Beijing Dance Theater in “Wild Grass”

 

Watching Beijing Dance Theater perform Wild Grass, a Chicago debut that premiered at the Harris Theater on Tuesday, it’s easy to find yourself feeling ambivalent between the inspiration and the ensuing interpretation. 

 Choreographer Wang Yuanyuan’s enigmatic work — poetic, eye-catching, and shadow-like in its motifs — plays like a haunting homage to Eastern philosophies, rich in dualities of light and dark, night and day, male and female, a notably clever contrast to the Western inclination that darkness is typically related to ominous omens. Death is a prevalent theme throughout Wild Grass, portrayed as a beginning rather than an ending. 

There’s unquestionably some magic in the air, largely attributed to the aesthetics of the set and lighting designs of Wang’s creative partner, Han Jiang, but it’s often difficult to associate those unique qualities with the choreography. 

Wild Grass, inspired by a book of poetry by Chinese writer and literary giant Lu Xun, is a journey in three distinct parts (Dead FireFarewell, Shadows; and Dance of Extremity), a trance-like fantasia as beautiful in its design as it is confounding in its movement. In an attempt to shed light on the inspiration, the program book features choice quotes of Lu’s poetry, (“I am but a shadow, about to depart and sink into darkness… Yet I will not linger ambivalently between light and darkness: I would rather sink into darkness”), much of it searing with deft irony.

Rife with magnificent visuals, the evening-length piece requires two intermissions just to arrange the lavish sets. Consequently they overshadow the choreography, which struggles to compete with its striking ambiance, a result of repetitious phrases, long changeovers, and a tendency to rely on unison. In my mind, these characteristics doomed any meaningful sense of progression.

 In Dead Fire, amidst a backdrop of snow-capped black mountains, dense fog and a glowing moon, the dancers drift in white clothes, dropping handfuls of feathers in their wake as they turn and slide their way across the stage. It seemed suggestive of meandering spirits finding pleasure in their weightlessness. A lone dancer, dressed in red, acts as the central focal point — the newbie learning the extent of his newfound graces. The curtain was lifted at the end of the section to allow the dancers to bow, an ostensibly unorthodox decision for an evening-length performance. It implied conclusion, despite the two additional sections that remained on the program. It felt like a subtle, acknowledgement that the changeovers required lots of time. 

Farewell, Shadows, the second section of the work, shifts drastically. Wang is inclined to feature her dances in duets and trios, rather than solos and large groups. The men and women — now dressed in skimpy black shorts and tight shirts — show hints of playfulness (a recurring battement, for example, kicked high and then lowered intently to the floor, inducing a loud thump as the dancers look out into the audience, assured of their long limbs and technique), but the section still suffers from a regimented structure. In many cases one pair would simply walk casually from place to place like pedestrians, while another couple took up the next phrase. It was akin to watching people waiting in line for their turn. 

Dance of Extremity proved the most appealing of all three, and in many ways the most cohesive. On a glowing surface of golden yarn, the dancers exhibit a wistful, cult-like obedience, which gradually becomes mildly confrontational. The sentiment, in this case, did not feel forced or overly repetitious; arms shifted with more intent, legs became more lucid, bodies fell to the ground with greater intent. A long rope hangs from the rafters, suggesting a type of noose. At the end of the section, one of the dancers pulls as the others arrange themselves, one by one behind the other, like a set of impressionable disciples, assured of their places in line.