Fearless magic – Kommersant

Premiere contemporary dance

On the theater platform of the La Villette park, where the projects of the Chaillot theater, which was closed for repairs, roam, the Paris premiere of the performance of Ohad Naharin’s new play “Momo” took place. The dancers of the Batsheva Dance Company for the first time acted not only as performers, whose technical capabilities never cease to amaze, but also as full-fledged co-authors. Tells Maria Sidelnikova.

While the ushers are ramming the last spectators into the already packed La Villette hall (the full house on the tour was such that two extra nights were added), artists quietly appear on the stage. Four guys in army pants with bare, lean torsos move along the perimeter of the stage, measuring each step of their quiet march until the fuss in the hall subsides and the lights go out. This standard prelude, which has become Ohad Naharin’s trademark, this time leads to a completely out of the ordinary performance of the Israeli troupe.

“Momo” is the first result of the collective creativity of the 70-year-old guru and the Batsheva Dance Company artists themselves. With the male four, Naharin worked personally and separately, the rest of the dancers left to themselves under the supervision of Ariel Cohen, an experienced artist of the troupe. Here one could subtract an attempt to beautifully veil the creative crisis, but it turned out really amazing.

A tightly knit male quartet (Igor Ptashenchuk, Lien Hsu, Guy Davidson, Yoni Simon) makes up the Momo range. Brave guys confidently go through all the hour-long action, giving out peppy dances that accentuate masculinity. They walk in formation, they seem to think the same way, at least without unnecessary reflections, and are ready at any moment to give each other a strong friendly shoulder.

Against their background, characters begin to appear – one after another. Each of the seven is unique both in appearance and in the choreographic language that betrays the character. Here is a textured wiry androgyne (Billy Barry) – he attracts attention with his fractional plasticity, either an alien or a baby who is unable to cope with hyper-mobile limbs. However, the dryness and uncontrollability of long, like a grasshopper’s, legs-paws is deceptive: they are capable of literally anything. Turning helplessness into power and vice versa is still one of the main bodily tools of Batsheva artists. Behind the androgyne, a modest girl, in a tunic (Eri Nakamura), comes out on high half-toes and wrinkles her legs in languid cat busts. Another girl is masculine, poisonous, with an aggressive pressure and a corresponding set of decisive gestures and catchy antics (Yarden Bareket). Her opponent is a lyric boy in a bathing suit, with a plastic, viscous body, sensitive to the slightest breath of the wind (Matan Cohen). Next comes a sexless man in a fluffy tutu (Ohad Mazor), immersed in himself and in his romantic dreams. Every now and then a countdown in Russian “nine, eight …” is heard from the speakers, as when a spaceship is launched.

On the one hand – the earth, on the other – space. Here – a collective, there – asocial egocentrics obsessed with themselves. There – the boys, here – try to make out. Some are about continuity, maniacal calculation and results, others are about fragmentation, improvisation and eternal search. Some are Ohad Naharin, others are his continuation. However, contrary to the laws of the genre, these parts do not come into conflict and do not compete. At first, they do not notice each other at all. Even in the central scene of the performance, when the guys, having climbed the wall-climbing wall built in the depths, seem to become spectators of an absurd ballet class performed by the “soloists”, their eyes are completely empty and indifferent. The depressurization of the worlds occurs gradually. First, a common gesture creeps in – a hand raised up. Protection, initiative, doubt, challenge – this simplest gesture sounds differently for everyone, demonstrating the main principle of “eider”, the cherished Nakharinov language: how many dancers, so many movement intonations. Before the finale, the artists line up on the proscenium, and everyone gets their moments of glory: those who were in the flock speak in the first person, the indecisive ones shout, the ballet-hungry one finally turns his leg 180 degrees. And all again disperse into groups. “Personalities” crawl away into the unknown along the wall-climbing wall, and the “four” with a cheerful sailor’s gait continues its tireless journey.

Ohad Naharin rarely explains his performances. It is useless to decipher the names. They contain either an associative array that is understandable only to “eider-people” who are fluent in these neologisms, or a set of letters whose melody is close to the choreographer. “Momo” is one of those meaningless onomatopoeias. Among the closest consonances is the acronym FOMO (fear of missing out), the obsessive fear of a modern person to miss something interesting. Only the wise Naharin deftly replaces fear with magic (“magic”) and puts an end to his performance on the life-affirming “hey!”. Dance magic, and nothing more. It is too early to write off the hardened choreographer.