After the usher warns the audience that The Quartet, choreographed by Heather Kravas, is an intermission-less hour and a half, the audience is ushered into the main stage at On The Boards to find bleachers. Half the usual seating is available in its usual proscenium arrangement, but The Quartet is performed (through October 13) in a three-quarter thrust arrangement with the side seating on bleachers. A thin cushion marks each seat. The usher’s warning is warranted; this will be an endurance test, but the good news is that the test pays off.
Beyond the bleachers, the set is minimal. Vorhees (AKA composer Dana Wachs) stands, holding a guitar, at a tech table behind the center seating area. Next to her is a light board operator on a headset. Clothes are folded neatly upstage, and downstage a naked woman lies on her side.
The music is performed live with looped sounds of guitar rhythms heavy on gain, breathy wordless vocals, and electronic tones. The light plots are broad, with few adjustments. Every element emphasizes simplicity and clarity.
The dancers enter naked and walk through the space and take poses in a variety of combinations. Some, in stillness, observe others performing poses. They don and doff oppressive, gray clothes in different combinations. They perform calisthenic movements wearing Nike swooshes on their feet.
The dancers are mostly neutral, though a glimmer of pride sneaks into the poses. The audience quickly becomes inured to the nudity and the nakedness becomes a practical alternative to the bulky, gray sweats. After an initial performance, the sequence is repeated with the light, sketchy appearance of a fast-forwarded video.
The second movement is the most spare and formal, and tests the audience’s endurance more than any other. Two dancers wear traditional ballet costuming, one in a pancake tutu, the other in a skirted leotard. The second pair of dancers are in more street-oriented clothes, the man in a white western shirt and black western tie. The two pairs move in precise patterns, the modern dressed couple walking simply, the ballet dancers performing formal ballet movements.
The third section is still more spare but brings relief in levity. The dancers, dressed in black leotards with silver belts, move their arms and bend forward and back. The arm movements are fluid, precise, and grow quick. The bending becomes pelvic thrusting and the line of dancers add vocals that take shape into the word “want” repeated in rhythm with their climaxing thrusts.
In this third section a prominent theme becomes a pattern, as dissonances and disunity that could be dismissed as mistakes prove planned by their regularity.
We return to our behavioral world with costumes (by Frances Kenny, throughout) that could pass for street clothes if not for the unity of their design and the addition of bells. The movement begins with spontaneous-feeling simultaneous solos that coalesce into a unified set of steps with chant. The chant is a grocery list, essential items in this return to civilization from the untamed wilds of art. The dancers take that chant through the entire theatre while the music makes a sustained, undulating chord.
The whole show is brought to a head with a dance that takes the pairs out of sync and then returns them. It is a distillation of everything that came before and of drama itself. Before it ends, any discomfort from the bleachers is overwhelmed by mounting anticipation, suspension of typical gratification, and, finally, finally satisfaction. It’s a game that will test your limits at The Quartet, but in the end you’ll be glad you played.
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