Not all is what it seems at first in the world of Johan Inger’s Impasse. Three wholesome youths gambol to the pensive tinkling of a piano, hinting at a romantic triangle that harks back to Agnes de Mille’s Rodeo, against the neon-lit outline of a gable barn or perhaps a small-town church. They deliver some aw-shucks, bowlegged cowboy moves and skitter on their knees with chest lifted. But the music (by world music maven Ibrahim Maalouf) soon yanks us out of Aaron Copland country and with brass blaring, batucada pounding, East/West diasporas colliding, drops us into the realm of Paul Taylor’s Big Bertha, the kids sucked into a funhouse by black-clad members of a manic cult who ride shotgun for a band of demonic circus characters.
Swedish choreographer Johan Inger doesn’t plumb the terrifying depths of Big Bertha, though. The program offers some anodyne notes about “loss of self”, “the seductions of peer pressure” and how “together we are stronger as a community”. But this seems like a bunch of misdirection, for Impasse, delivered with great oomph and dollops of dark humor by the dancers of Hubbard Street Dance Chicago, was terrific, bacchanalian fun – that is, until a scary clown starts savagely beating one of the cult members. Suddenly the piece hit close to home – home resembling the seedy Berlin nightclub in the musical Cabaret, set in the last years of the Weimar Republic when “anything goes” was a popular meme until the Nazis spoiled the party.
Impasse may have landed differently in 2025 America than it did in 2020 when Inger made the work on Nederlands Dans Theater 2. Today it makes a zinger of a closer for Hubbard Street’s mixed bill at New York’s Joyce Theater. Deft, nuanced performances by Simone Stevens, David Schultz and Jack Henderson as the innocent trio who manage to escape the cult at the 11th hour gave the work emotional depth. And a supremely cocky performance by Cyrie Topete as the control-freak cult leader was a revelation. The riotous enterprise was fueled by several tracks from Maalouf’s earth-shattering album ‘Diagnostic’ in which Arabic melodies, Western jazz, heavy metal, salsa and other traditions snuggle up in ways that suggest that world peace and harmony are indeed achievable goals. Amos Ben-Tal contributed an original composition that sampled Miles Davis, in another touch of genius.
The evening got off to a ponderous start with Black Milk by Ohad Naharin, an elegantly crafted piece from his early, pre-Gaga days in which an enigmatic mud-smearing ritual serves as tribal initiation. Five bare-chested dancers leapt and tumbled, their loose skirted trousers billowing attractively. The choreography and the shimmering Paul Smadbeck score for marimbas call for some tension and conflict between the dancers yet in this staging by Bret Easterling they exchanged looks that were blank bordering on morose. David Schultz danced the skeptical newcomer who couldn’t wait to scrub the mud off his face and torso; who could blame him?
Pulses slowed even further through the next piece by FLOCK, the stylized handle of two former Hubbard Street dancers, Alice Klock and Florian Lochner, who now make dances together. Into Being is the title but into being what, I wondered. A great deal of energy was expended on convoluted sequences of contact improv and bits of Pilates floor work, impeccably executed by a tight-knit ensemble of five. The cinematic score by Michael Wall provided little scaffolding. But whenever Bianca Melidor was on stage she made her sweeping, flowing, plunging movements into something suspenseful and utterly beautiful.
Things kicked into high gear with Aszure Barton’s modestly named A Duo. I’m tempted to suggest a piece this sensational be rechristened THE Duo. On opening night, Shota Miyoshi and Cyrie Topete were a triumph, grappling with a quixotic melange of Shaolin kung fu, the head movements of classical Indian dance, popping, undulating torsos and erotic gymnastic partnering. Each move was precisely synchronized with every syllable of Marina Herlop’s entrancing, otherworldly songs, uttered in an imagined language, her voice heavily manipulated and augmented with electronic effects. Yet her vocal technique inspired by the percussive syllabic singing of Carnatic music from southern India resonates with a vaguely ancient gravitas. It’s as if we’ve traveled back to some indeterminate long-ago time to hear the music of the future. Shimmering, layered costumes and ghostly lighting were all of a piece with this strange and exhilarating concept.
This is the first time I’ve seen Hubbard Street outside their hometown Chicago. What stands out most to me are the works that go out on a limb, like the immersive Space, In Perspective and their collaboration with Second City that resonate with something intrinsic to Chicago. Mixed rep is always a gamble but betting on homegrown talent is a gamble you must take.
