Twyla Tharp Dance
New York City Center
New York, New York
March 12, 2025
Diamond Jubilee Program: Diabelli, Slacktide
Jerry Hochman
Sometimes the dividing line between lauding a new dance and being critical of it can be a thin one. Said a different way, how can you really like a dance, and yet not really like it?
That’s my conundrum in trying to review Twyla Tharp Dance’s Diamond Jubilee 60th Anniversary Program at City Center, which consisted of two dances that were New York premieres: Diabelli, which Tharp choreographed in 1998, and Slacktide, a new piece that had its world premiere this past January.
I saw reasons to commend both dances, but each piece has some deficiency that limits a fully positive response. Each is an interesting piece; and each is thoroughly entertaining – at least until it isn’t entertaining anymore.
(l-r) Kyle Halford, Angela Falk, Alexander Peters,
Miriam Gittens, Reed Tankersley, and Marzia Memoli
in Twyla Tharp’s “Diabelli”
Photo by Christopher Duggan
Diabelli is a curious dance on multiple levels. First, the music on which the dance is crafted is “33 Variations on a Waltz by Diabelli, Op. 120” (usually referred to simply as the “Diabelli Variations”) composed by Beethoven. It’s rare to see a ballet choreographed to Beethoven, much less a theme and variations on a waltz by a composer few not intimately involved in classical music have heard of.
Anton Diabelli (1781-1858) was an Austrian composer, music publisher, and editor. He is, and was, better known as a music editor than a composer. Beethoven’s piece evolved from an idea by Diabelli for a volume of music contributed by well-known Austrian composers of the day, as well as several outside of Austria. Each composition was to consist of a variation on a waltz theme that Diabelli composed in 1819 specifically for the occasion (which he called a “patriotic waltz”). Beethoven (1770-1827) was one of 50 (or 51, depending on the source) who agreed to participate.
Twyla Tharp Dance in “Diabelli”
Photo by Christopher Duggan
Instead of composing one variation on Diabellii’s waltz, Beethoven composed 33 of them, completing his “Diabelli Variations” in 1823. The composition forced Diabelli’s compendium to publish a second volume; Beethoven’s contribution formed the entirety of Volume I. It’s generally considered one of Beethoven’s finest works for piano. It was also his last major work for piano – he died four years later.
There have been other ballets composed to a “theme and variations” score. Two of the most famous are by New York City Ballet choreographers George Balanchine and Jerome Robbins. Balanchine’s Theme and Variations, which he choreographed for American Ballet Theater and subsequently included as a segment of Tchaikovsky Suite No. 3 for NYCB, is a masterpiece. But it’s more than that – it’s a genius imposition of a choreographic theme and variations onto its accompanying score’s theme and variations. When I recognized what Balanchine was doing (it took several viewings) it hit like a brick.
Robbins’s The Goldberg Variations is choreographed to Bach’s “Goldberg Variations,” and is a different type of dance. It certainly picks up on the composition’s (and its composer’s) Baroque time period, but it structures a ballet that masterfully contrasts music and choreography of the Baroque period and modern/ contemporary music and choreography, all through Bach’s variations. So it’s dependent on, and related to, the score but at the same time independent of it; that is, it neither creates its own choreographic variations, as Theme and Variations does, nor does it illuminate the individual variations themselves. But it does have a theme directly related to the underlying composition. It, too, is a masterpiece. And the fact that it’s the dance that introduced me to a young ballerina named Gelsey Kirkland has nothing to do with that evaluation.
Kyle Halford (mid-leap), Oliver Greene-Cramer,
Renan Cerdeiro, Alexander Peters, and Reed Tankersley
in Twyla Tharp’s “Diabelli”
Photo by Christopher Duggan
Diabelli is not either of these. Tharp choreographs to Beethoven’s score, but doesn’t do anything with it beyond using that score as a base upon which to choreograph – and there’s nothing wrong with that: it’s a way to see the music. It’s undeniably a tour de force, but it reflects its score, rather than augmenting it in one way (Theme and Variations) or another (Goldberg Variations), and is reflective of Tharp’s choreographic style onto music – any music, though this one happened to be Beethoven. That’s not necessarily a bad thing; on the contrary, it’s more common than either of the other paths. But it’s not as inherently interesting.
I must add one caveat to the above. I didn’t see any choreographed variations in Diabelli comparable to the variations in Beethoven’s score that play off one or more of the variations that precede them, but on first view there may have been some commonality that I missed. One viewing may be sufficient to detail Tharp’s shorter dances, but the longer epic dances require more exposures to reveal their choreographic secrets. Diabelli lasts nearly an hour. I did see movement repetition, but that’s not the same thing. For example, I saw numerous instances of what I’d describe as upside-down over-the-shoulder slide-behind-the –back-to-the-floor overhead lifts, some of which may be slight variations from the others, but at best that’s a repetitive choreographic motif, not repetition of a theme – Tharp’s or Beethoven’s.
Regardless of how it fits in with other “theme and variations” dances, Diabelli is an example of Tharp’s idiosyncratic style. Each variation is handled a bit differently from another (or, in some cases, significantly differently), she adapts her choreography to the tempo and ambiance of the score, there’s sufficient movement variety, and she interjects a semblance of fun into some of her variations (leap-frogging, piggy-backing, etc.) that have no relationship whatsoever to the ambiance of the score, but which enable the dance to avoid being overly ponderous. Consequently, Diabelli maintains interest until one tires either of the style (an overdose of which can be fatal), or by its length. And although I enjoyed watching most of it, I succumbed to the tedium of watching 33 dances choreographed to 33 variations on an undistinguished waltz. It’s a viewing, as well as dancing, marathon.
(l-r) Marzia Memoli, Oliver Greene-Cramer, Daisy Jacobson,
Miriam Gittens, Renan Cerdeiro, and Nicole Morris
in Twyla Tharp’s “Diabelli”
Photo by Christopher Duggan
No dancer’s effort in Diabelli is marginal. The group of ten, each clad in black pants and faux tuxedo tops, made Tharp’s choreography look second nature – and for most of them, it probably is. I particularly enjoyed seeing Daisy Jacobson again, and Renan Cerdeiro (whom I recall from his appearances as a Miami City Ballet principal). Additionally, Nicole Ashley Morris seemed to be everywhere at once, and Kyle Halford, who is relatively new with the company, was a standout.
And recognition was earned several times over by the live (offstage) pianist who flawlessly rendered all 33 variations, Vladimir Rumyantsev.
Slacktide is a different kettle of fish.
A slack tide is the short period in a body of tidal water when the water is completely unstressed, and there is no movement either way in the tidal stream. It occurs before the direction of the tidal stream reverses. Consequently, one might think that a dance titled Slacktide has something to do with water and a slack tide. I’m convinced that it does.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Twyla Tharp Dance in “Slacktide”
Photo by Christopher Duggan
When a choreographer creates a sensation like In The Upper Room (hereafter, occasionally, just ITUR), a viewer (or at least this viewer) looks for subsequent similar success. When it began, I thought Slacktide was in some way that successor. Like ITUR, it includes a large group of dancers (twelve, two more than Diabelli), a score by Philip Glass (more on the score below), and it also begins with a black rear stage curtain or scrim (though, unlike ITUR, the “blackness” appeared impervious and there was no cloud-like atmosphere).
But as the dance evolved, such surface similarities to ITUR disappeared. The background frequently changed color, the score sounded more different than similar (though there are limited echoes of the ITUR score), and the choreography isn’t punctuated the way ITUR is, and doesn’t have the ballet connection that ITUR does. And particularly significant, at least to me, is that the movement quality somehow looked as if it was being performed underwater.
When the performance ended and I had an opportunity to locate the score’s title (it’s stated in the program; just in small type), it became obvious that the dance does relate to its title, and that it’s choreographed to music intended to evoke not only an aquatic sense, but one that’s exotic-sounding.
The music credit is to Glass’s “Aguas da Amazonia,” composed in 1999, and more specifically to the arrangement of it in 2024 by Chicago’s Third Coast Percussion (“TCP”) comprised of David Skidmore, Sean Connors, Robert Dillon, and Peter Martin, who performed the score live from the pit.
Twyla Tharp Dance in “Slacktide”
Photo by Christopher Duggan
The genesis of the score, which is one of the finest – and most benevolently cerebral, sensual, and haunting – dance scores I’ve heard in a very long time, merits some brief elaboration. The information below is a broad synthesis of information gleaned from several different web sites.
The piece’s original title (translated from the Portuguese) is “Waters of the Amazon, seven or eight pieces for a ballet” (or, depending on the source, just “Seven or eight pieces for a ballet”). It was a piano piece by Glass commissioned by Grupo Corpo, the highly-regarded dance company based in Belo Horizonte, Brazil, that attempted to capture the sense of the Amazon River and its various tributaries. The composition continued to evolve after it’s nominal inception date (1993), with more Amazon tributary rivers added, until there were twelve tracks (give or take…), with all but the final track named after Amazon tributary rivers. The last evolution from Glass and an instrumental group he collaborated with was in 1999. That’s where the 1999 date comes from. So the date of the Glass composition really stretches from 1993-1999.
There were sporadic intermediate recordings of “Aguas da Amazonia” after 1999, but no indication that the score changed after that (beyond perhaps reducing the number of “river” tracks or changing their order) until TCP rearranged its own prior rearrangement of it in collaboration with Tharp, who was creating choreography to TCP’s new arrangement. The new arrangement apparently has ten tracks, representing nine rivers (one, the Madeira River, is divided into two tracks), and rearranges the order of the rivers from various prior incarnations.
Twyla Tharp Dance in “Slacktide”
Photo by Studio Aura
On the TCP website, there is a statement that explains why the score sounds as exotic as it does: “…We scored these arrangements for a collection of custom instruments, including instruments we sourced and instruments that our production manager, Colin Campbell, built for the project. These include a glass marimba, a red oak marimba, a PVC bass instrument (who knew that household plumbing could be the source for a musical instrument?), and more.” Also part of the recorded arrangement was flute accompaniment by TCP’s guest artist, Constance Volk. Volk also appeared as a guest artist with TCP at this performance.
But all this begs a question – or several. Why is it that the program doesn’t identify (and makes no mention of) the ten segments of the TCP rearrangement, and why is it that the dance is titled Slacktide, rather than “Waters of the Amazon” or something similar?
I think the answer is that Tharp wanted what she wanted for her score, but didn’t want her dance to be limited by the score’s title and any specific intent of the individual components. She wanted a free-flowing dance, without segmented boundaries.
Twyla Tharp Dance in “Slacktide”
Photo by Studio Aura
And that’s what she provides. She’s maintained the connection to water, and to the Amazon (via sounds of the “Amazon jungle” that can occasionally be heard), but now the location could be most anywhere where music as exotic-sounding as this might be located. And the thrust of the piece changes from the pulsing and imputed character of the Amazon and its tributary rivers (which is an underlying gently percussive continuing heartbeat) to the slack tide where the river water, and whatever may be in it, gather and briefly rest in place.
Aside from the benefits provided by its score, I thought Slacktide was quite good on its own choreographic merits: there’s a “smoothness’ to the choreography (in contrast to a lot of staccato imagery with ITUR). Even with all the Tharpian gyrations, it all went swimmingly until it appeared to have been stretched beyond what I thought was the natural and logical ending point that Tharp provided: shortly after a bravura solo (essentially in place), a dancer leaps onto the arms of awaiting dancers and, suddenly, everything on stage stops. It seemed to be an ending consistent with ITUR, although in context quite different. But after a few seconds (a seeming eternity in stage time), movement resumed.
Again in hindsight, I can discern a reason for that, albeit a strange one, that’s consistent with the dance’s title, its movement, its score, and its ending(s).
Twyla Tharp Dance in “Slacktide”
Photo by Studio Aura
Assume that the dancers not only are on stage to execute Tharp’s choreography, but to one extent or another are representative of creatures who ply the waters reflected in the score. Assume further that these creatures exist in tidal waters that contain areas of slack tides (or else, why title the dance Slacktide?). [My research indicates that the effects of tides can extend far inland, depending on the river’s characteristics and the strength of the tides. The Amazon River carries a strong tidal wave, called the pororoca. And the flow of a river can reverse with the tides.]
Upon entering a slack tide, the entity’s movement quality changes because it’s no longer being propelled. The river’s tidal flow slows, and stops dead, until the flow begins to reverse direction.
Essentially, the dance can be seen as a visualization of that occurrence, magnified. The aquatic creatures (ok, fish) are first seen propelled in one direction (they enter from the audience-right wings). Except for relatively minor variants, they look alike (all costumed in black), as if from the same “school.” If you’ve ever had tropical fish, you know that when a fish enters a waterspace that’s different from whatever the norm is (e.g., different temperature, chemistry), that fish may move differently, and briefly “shimmy” in place. When the water area changes again (or the fish otherwise regains its footing, or finning), the fish swims out of the area. Apply that to a slack tide, where water movement freezes in place until the waterflow direction reverses, and, at least theoretically, there’s a brief point in which everything (the water and anything in it) briefly stops
That’s what happens in Slacktide (forgetting for this comment’s purpose that my research indicates that fish rarely enter slack tide areas). And that’s a viable explanation for the dance’s resumption of movement after the point where all movement stops.
Save your emails – the above comments are made by a chronic overthinker. But try coming up with another explanation for the dance’s trajectory beyond that the choreographer can do whatever the choreographer wants to do for any reason or no reason, and that includes an explanation for the dance’s title in contrast to the title (and contents) of the underlying score.
Twyla Tharp Dance in “Slacktide”
Photo by Christopher Duggan
Aside from that issue, I saw nothing in Slacktide beyond choreography that fit the movement and sounds of the score. There’s nothing wrong with that, and when the score is as stimulating as this one is, that should be sufficient. But to me Slacktide needed something more. Perhaps a revisit will enable me to see things that I missed on first view.
I most admired the performances of Marzia Memoli (the dance’s frequent focal point), and Reed Tankersley, who shimmied like a fish in that lengthy solo (in truth it was a lot more than that – although executed in place, Tankersley squeezed an astonishing amount of movement variety within that tiny stage space), and shortly thereafter soared and froze seemingly in mid-flight. But the entire cast shined. In addition to those already mentioned here and with respect to Diabelli, they included Angela Falk, Miriam Gittens, Zachary Gonder, Oliver Green-Cramer, Nicole Ashley Morris, Alexander Peers, and Molly Rumble.
The bottom line is that I enjoyed both these Tharp epic pieces, perhaps Slacktide a bit more than Diabelli because of its discernible ambiance. But I don’t think that either is representative of Tharp’s finest work.
One final comment. Much has been made of the time-of-creation difference between Diabelli and Slacktide – 1998 vs. 2025 – as if these pieces illustrate an evolution in Tharp’s choreography. They’re certainly different pieces, but although it’s not In the Upper Room, Slacktide does have the kind of polish that that piece has. ITUR premiered in 1986. So that theory of choreographic evolution from 1998 to 2025 is baseless. The two dances together do illustrate differences in style and a basic category of dance, but that would be the case even if Slacktide had been paired with, say, Deuce Coupe.
And in the end, it doesn’t really matter.
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