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124 | The New Russia: Sasha Pepelyaev’s Kinetic Theatre Dance Theater Workshop, New York City Dance Insider, December 1999 When I started visiting the Soviet Union in the eighties, I happily sated my curiosity about the land of pure ballet. But I saw no modern dance. Someone explained to me that this form of “free expression” did not exist there. It was considered too American and therefore corrupt.You weren’t even allowed to utter the words “modern dance.” Even Isadora Duncan–style dancing, which had been carried on there continuously throughout the century, had to be done in secret and call itself “rhythmic gymnastics” or “musical movement.” But after perestroika, a whole movement of experimental dance broke open in Russia . It didn’t come from modern dance or ballet but from traditions in physical theater, mime, circus arts, folk dance, and gymnastics.What I did not know when I wrote this review was that Charles and Stephanie Reinhart at the American Dance Festival brokered exchanges with some of these artists, including Sasha Pepelyaev, which helped foster experimentation in Russia. Sasha Pepelyaev’s Kinetic Theatre, which opened the citywide New Europe Festival October 13 at Dance Theatre Workshop, stole my heart. Knowing that anything experimental in Russia can barely get started let alone survive , I was curious. The group of three men and three women are all young, adventurous movers with crew cuts. In One Second Hand they wear drab suits; the women wear black bras under suit jackets. They are not lush, elastic dancers; they do not have adorable size differences; the movement is not extra-release-y or particularly breathtaking. But there is an astringent magic in this group. The men are rangy movers and possess an engaging intensity and freedom .The women are stony, almost zombie-like. I’ve seen those faces in Russia , in the wastelands that pass for department stores, where some shop girls are stuck for life (pre-Perestroika). The groupings and partnerings are very physical, slightly absurd, and have a beguiling humor. A man growls on top of a woman as she smushes his face with her fingers. He doesn’t mind; he just gets more into his animal self. It’s not sexy sex; it’s sex from a funny dream. Things happen that are odd or straight from someone’s subconscious , but all these things get pulled along by a terrific kinetic momentum . A blunt tango breaks up into a chaotic argument. The lifts glide into rolls, which tumble into lifts again. The dancers are stubborn and scrappy The Nineties | 125 with each other. Not from competitiveness it seems, but just from a constant and brutal knowing of life. The tender moments are rare and hard earned. Nothing in One Second Hand is predictable, and yet it all fits together in a jagged way. If they weren’t speaking Russian, I wouldn’t know what country they are from—except I would know they aren’t American.There is no smugness, no gratuitous muscularity , not a shred of complacency. The psychic ground is not solid but shifting. Every bit of fun has its emotional cost. One Second Hand is made for an intimate space. It begins in the dark, and you see only glowing lights growing in number from right to left. This could be the beginning of a hypnotic image-y type piece, but it isn’t. They speak softly in English—maybe it’s an interrogation at an immigration center : “Who shot Lincoln?” “What is the capital of Maryland state?” But then we hear, “How many seconds are in a day?” The talking soon shifts to become mostly in Russian. Maybe because we are not meant to understand everything, the text adds texture without asking for interpretation. However, I heard “Yeshcho raz” repeatedly, and I know that means “One more time.” So for me, it reinforced the obsessive quality of the dance. Some of the sounds didn’t need translation. “Ha Ha Ha, oyoyoy, Ha Ha Ha, oyoyoy.” The movement phrases were repeated enough times in different contexts that when the men and women exchanged phrases, I could tell. A favorite scene: facing front, a man and a woman wave their arms out of sync, he more frenzied than she. They are signaling through the flames. The lighting, by Vyacheslav Korjavine, cuts through with a bold bright glare, turning each tableau inside out. The music, recorded except for live violinist (and composer) Alexey Aigi, is hard-edged, mostly with...

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