Talk about having all the right ingredients: Mark Morris opened his season Wednesday night in his intimate, 150-seat theater with live music and a legend— Mikhail Baryshnikov, who joined the cast of Morris’ “A Wooden Tree.”
But the dish was still bland: The ballet star was barely featured, as if his name were only first alphabetically.
The piece, which bowed last October, is named after one of the absurd, tongue-in-cheek recordings by Scottish humorist Ivor Cutler, singing about love and Morse code.
Morris is the most literal of choreographers, and he makes the dancers act out the lyrics predictably. Baryshnikov’s presence feels like a tease. He opens some sections miming the songs, but quickly gets folded into the group. And pretending the 65-year-old “Sex and the City” star blends into a cast of dancers decades younger isn’t a good thing.
The live music in the other pieces is performed by Morris’ own chamber ensemble. It’s a great touch, but the choreography is a mixed bag. One new piece, “Crosswalk,” proves as literal as “A Wooden Tree,” as the dancers crouch as if starting a race and then cross the stage.
Another premiere, “Jenn and Spencer,” is named after the performers, Jenn Weddel and Spencer Ramirez, who bring to life a dysfunctional couple—almost a danced version of “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” Dressed in evening wear—he in a tuxedo shirt, she in a loose mauve gown—the two circle each other warily, their hands raised or in front of them, as if for protection. But don’t expect a messy divorce— you can tell from their glances that there’s affection, too.
The best work of the evening was the oldest, “The Office,” from 1994. As a quartet of musicians play Dvorak’s Bagatelles, three men and three women in street clothing do folk steps: skipping, swirling, pausing.
A prim, stern woman holding a clipboard comes out at the end of each section to send one of them offstage. Maybe it’s for an appointment; maybe something much darker. In between are long, uncomfortable pauses as they wait and wonder.
The dancers leave in different ways, some confused, others defiant. The steps become part of the story; they grow in volume as if that could ward off evil. Three dancers remaining join in a circle as if to insist on facing the unknown together—yet once again, only one leaves.
The piece’s ending doesn’t explain things, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Morris is at his best when he’s the least obvious.