Hubbard Street Dance Chicago
The Joyce Theater
New York, New York
March 25, 2025
Black Milk, Into Being, A Duo, IMPASSE
Jerry Hochman
Hubbard Street Dance Chicago returned to the Joyce Theater last night for a week-long engagement, bringing with it a 1990 piece by Ohad Naharin, Black Milk, plus three other dances that were New York premieres: Into Being, choreographed by a two-person combination known as FLOCK; A Duo, by Aszure Barton; and IMPASSE, by Johan Inger.
I reviewed Hubbard Street following its 2024 two-week set of programs, which was the first time that the company had appeared at the Joyce since 2019 – before the pandemic. And I noted how different the company looked then, compared to its appearance in 2019, which I attributed to its relatively new Artistic Director, Linda-Denise Fisher-Harrell. Nevertheless, the caliber of the company was as high as ever.
One year later, the company still looks different from what I’d been accustomed to seeing; this is the new normal. But beyond surface appearance, Hubbard Street still shows the same high-quality work, and takes risks.
The first, second, and fourth pieces leave reasonably good impressions, but the third dance on the program is mind-boggling – in a good way.
I’ll start this review with that piece, and thereafter meander through the rest of the program.
(l-r) Shota Miyoshi and Cyrie Topete in Aszure Barton’s “A Duo'”
Photo by Michelle Reid
A Duo is what it says it is: a duo. At this performance, the 2024 piece was danced by Shota Miyashi and Cyrie Topete, one of three casts spread over the week’s seven performances. Although I’m not unfamiliar with Barton’s choreography (she’s a Hubbard Street Resident Artist), I had no advance knowledge of its score’s composer – Marina Herlop.
The dance started out strange. Nothing unusual there – many do. And many remain “strange” throughout. But A Duo is strange as to everything: the music, the costumes (by Remi van Bochove), and the choreography, with the dancers first appearing side-by-side downstage center, their backs to the audience, wearing what at first looked like balloon-ish kimonos (which turned out to be strange-looking balloon-ish tops and bottoms), and then moving in tandem upstage with their arms spread at roughly 90 degrees from their bodies, folded downward at the elbows, indelicately progressing one leg at a time while maintaining a sort of squat position (echoing the positioning of the arms), and moving side to side as they did.
And it got even stranger as the dance progressed.
And as it did, I relatively quickly determined that Barton had created a different dance language; there was nothing in the movement quality that resembled anything I’d seen before. At first I thought it was just another example of a choreographer “inventing” a new choreographic language just to show he/she/they could, regardless of how it looks to an audience.
But this “language” was particularly intriguing. I initially thought the two characters were supposed to be automatons: dancing robots. But this communication method was unusually complex, even for robots (I’m hopelessly stuck in the 20th Century; “ai” is simply a misspelling). So I started thinking that the two dancers were intended to represent visitors from another planet. And then I sensed that the dancers were attempting to communicate with each other (that there is an audience is ignored until the end). As an unrepentant Trekie, I thought of the Star Trek episode “Darmok,” except there the humans are attempting to communicate with a civilization that had its own unique way of communicating; here that different civilization had beamed down to a stage in Chelsea.
I usually don’t react well to choreographers who show their creativity by changing basic movement quality, but, again, this was different. The strange movement was consistent (or consistently inconsistent) throughout, performed apparently flawlessly by Miyashi and Topete. Much of the movement was in sync, but that was, visually, almost a relief from the benevolent movement and music cacophony that flowed through the dance.
And about that music. It was as strange-sounding as the dance’s movement was strange-looking. I couldn’t place it. It sounded like Japanese (which shows my lack of familiarity with Japanese), and the second song in particular sounded artificially sweet – as well as incomprehensible. Something like an insipid bubble-gum song (e.g., “Sugar,” for those 60s- ignorant) sung by Japanese-sounding alien young girls on a mission to make everything sound sugary. Since that is not logical (and with that I’ll cease my Star Trek references), I decided that the choreography and the music were a unity, and they reflected in some unique way animated anime. Something like Sailor Moon meets Star Trek and, in the process, creates a new language.
Shota Miyoshi in Aszure Barton’s ‘”A Duo”
Photo by Michelle Reid
I wasn’t far wrong (“far” being relative). As I do when it’s important to get information about what I don’t know, which is happening with increasing frequency, I looked up Marina Herlop. She’s from Spain (a Catalonian); her last name is a mashup that she uses professionally (her name is Marina Hernández López), and she has a unique music style that several different sources define as her own language. And I checked out the two compositions specifically referenced in the program: “Miu” and “Shaolin Mantis” (the latter being far more significant to my initial sense of the dance), and they still impacted the same way, as anime, or anime-ish, even though the sound is not directly related to anime. The songs (particularly the second) sound like – in my mind – what singing female anime characters might sound like. And in some unspecifiable way, Barton’s choreography reflects this.
Well, I was wrong. But it was close. Turns out, though I don’t know what was on Herlop’s mind, “Shaolin Mantis” may relate to Shaolin – a Chinese (not Japanese) Buddhist sect, where a particular style known as “Shaolin Kung Fu” is said to have originated. So something like a “praying” mantis may have been on Herlop’s mind.
A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.
There is nothing in A Duo in any way related to Kung Fu. At least I don’t think there is. But the dance’s genesis isn’t nearly as important as what’s seen on stage. I can’t describe the movement in any way that makes any sense – it’s that unusual, and that varied; nor can I say what it was that the duo were trying to communicate to each other, if anything, because I don’t understand the unique language.
But make no mistake, what Barton has brilliantly created (and what the dancers executed with equal brilliance) is a unique movement language inspired by, or simply to match, the unique musical/vocal language that Herlop created – and that A Duo is some sort of typical relationship dance from some galaxy where no one has gone before. [Sorry.]
And as A Duo ends, the duo are on their sides on the stage floor (vertically; heads forward), gazing out at the audience, communicating something … like they’d been transported to a strange environment filled with beings they’d never before seen.
(l-r) Shota Miyoshi and Cyrie Topete in Aszure Barton’s “A Duo”
Photo by Michelle Reid
Whether my take on this is right or wrong doesn’t matter. What does is that Barton’s dance is intriguing enough to pull an audience in (judged by the audience-wide reaction), and to keep us there throughout – not just because the dancers’ execution of the mostly angular pushes and pulls was so well-done, but because every aspect of this dance was so intelligently rendered – even its title (A Duo is titled as it is because every aspect of it – gender, venue, movement language, costumes, score – can’t be categorized beyond that).
I don’t get excited about much of what I see these days, but this one is different. Literally. Simply (or not so simply) put, A Duo is one of the finest dances I’ve seen this year.
Johan Inger’s Impasse, which closed the program, isn’t. But it’s not bad either. I’ll discuss it momentarily. But first I want to focus on one of the dancers who appeared in it (and another dance on the program). I don’t like to single out one dancer when all performed admirably, but this one is different.
Simone Stevens joined Hubbard Street in 2021, so I should have seen her in last year’s program, but I have no recollection of that. This year, however, seeing her was unavoidable – not that anyone would want to.
Stevens demands attention in any piece, or scene in any piece, in which she appears, even though standing out doesn’t quite compute. She’s tiny; easily the tiniest dancer in the company. But because she’s different, it’s difficult not to gravitate to her. And once that happens, she grabs you with crystalline performances, and because she adds something – a reaction to stimuli, to a situation – in a way no one else does.
Stevens was particularly noteworthy in IMPASSE. To the extent Impasse can be said to have a central character, Stevens’s character was it.
I’ve seen several pieces choreographed by Inger, a Swedish choreographer who danced a stint with NDT, and overall I have a mixed opinion of them. This one is mixed also – good because it’s clear what Inger is doing and why he’s doing it, and not so good because Inger thinks he’s demonstrating more than what the dance visualizes.
Hubbard Street Dance Chicago in Johan Inger’s “IMPASSE”
Photo by Michelle Reid
According to the program note (the program’s only dance that includes one), IMPASSE “investigates our shared humanity by illuminating how societal pressures contribute to the loss of self. Obsession with “newness” and the seductions of peer pressure prohibit us from meaningful growth. The paradox of this is that together we are stronger as a community; alone, we are less.”
That’s a mouthful, most of which are the lofty (and egocentric) generalizations that give program notes a bad name. Its conclusory statements are not consistent with what the dance presents (and as to the last of them, the dance seems to be saying exactly the opposite).
What saves IMPASSE, in addition to the performances by Stevens and other members of the company (the entire company), is that Inger displays what he’s doing (whether conforming to the program note or not) in relatively distinct scenarios, and the dance’s trajectory is a lot clearer than the program note.
The piece’s score – all or parts of songs from an album (“Diagnostic,” 2011) by Ibraham Maalouf (as listed in the program, but not necessarily in the order as used in the dance: “Lily (is 2),” “Soon Be a Woman,” “Maeva in the Wonderland,” “Your Soul,” and “Never Serious”), as well an unnamed original music by Amos Ben-Tai – seems tailor-made for the progression that Inger visualizes. The music goes from being barely there to growth to sensual awakening to ‘the wild party’ ambiance of “Never Serious”; and the jazzy Middle-Eastern thrust of the score fits quite well.
Inger’s dance follows that same rough trajectory: the girl’s innocence is established first, as is her playful interaction with one boy, then another (I use that terminology because all three act like children); followed by the sudden lure of sexuality, represented by a large group of the cast (dressed in black), into which the three, after some initial hesitation, not unwillingly join; the equally sudden appearance (adding the balance of the cast) in a wild, uncontrolled Halloween party-like atmosphere (more like a carnival or Mardi Gras celebration) – with some of the party participants wearing outrageous costumes (with or without feathered plumes) and/or exhibiting unusual personal characteristics – that the three are swept into (again, not unwillingly, although Stevens’s character is uncomfortable wearing the “crown” that one of the mass of party-goers puts on her head).
(l-r) Jacqueline Burnett, Jack Henderson, and David Schultz
in Johan Inger’s “IMPASSE”
Photo by Michelle Reid
The dance ends with an escape of sorts as the three original dancers make their way out from wherever the party was through a newly-appeared downstage “door,” smaller than the original, such that when the three exit the stage through this door, they land in the theater’s orchestra. So much for being part of a community (unless, I suppose, Inger considers the audience to be that community).
Stevens and her two “boy friends” (the program does not identify who appeared in what role or in what order, and I don’t want to guess) presented engaging, sympathetic characters, and the balance of the company danced with enough over-the-top enthusiasm (as the piece requires) to breathe life into what might ultimately have been a deflating set of bizarre adventures.
I had a much more difficult time with FLOCK’s Into Being, though ultimately it too does what it intends to do; no more, but no less.
Into Being doesn’t appear to be “about” anything in particular other than group dynamics and the ins and outs of making contact (physical more than emotional) and forming some group (the purpose of which, beyond just being a community of five, isn’t at all evident).
FLOCK is a mashup of the names of two former Hubbard Street dancers, Alice Klock and Florian Lochner. This is the first time that I’ve seen the duo’s choreography, so I don’t have a basis for any signature style they may have. Based on this piece alone (which premiered last year, according to the program), they specialize in highly physical contacts between and among dancers, movement that looks primarily what I’ve described in previous contexts as “slinky,” and partnering that has no boundaries. In the end, most of what I can recall looks like one of those intricate “disentanglement puzzles” in which (usually) metal strips are intertwined, and the almost impossible task is to separate them.
Hubbard Street Dance Chicago in FLOCK’s “Into Being”
Photo by Michelle Reid
There’s more than that here – the stagecraft is quite good (including specifically the lighting (designed by Julie E. Ballard) and the use of it by the choreographers. Nothing unusual – spots that isolate individual dancers, and then open as these dancers connect with one or more others. And if the piece can be said to be “about” anything (and I doubt that there is), it’s that act of connecting, seen in an unusual way. It’s interesting to watch, and the dancers (Aaron Choate, Michele Dooley, Biana Melidor, Stevens, and Topete) execute well, but ultimately there’s no there there. [And Topeke gets the “iron lady” award for participating in three of the four physically demanding program pieces.]
(l-r) Cyrie Topete, Michele Dooley, Jacqueline Burnett,
Aaron Choate, and Simone Stevens in FLOCK’s “Into Being”
Photo by Michelle Reid
There is one aspect of the performance that is possibly noteworthy: there are two casts; that listed above is one. The other is the inverse of the first: four male bodies, and one female. In the dance, I didn’t see a point to this beyond the dance being gender irrelevant, but if that’s so, why divide the two casts as the choreographers do here in what must have been an intentional way.
Be that as it may, Into Being is intricate, but Its style over substance; interesting, but easily forgettable.
Naharin’s Black Milk, which he choreographed in 1990 (according to the program, but my understanding is that it premiered several years earlier), opened the program.
Like the other pieces in this program, Black Milk is a strange dance. The title is provocative-sounding, but there’s no racial component to the dance. The “black milk” refers to a substance that the five dancers (Choate, Elliiot Hammans, Jack Henderson, Andrew Murdock, and David Schultz) spread onto their bodies during what appears to be a ritual of sorts.
The dance’s score are two pieces composed by Paul Smadbeck (“Etude No. 3” and “Rhythm Song”), used in whole or in part. According to the web site mostlymarimba.com, Smadbeck is a native New Yorker who “emerged in the late 1970s as a leading classical marimba soloist” who soon thereafter began composing music for the marimba, and “his collection of etudes and other works quickly became performance favorites and have earned a permanent place in the percussion repertoire worldwide.” His piece Rhythm Song is “arguably among the most popular works ever written for the instrument.” To my untrained ear, the music accompanying Black Milk has a continuing repetitive percussive rhythm through it (consistent with it being played on a marimba) that sounded a little like Philip Glass, but with an undulating patterning to it and an exotic sound. It’s a perfect choice for the piece, which has a continuing repetitive visual movement quality to it.
Black Milk opens with one dancer downstage audience-left (for reasons stated above, I can’t specifically connect any particular dancer to a particular position in a piece); the other four are gathered upstage audience-right. The isolated dancer suddenly explodes from his position, circles around the stage, and then goes back to where he was (in the process, his costume, which appeared to me to be something actor Sam Jaffe (who played the title character) wore in the classic 1939 film Gunga Din), unfurls into an off-white “gown” – the same costume worn by the four other dancers.
Shortly thereafter one of the four dancers retrieves a pail (I’ll call it an urn, to be consistent with the dance’s apparent intent) from offstage or near him on stage, and the four proceed toward the isolated dancer, with the one who picked up the urn having placed it atop his head. The four take positions on the stage floor horizontally adjacent to the isolated dancer. [Like the performing dancers, the dance’s characters are anonymous. I’ll refer to them numerically, with “1” being the isolated dancer, and “5” being the last of the four dancers (the one who carried the urn on his head).] Dancer 5, after sitting on the stage floor adjacent to the others, puts his hands into the urn, and proceeds to drink some of it’s contents (as it appeared to me), and then to spread some sort of black substance from inside the urn (maybe what was ingested) over the upper half of his body. Dancer 5 then passes the urn to the next person to his right, dancer 4, who does the same thing. This person passes the urn to the person to his right, dancer 3, and the first two (4 and 5) move upstage. The person now with the urn, dancer 3, passes it to the person to his right, and the two of them then join the other pair after dancer 2 passes it to the person to his right – dancer 1 – the one who originally had been isolated. He does the same thing, and then joins the others.
The music then changes tempo a bit, and what proceeds thereafter is less ritualistic than celebratory, sort of. There’s considerable interaction among the five, including into positions that are unmistakably sexually suggestive. And there’s lots of group swaying with the musical beat, one side to the other, with arms intertwined like some very weird chorus line. I won’t do a further blow by blow, but you get the idea. Then, suddenly, the isolated person returns downstage audience-left, reaches into the pail and spreads what now appears to be clear water all over himself, in the process removing the “black milk.”
There are lots of scenarios as to which this stage action can be said to reflect. Most obviously, it’s some religious ritual, perhaps a sort of baptism into some religious or pseudo-religious sect. Or maybe some ritual ingestion of some hallucinogenic substance that, among other things, removes interpersonal boundaries; something like drinking the Kool-Aid, but for a different end purpose. Or some strange initiation rite at some strange fraternity. And the actions may serve as a metaphor for something completely different, like a travel warning, or a political indoctrination, or a gaggle of dance critics attempting to decipher some dance they just saw. Or just a weird dance without any intent beyond being a weird dance.
One way or another, Black Milk is a strangely beautiful (and strangely provocative) dance, very well executed. And a strange opening to an evening filled with strange and (mostly) interesting dances. Certainly ending on a program’s opening dance is also a strange way to present a review. Now I must conclude, since, on this 80+ degree day in March, Darmok and Gunga Din await with some refreshing Kool-Aid.
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