prayer; shoulders that curl as though they can shrug off the weight of expectation. The shape of straying from form in every concave pull and twitch; a classical arabesque breaking into angularity; limbs that work as if to turn their rightful bodies inside out; two arms forming a cross that melt into nothing but beauty. Perhaps most potent: the resounding unity of a shadowed line of prayer, where all eleven dancers fall to their knees and into a cathartic rhythm of heavy stomping. Their growing strength finds a gust of might, and brimming with revolt, one bold step with fists primed at their hip bones seems to declare it all: a proclamation of defiance, of courage.

Though Butler stated that “the only narrative is light and sound”, the solo at the core of the work builds momentum from the beginning, where we find her stepping out of formation and quietly reconforming. Though this brief echoing of Jerome Robbins’ The Concert prompts light laughter, in the context of this work, it’s not humorous at all, and Elle Macy carries that weight from the start. Later, she flees from the line again and again, seeking beyond and hurrying back to the ebb and flow of her peers as though she had never wandered from them. We see confliction growing there in the cracks of identity until a breaking point leaves her to grapple alone in the soft light.

For anyone who has ever questioned or doubted some deep-rooted belief, those rattling thoughts find their reflection here. Elle Macy, so deeply entrenched in the magnitude of what must be professed, floods the stage with the revelation of Butler’s unique phrases and range of expression. An extension lowered in increments, fractured contortions of line and turnout, hands that toss away their rigidity, tension made visible in her body hitting the floor only to recoil from it, are the embodiment of contending with unrest. It often feels too intimate to be perceived, as though we peer through a window into a personal wrestling with truth. And yet, we are not invisible, for with fear dwelling in her eyes, she sees us watching her and confronts us in a startling and defensive declaration of self.

Macy draws us in so deep that even as dancers creep onstage, intruding on this private affair, the spell of her expression refuses to break. As she stumbles backwards into the dark, emptied by the confession of it all, Macy's recoiling steps are such a profound sight that all else occurring onstage must wait for attention. Her outpouring changes the nature of the piece, seems to change all those around her, and in some remarkable way, changes us as well.

Though religion serves as a filter through which to view worship, the private reckonings and reconstructions of any kind of fervent devotion come into the light. One such impactful moment: as Clara Ruf Maldonado moves through a reckoning of her own, Madison Rayn Abeo, the only other soul onstage, leaves her own beautiful grappling to bow towards Maldonado in reverence. This gesture of devotion to an individual shatters a moment later, as Abeo draws away, suddenly frightened or repulsed, and Maldonado carries on into the limelight, oblivious.

How often do we get the chance to watch dancers waiting in the wings, entranced as they watch their colleagues curl through the warmest light? It’s a beautiful sight to see them waiting there, and to watch as, behind them, swirling shadows dance their way across the illuminated fly pulleys, magnifying the temporary spell of wonder. It is details like this that make Cracks a work that you can sink into time and time again, revealing new interpretations, complications, and grief amid all the thoughtful beauty. Cracks leaves no leaf unturned, and lets every layered element contribute to the feeling of significance that came home with me night after night. Its conclusion feels like another beginning as dancers stand upon newly fledged possibility, prompting contemplation and discussion, and undoubtedly, reflecting some sliver of illuminated verity.

Pacific Northwest Ballet principal dancers Sarah-Gabrielle Ryan and Kyle Davis in Twyla Tharp’s Nine Sinatra Songs. Photo © Angela Sterling.

When the curtain lifts to reveal a sparkling disco sending its speckled light dancing, it seems there might be no finer place to land than in the nostalgic evening hue of Twyla Tharp’s Nine Sinatra Songs. Energy sinks and soars from piece to piece, and by its triumphant end, Tharp has shown all the complexities and simplicities of a life filled with love. It takes a chameleon of a choreographer to be able to take a form of dance that feels a world away from ballet and make it appear like the most natural thing for these dancers to be inhabiting. In a 2020 interview with Lourdes Lopez (the artistic director of Miami City Ballet at the time), Tharp’s distinction and careful crafting of each partnership was evident. Collectively, they tell the arc of love, but in their own tune, character blossoms and forms one part of that story. 

In Tharp’s own words: “Softly, As I Leave You” is “the innocence of first falling in love”. Slipping under the spell of such pure feeling, Angelica Generosa and Dylan Wald were a vision of splendid serenity in every happy jaunt, leap of faith, and wild soaring lift. Their control and airy ease make miraculous things look deceivingly simple. A swoon-worthy sight indeed, that, night after night, caused a ruckus of response as they flurried through intricacies to find the final embrace right on Sinatra's last breath. 

“Strangers in the Night” is, as Tharp puts it, a work of “seduction,” and Sarah-Gabrielle Ryan and Kyle Davis were all controlled flair and intensity through every absurd feat of strength and commanding character. 

Earning tremendous recognition for the characters and mood they evoked, Lily Wills and Mark Cuddihee melted into the sounds of some empty piano bar in “One For My Baby (And One More For The Road)”. Tharp characterizes their time-stilling pas de deux as one of “intense familiarity,” and in the late, wilting hour, Wills and Cuddihee highlighted Tharp’s ability to tell stories and craft characters that we seem to know immediately.

The “light and bright” mood of “Somethin’ Stupid” paints a whole lot of heart alongside the humor. Madison Rayn Abeo and Ryan Cardea found all the perfect timing and charm with a glimmer in their eyes. The humor lies not only in obvious things, but in all the little details: not knowing where to spot, uncontrolled speed, turning away from a kiss unapologetically, and the way she puts him in his place time and time again. “Somethin’ Stupid” is, at its core, a winsome moment of pure intention.

In contrast, Tharp calls “All The Way” “sincere and deep,” and in its velvety smooth lyricism, it is a world apart from its neighboring songs. Mature, simple, and endearing, Elizabeth Murphy and Luther DeMyer filled the sincere devotion with enchantment.

If it were up to me, “Forget Domani” might never end, for its pure elation makes it “flamboyant” indeed and two-and-a-half minutes of bliss worth anticipating all night. In a 1984 review, Arlene Croce wrote: “When I think back on Nine Sinatra Songs, 'Forget Domani' is the one that makes me smile.” On this stage, with these dancers, it’s less of a smile, and more of an unapologetic, ear-to-ear, never-want-the-night-to-end kind of grin. In their debut, Rosalyn Hutsell and Joh Morrill filled the stage with all the ridiculously wonderful energy that the piece demands, and of course, in their final go, Juliet Prine and Noah Martzall went all out. Full of wit and reckless, wild partnering, Prine and Martzall’s exuberance for every marvelous step made it incredibly difficult to watch their rambunctious duet disappear into the wings.

The intensity of “That’s Life” sets it apart. Here, Tharp highlights disagreement. “How do you argue?” she reflected in 2020. How do you argue and then find a resolution? It’s a volatile, rough give and take, with Jonathan Batista and Clara Ruf Maldonado egging each other on with high-strung tension. Its end ignited a wild response every time, for with each performance, Jonathan Batista cut the sleeve trick closer and closer, testing the limits of the audience’s trust, and sending the full house into a roar when his hand was freed just as Maldonado came flying into his arms.

Twyla Tharp knows how to make us smile with the smallest hint and how to create characters within these vignettes of timeless charm. As dance writer Lora Strum put it in 2022: “There's no way to work these pieces out, to pick them apart into something that feels like it's been seen before…no matter how many times it's performed. But then that's just Twyla Tharp doing what she has, and will always, do best: putting originality center stage”. How it can all end, I’ll never know. The night flies by in flowing visions of content,  and by its end, a replenished soul can only wonder how such splendour can flit before our eyes and then vanish. A tremendous thank you to Pacific Northwest Ballet for ending the season on a richly satisfying note that will surely carry us until September. Until then, I’ll be humming Sinatra and remembering these glimmering moments when the night felt limitless.

Pacific Northwest Ballet corps de ballet dancers Lily Wills and Mark Cuddihee in Twyla Tharp’s Nine Sinatra Songs. Photo © Angela Sterling.