Kyle Abraham conceived his latest piece for New York City Ballet in a pandemic winter residency in upstate New York. When We Fell was born first as a black and white film, framed by images of falling snow and a turbulent sea, reflecting the enforced isolation of the time and a fortitude embodied by a handful of dancers in Abraham’s coolly minimalist choreography. It has now premiered on stage, with the thrilling immediacy of four pianos played live and eight dancers heroically charting a path across barren terrain, their bodies sheathed in barely-there, silvery-coppery unitards, as if they’d been dipped in molten alloys.
Indiana Woodward kicked off a pensive adagio. She looked both vulnerable and regal, her back to us on a cavernous stage, unadorned save for a faintly glowing canvas backdrop across which ran a sliver of mirror. The others joined her in a dance form that was serene and austere, the formality of the academic steps tempered by casual gestures, like a swirl of the arm around the waist suggesting plumage or a cape. Movement impulses often came from a head roll, or a rippling torso or shoulders. The end of a sequence featured a delicate flutter of the hands, like birds signaling to one another, “let’s perch on this fence for a bit”.
An absence of ostentation permeated the piece even when more obviously virtuosic steps were introduced: by Jules Mabie who bounded into the air in attitude; by Taylor Stanley whose leg inscribed a dramatic arc in a sideways tilt; by David Gabriel who spun turns like he was spinning sugar; by KJ Takahashi who hurtled through a series of turning jumps like a glowing ball of fire and ended quietly on one knee; and by India Bradley and Sebastián Villarini-Vélez who steered a steep arabesque penché through revolutions with nerves of steel. Dispassionate yet tender partnering maneuvers marked a work steeped in solitude. Stanley and Woodward alternately melted into each other’s arms, taking turns to provide a steadying force, before Stanley whirled her offstage at the close, her pointes tracing large circles on the floor.
In contrast to When We Fell, Balanchine’s Divertimento from ‘Le Baiser de la Fée’ and Lynne Taylor-Corbett’s Chiaroscuro conjured swells of emotion. Roman Mejia made his debut as the tortured artist in Baiser, his petit allegro work elegant and buoyant. Opposite him, Tiler Peck gave a compelling dramatic reading as she evolved from carefree village maiden to a woman possessed. But there was little sense of doom in Mejia’s solo, the mysterious bending and scooping movements more athletic than ominous, his descent into despair unconvincing. This made for an uneven tragic arc as the couple were wrenched apart by the invisible forces of a feudal system that denied peasants agency (clue: everyone is dressed as peasants.)
Andrew Veyette danced the Christ-like protagonist in Chiaroscuro for the last time, his heart on his sleeve, this being his farewell season with the company. The baroque score inspired many striking interactions with friends/disciples. He hoisted Ashley Laracey into a stretched-out sitting position overhead; this “chaise longue” lift was so much fun, he did it again. Elsewhere, he swung her into a shoulder straddle; she slid down his back before detouring into a stately arabesque, her standing foot pressed into his hand. Preston Chamblee was on fire in his jumps; Daniel Ulbricht made pirouettes interesting again; both men partnered Veyette handsomely. The striking Brittany Pollack rushed around urgently, like an angel of prophecy.
Alexei Ratmansky’s 2017 Odesa rounded out the fascinating jumble of a program. Leonid Desyatnikov’s brooding, brassy score zigzagged from circus to tango hall, high-fiving Mahler along the way. Ratmansky distilled Isaac Babel’s chronicles of Jewish gangsters in the seaport of Odesa around the time of the October Revolution into the entanglements of three unhappy couples for whom the choreography zigzagged disconcertingly between abstract, dreamlike sequences and darkly banal story-telling.
We got Joseph Gordon yanking Indiana Woodward around; Megan Fairchild assaulted by a gang while the orchestra played carnival tunes; Fairchild recoiling from and slapping her partner Daniel Ulbricht; Sara Mearns hitting some Slaughter on Tenth Avenue poses and falling dramatically out of supported pirouettes with Tyler Angle (whether choreographed or improvised, the tension was electrifying.)
Angle’s smoking, turning jumps conveyed pure evil. It was in such moments that the choreography transcended dubious theatrics. Brilliant, too, were the gripping sequences for the ensemble who came barreling on to intensify a soloist’s inner world or provide a sardonic counterpoint, often in jazz-inflected formalities. While Mearns was making thrilling drama, notably in her famous arabesques that radiate yearning, the corps women low-key pranced, waving their arms like sinister tendrils. Generally, though, the cartoonish portrayals of the soloist men as louche and the soloist women as world-weary undermined the oblique commentary on oppression and resistance.
