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The Seldoms "This Is Not A Dance Concert"

By Laura Molzahn

Mounting a site-specific work in a theater is, by definition, impossible. It's a feat even to imagine such a thing.

Carrie Hanson of the Seldoms, now beginning its tenth season, imagined it --- and realized it Saturday night at "This Is Not a Dance Concert," performed in five unconventional spots at the humongous Harris Theater. At each of three shows, the audience was divided into four groups, each one herded en masse by ushers to four dance-and-music stations in turn. My group began in the seats, moved backstage, hiked up to Lobby 2, then Lobby 3, and finally settled with the other groups and all 12 dancers and 12 musicians on the stage for the final in-the-round performance.

I wanted to love "This Is Not a Dance Concert." And there was much to love: the opportunity to see the Harris in a new light, Maria Pinto's fantastical clown costumes, Hanson's often very funny satire on the experience of theatergoing and, to a lesser extent, performing. It was an incredibly ambitious, richly imaginated project presenting some serious logistic challenges. Most were met --- not least the daunting task of delivering everybody to the right place at the right time.

But seeing this hour-long piece reminded me why the performing arts do so well in theaters, highly controlled environments designed to focus our attention. Here the many elements, often wonderful in themselves, competed with each other and with unintended distractions: the space itself, its echoes, and the bodies of other audience members. And because each group had a different sequential experience, it was impossible for Hanson to shape the piece's rhetoric.

It was often difficult to see the dancing and hear the texts (not attributed, but many culled from the Internet). Having seen the entire piece at a rehearsal, I mourned the loss of the dancing's continuity and details as well as some clever lines. Though Mike Daisy's jazz compositions, played live at each spot, were a constant source of pleasure, sometimes the players drowned out the dancers' words.

The house section, with the three performers clambering over one another and becoming incensed at their fellows' coughing and sneezing, clearly satirized audience members' negotiations for space. But it wasn't always easy to see the dancers, seated initially way behind our seats, then in spots across the aisle: those leaning forward to look blocked the view of others further down the row. Nor was it easy to hear the lines about "star" Barry Manilow. What came through best were the texts and movements delivered on the stage apron.

The distance, whether great or small, between the audience and the performers was often an issue. Sight lines were worst in the backstage section, except when the two performers perched in cherry pickers. There was a great sight gag when they got out onto the floor, then a lively bit on and around a garment rack, including a running joke about the musical "Spider-Man." But it was disheartening, standing in the back row of a four-deep clump, to hear the tall people laughing while the rest of us fruitlessly craned our necks, wondering what was so funny.

I've never before felt the need to review the ushers (and maybe it wasn't their fault), but it seemed that if we'd been further back, we might have seen more. At least the dancing was mostly visible in the two lobby sections.

The undercurrent of uncertainty, anxiety, and competition in Lobby 2, accentuated by the Harris's glowing poison-green lights, was appropriate to the section's subject: critical opinion. The texts delivered by the four dancers made amateurs and professionals alike sound like idiots. While the novices were inarticulate and overenthusiastic, shrieking "fantastic!" and "so cool!," the bored-sounding paid critics made absurd, often dismissive remarks like "There was too much music, and too little narrative."

In Lobby 3, most of the texts were lopped from Yelp reviews of the Harris itself. The absurdity of critiquing the bathrooms came through loud and clear, making this bit one of the evening's funniest --- and harshest, as the female dancers squatted on imaginary toilets. Though all four sections in essence deflated the theatrical experience, this one really brought us down to earth with a bump.

It was difficult to switch gears for the fifth and final section, which gathered everyone onstage. Apparently intended to create a sense of community, it pulled the audience into a circle (or square, actually) around the dancers, who delivered brief odd or funny biographical bits about their stage comrades. The dancing was often acrobatic, highlighting what seemed a sudden admission to the offstage lives of circus folks, lives only glimpsed in the backstage section.

Basically the finale humanized only the performers, though I think the awe they expressed at the 75-foot-high fly space was supposed to include us. But after 50 minutes of satire directed mostly at audience members, and 50 minutes of us trailing through the Harris like dutiful ants, I didn't feel included. I felt divided into us and them, which makes it difficult to live with performers in their imagined world. We remained in our places, invited guests.

Reviewed by Laura Molzahn on 02/06/2012 at 11:56 AM