Pretty and beastly: Paul Taylor Dance Company at the Joyce Theater

As if to underscore the untamed, primal instincts barely concealed beneath a facade of sophistication in America under the present reign of cruelty, the Paul Taylor Dance Company has brought Taylor’s Cloven Kingdom back for its brief season at New York’s Joyce Theater. 49 years after its premiere, its stiletto wit remains acute, its imagery dazzling.

Taylor could do pretty and beastly in the span of a waltz phrase. Women in billowing charmeuse swayed and sank into elaborate curtseys, and sailed across the stage in a lush waltz. As shards of percussion by Henry Cowell and Malloy Miller pierced the baroque stylings of Arcangelo Corelli, they stomped around in a deep wide squat, elbows askew and fingers planted on hunched shoulders like wings, and sprang repeatedly into the air, abs crunched, as if dodging threats on the ground.

A quartet of men in white tie and tails preened and pranced like frat boys miscast in ‘Afternoon of a Faun’. Expressions of apathy turned to hostility as they pounded their fists and bounced off each other, whipped up by Miller’s arsenal of percussion. Peak intensity was reached when the men and women united for an eerie series of sideways leaps, pumping their arms to achieve maximum wingspan – like a flock of raptors in evening dress.

Two women appeared in mirrored helmets shaped like a cube and a mini-satellite dish. Soon everyone was wearing a mirrored headpiece in an outlandish design. Were they aliens? Giant mutant arthropods? Taylor mischievously paired them off in a frenzied ballroom dance scene that degenerated into a conga line: the telltale sign of a wedding reception where everyone is plastered. He has taken us to some very dark places in works like Big Bertha and Last Look; when he chose a path of light in works like Aureole and Arden Court, he offered glimpses of heaven. Cloven Kingdom evokes Mount Olympus, occupied by inebriate, squabbling gods and goddesses.

We got more arthropods in this program, in the revival of a lesser-known work Tablet, created on Dan Wagoner and the young Pina Bausch, who was in the company from 1960-62. In his memoir, Taylor compared the frangible Bausch to a praying mantis. Today, Kristin Draucker tackles the role, less praying mantis more pollinator, bringing a flickering grace to the sharply angular moves. Devon Louis in Wagoner’s role is a good match, powerful yet delicate in his handling of Draucker. 

The minimalist, vibrant designs by Ellsworth Kelly in his first of two collaborations with Taylor comprise a series of luminous curved lines on the backdrop, suggestive of radio waves, and unitards for the dancers in a saturated blue for him, mustard for her, with geometric hints of a carapace painted on the torsos. The choreography is spare and droll – and especially taxing for Louis, who must traverse the stage in a series of jumps while crouched in a squat and who proved it was possible to look elegant while doing so. After sizing each other up, he eventually scoops Draucker up into a ball. The ending is surprisingly corny. Yet this work inspired by qualities that Taylor observed in Bausch and Wagoner makes an intriguing milestone on the journey to connect the dots of Taylor’s legacy.

The evening opened with Polaris, from 1976, a cerebral experiment explained in the programme, for we might otherwise not have realized that the second set of dancers that replaced the first halfway through were repeating the same choreography. Dancers, music and lighting had changed, but the dance remained the same. The vibe was playful and optimistic in the first round, tense and ominous in the second.

Alex Katz’ austere cube formed by 12 gleaming pipes served as home base for five dancers at a time, their taut, athletic figures wrapped in skintight black-and-white briefs with bandeau tops for the women.

The first quintet seemed pleased with their new ‘home,’ oblivious to the tightness of the space for five. John Harnage and Payton Primer expressed their delight in a tender pas de deux which concluded with a gesture that looked like they were hanging a piece of art on an invisible wall. 

In contrast, the second crew seemed determined to find ways to escape a prison cell. When they stepped out to explore their surroundings, the first group peered around the corners of the cube with playful curiosity; their successors gave the impression of MI6 hunting down Russian mercenaries. Gabrielle Barnes from the happy group finished her step-up turns with a grand sweep of the leg, noble and assured. Jessica Ferretti by contrast slashed her leg like a sword. One imagined the second crew to be descendants of the first, inheritors of a decaying environment, their worldview hardened by regime change. But when the first crew returned to replace them, the music struck a hopeful chord, hinting at redemption.