Amelia Reeber's "this is a forgery" Looks Real to Me

Jeremy saw a seedling version of "this is a forgery" last June. Thanks to a $10,000 prize from The A.W.A.R.D. Show, it's now an hour-long solo performance, by Amelia Reeber.

"this is a forgery" (this weekend and next at Erickson Theater off Broadway) raises the question of what "this" is. Life? Identity? Or is it a pun--a forgery as in a place where souls are forged? "How to be" is a not uncommon topic for a younger choreographer, but Reeber's sense of humor keeps earnestness from hogging the spotlight. Her collaboration with Joe Moore, Sam Mickens, and Amiya Brown not only keeps this solo from self-indulgence, but results in a quirky dreamworld that's more than backdrop.

I couldn't decide if it felt a little padded to fill the hour, or if the work wants you to accept its levels of structure--and not look for bold choreographic leaps. There are distinct differences between the three movements, which are related I think to the set, which holds, from deep left to fore right, the bottom torsos of mannequins, a collection of mini-ziggurat and -temples, and an anchor. 

The first movement opens with a video projection of an egg being inseminated--a horde of waggle-tailed sperm swimming right at you--before a golden blob of spirit joins the egg as it divides. Reeber first appears a short (teddy-ish) black dress and panties, along with (on the projection screen behind her) a four-foot-tall disappearing cat, a person in a polar bear costume, and a sort of troublesome spirit, who dispenses captions of personal criticism and mystic mumbo-jumbo about the state Reeber's chakras are in. A score of guitar chirps by Sam Mickens provides accompaniment, without feeling that musical.

Reeber lies on her back, her legs (shins bandaged) up, forming an archway, and growls, "This ain't workin' fer me!" She walks as if afflicted by an neurological disease. She trembles and shakes. (For a moment I despaired of modern dance ever not trembling and shaking, but Reeber soon shut up my interior grump.) Meanwhile, the giant cat watches intently over all, disappearing and reappearing. 

The second movement is the most visually potent, and enjoyable from a dance perspective--very simply, Reeber attaches her Ace bandages to the anchor, and through over-and-under steps, gradually unwraps her legs, gaining more and more of a leash. You don't know what's going to happen, but you know something must (the bandages are only so long), and the space becomes charged for the first time. Reeber has--with the anchor--someone else to play off. 

Finally, what? The video extras are gone, washed down a drain (one of Joe Moore's video design's more entrancing effects--another is a group campfire, with Amiya Brown's lighting flickering like the real thing). Reeber's in a strapless dress, more formal, with washes of dark blue and sea foam. Her dancing and movement has become more fluid, and her hands begin tracing out yogic mudras. The meditative swirling ends--the show has to--but it feels like a bookmark. In the program, Reeber quotes a Bukowski poem, "your life is your life / don't let it be clubbed into dank submission / be on the watch / there are ways out."