It begins with a mysterious image of seven men facing the back of the stage. Their bodies are lit in silhouette in front of a background of painted gauze that at times appears to be marble and others like clouds. The landscape is trippy, ominous and enigmatic. The dancer slowly picks up the jacket at his feet. In slow-motion vagueness, they put them on: one sleeved, one drooping limply. Arms go up and down. Are they praying to an invisible god?
Gradually their feet begin to echo rhythmic steps, bouncing on the spot or gliding across the stage to form a wide circle before finally turning to reveal their faces. this eternal rhythm. When they all start moving, it’s like the sound of a heartbeat. Seven dancers play one of his notes.
the title of Evening piece “Näss” by choreographer Fuad Bussouf, means “people” in Arabic.But it’s also a reference to Nasser GuiwaneA North African band from the 1970s, Boussouf sees them in dialogue with contemporary American hip-hop groups.
Born in Morocco, Boussouf moved to France in 1983, where he trained in hip-hop, modern jazz, new circus, and later focused on contemporary dance and hip-hop. They are all part of Näss (2018), presented at the Joyce Theater as part of the Crossing the Line Festival at the Institut de France Française. This work has a unique acrobatic element. There are many handstands. If all else fails, throw a flip. But the work is also shaped by Boussouf’s upbringing in Morocco and the musical and dance traditions of Gnawa and Leggada. A great score by Roman Bestion, Marion Castor and Boussouf, along with snippets of her street sound, make it even more poignant.
The constant nature of the dancers moving from soft to hard and soft to hard as whiplash arms and legs connect and retreat sets a ritualistic tone. Men sweat. They never leave the stage. (Formerly Compagnie Massala, this group is now Rufare It is based at the Le Havre Normandy National Choreographic Center, where Boussouf was appointed director in 2022. )
But as heroic as they are intensively performing their steps, the dance itself – deliberately going into a trance – is like a 20-minute task extended to nearly an hour. Like, I feel stretched.
Choreographic vignettes can become monotonous and even predictable, while the rhythm of the music guides the dancers and takes them into different realms. Early on, one by one, the dancers remove their jackets and throw them down the aisle. (Why did they put them on in the first place?) Then they start pulling the t-shirt — costume design and scenario by Camille Vallat — pulling it over their heads like a veil, and finally They are stretched even higher to cover their faces completely. It creates a moment of wonder as dancers float through bare-chested and seemingly headless space. Sometimes the intention of “Näss” is ambiguous.
In the program notes, Bussuf wrote that he made the piece “like breathing, physical and mystical at the same time” and “rooted in the ground and land to feel its vibrations.” The tension between the dancer’s earthbound gravity and the invisible spiritual vibrations is evident throughout, especially as the performer’s energy rises and falls. But one dancer stands out. Loic Her Ellis captivates not only with her amazing footwork, but also with the way she incorporates loose angles into every shape she moves.
Even when dancing in unison formation, if the men are tense and intend to hold their territory, at the last moment they morph into something of a collective. Jump on both feet instead. As the lights dim, they alternately soar skyward in a state of abandonment rather than anger. It remains a popular language. Perhaps the path to finding good vibrations.
“eggplant”
through Sunday at the Joyce Theater in Manhattan. joyce.org.