18The Tar HerUThureday, July 13. 1978
Twyla Tharp: a taste of everything
and
a big bite of the Jelly Roll
By Beth Lueck
Tar Heel Contributor
If there is one word to sum up "iwyla Tharp, that
work must be "energy." From dancers flinging
themselves into the fast-paced "Texas Quickstep," to
Shelley Washington hurling herself from the wings into
the astonished arms of Tom Rawe, to the slinky jazz
motions of "Eight Jelly Rolls," the stage is alive with
energy, dynamic and charged. Whether to the music of . .
S. Bach or jelly Roll Morton, Tharp's dancers never simp
ly move. They stride coolly, like Rose Marie Wright; they
barrel through twists and turns, like Christine Uchida;
they jab frenetically with hip and pelvis, like the sensuous
Washington.
All this energy is distinctively American, for it derives
from an imaginative synthesis of the classic ballet
vocabulary with very American dances. Nowhere does
this become clearer than in "Eight Jelly Rolls," in which
Jelly Roll Morton's blues and rags are interpreted with
jazz, stage, tap and blues dancing styles. When dancers
step from the black background into the lights, they seem
to be stepping out of our musical and theatrical history.
Wearing halter-neck black tie in "Blue Blood Blues,"
Wright and a quartet of chorus girls glide and slink
through the number. In "Smoke House Blues" Tharp's
comic impulse discovers a tiny, impish drunk in Shelley
Washington, whosecrazy mugging and limp pratfalls add
up to a wildly funny number.
Tharp has also used more contemporary music. Her
"Deuce Coupe II" (1973), danced to Beach Boys songs,
first brought her work to popular attention (in New
York, when the Joffrey ballet danced it.) Last year she
added "Simon Medley." She captures the mood of the
early '70s with dancers in street clothes rocking to
"Feelin' Groovy" and "Me and Julio Down By the School
Yard," among others. Compared with the eloquent fu
sion of dance techniques achieved in "Jelly Rolls," this
seems a bit thin. Still, elements of disco, rock, and ballet
styles are brought together here to interpret and convey
the easy mood of Simon's songs.
Each of Tharp's dancers actually seems to interpret her
choreography in his or her own style, for the movements
she creates are developed from movements of the
dancer's own body. This is clearest in a number such as
"The Bach Duet,' the most classically based number on
the program last Saturday night. While structurally
tight, the choreography apparently permits a certain
degree of interpretation; when two different couples
Sly over head in F.LS.T.
By Harry Smith
Tr Hrtl Contributor
I am not sure what Norman Jewison thinks he has
accomplished with his new movie, "F.I.S.T.," now playing
at South Square. It describes the thirty year rise to power
of a fictional labor union called the Federation of
Interstate Truckers. The focus is on a truck loader named
Johnny Kovak (Sylvester Stallone) who, through an
organizing career marked by a combination of good
intentioned but mafia-stained practices, is able to push
the union to the point that it "owns everything on
wheels." He is eventually brought before a Senate
Investigating Committee and, finally, disappears in the
manner of Jimmy Hoffa.
"F.I.S.T." is certainly not good history. It is rather the
use of history for another end; probably in Jewison 's case,
what he hopes to be a good story. Today there is no more
prevalent a theme than that of the corruption of those in
power. Even in the labor movement, where an informed
view shows there is less over-all corruption, to find it oc
cuAng is no novelty. It would seem that investigation of
how and why it does occur would be valuable, but
"F.I.S.T." does not really do any vigorous searching of
such questions. It barely tells more than what most peo
ple think they already know. One is given a sometimes
moving but basically shallow explanation. The
emergence and disappearance of a man like Hoffa
remains a mystery.
The first half of the movie is fairly convincing. Laszlo
Kovac's photography creates a strong sense of the in
dustrial 1930 s. The abhorrent working conditions are
shown in their extreme and yet do not seem exaggerated.
The characters of both the workers and the company of
ficials are portrayed without distortion.
However, when Jewison moves on to the 1950 s, there
is a virtual collapse of verisimilitude. Whereas before the
movie's pace is relaxed enough to allow for reasonable
development of the action, events begin to speed by in a
sloppy and incomplete fashion. The result is an unfor
tunate simplification of labor relations. Bargaining
sessions, convention scenes, mafia dealings become as.
persuasive and insightful as a six o'clock newsreel.
The story begins with considerable success. Johnny
Kovak's leadership seems needed 2nd justified, and
Sylvester Stallone has the physical presence and youthful
intensity to believably assume the task. There is a par
ticularly effective scene which takes place in the union
assembly hall where Kovak, through the force of his per
sonality, is able to install a fierce, righteous anger in the
truckers. Unfortunately when the story moves into the
modern era, Jewison loses not only realism but also a grip
on the narrative. Simple incongruities hurt as much as
anything else. Some people age appropriately; others, like
Stallone, are given a touch of grey, padding around the
middle and a croaky voice. The romantic involvements
which were well developed at first are now continued
with what appears to be only obligatory insertions.
Most telling is Stallone's ability to make the transition.
Although the makeup and dialogue doesn't make it easy
for him, it is clear that he has moved beyond his range.
Stallone's variety of the ethnic stereotype cannot be
translated into a man whose motivations must be more
than simple. Whether because of his rather inexpressive
eyes or voice that is beginning to sound less than inspired
or novel, this half-Fonz, half-Brando does not travel
farther than the physical.
It is a pity that Stallone must be compared to Brando.
He does not go the distance. The weak, presumptive
echoes that result only raise one's estimation of the
latter's talents. Compare the taxi cab scene with Brando
and Steiger in "On the Waterfront" with Stallone's pre
fight "I'm just a bum" soliloquy in "Rocky." Compare
Brando's Godfather with the shoe-polish temples and
sandpaper voice of Johnny Kovak.
Nevertheless, "F.I.S.T." is a movie worth seeing. The
better part of it is reasonably informative, and there are
dramatic moments which are well done. Supporting ac
tors such as Rod Steiger, Melinda Dillon, Peter Boyle and
Kevin Conway contribute memorable performances. It is
a long movie, and even if one were to leave before the'
shift to the modern era, one would have managed to see
something long enough as well as entertaining.
danced it in separate presentations the same evening, the
number actually looked different. A tense, tight
pirouette on the smaller body of Uchida grew smooth and
sensual on Wright's tall frame. Both numbers were danc
ed in brief white gym outfits, giving "Bach's Duet'.' an air
of the rehearsal room. The quick changes from classically
outlined pirouettes to vaudeville hoofing not to men
tion the wisecrack of spitting on the floor added to the
casual, even zany mood.
Dances such as "Bach Duet" and "Eight Jelly Rolls"
show Twyla Tharp at her best. She dances a fine
tightrope between classical ballet, avant-garde modern
and American jazz dance, but she is always in good
balance, and almost always the synthesis is sharply witty.
by Gary Parks
Dance critic
To watch Twyla Tharp's Eight jelly Rolls, performed last
Saturday evening at the American Dance Festival in
Durham, is to marvel at how immediately likeable this
radical new dancing really is. Most people suspect you
can't enjoy Art-with-a-capital-A. It seems to demand a
concentration and previous experience a lot of people feel
unprepared and unwilling to give. But with Tharp
you cannot only have your Art, you can enjoy it too.
Eight jelly Rolls is a suite of dances set to Jelly Roll
Morton's great jazz music of the 1920s. Tharp's
choreography doesn't try to emulate dancing of that
time, nor does it get caught in the "Las Vegas
showstopper" style of jazz most familiar today. In its
effusion and complex rhythms, and in its seizure of the
senses Tharp's dance is as different and as distinct in its
milieu as was Morton's music in his. Watching Tharp's
company perform Eight jelly Rolls is as exhilarating and
as much fun as riding a double ferris wheel. With each
accelerating swoop you happily grow more and more
disoriented. You're slightly breathless at being caught in
the middle of so much rapid and unfamiliar motion. And
then, with a clank and a thump, it's over.
Rose Marie Wright digs into the first jelly roll,
'Bugaboo", alone. She traces large oval patterns with the
ipof her highly polished black shoe, swims her arms
.aisurely in the air. Every so often a shrug is added, or
mayb a high ballet extension. On a cue from two
bleating trombones Jennifer Way and Shelley
Washington haltingly cross the back of the stage. They
exit, then are back on again in a minute, reversing their
agitated steps. Wright ignores them, continuing her
unhurried dance with herself. When she finishes, she
walks off.
Way and Washington then hurtle on for a super-fast
"Shreveport Stomp.'They pound, leap, and tap their way
around the stage, mugging at the audience, playing
Washington runs an imaginary tape measure down
Way's back, as though sizing her up for a coffin
attacking the dance like you wouldn't believe. At the end
they stop abruptly and saunter off stage. The audience
doesn't know what hit it. To "Mournful Serenade"
Jennifer Way next dances a blues solo so beautiful you
just sit there and admire. The movements are all full and
weighty, like an endless ribbon of thick taffy. Way is so
right for the dance I can't imagine any of the other
women in the company doing it. The shimmies melting
into slippery turns are all treated equally by Way. She
doesn't punch the steps in order to sell them to the
audience. Instead she slides into the phrases with a
continuous, restrained eloquence that carries the piece
seamlessly from beginning to end.
After a frenetic rag, Shelley Washington dances the
drunk role in "Smoke House Blues" which Tharp
originally choreographed for herself. A brisk corps in the
background makes a fine counterpoint to Washington's
loose-jointed inebriation. Washington's act is hilarious.
She knows successful imitation of a drunkard depends on
showing how he's really attempting to walk normally.
The lurches and falls are unfortunate mistakes the
boozer tries to hide. Washington treats her loss of
balance seriously, never hamming up the stumbles so
they become caricature. The laughs she gets are as much
for what she doesn't do as for what she does.
Throughout all of Eight jelly Rolls the dancers keep their
distance from the audience and, in a sense, from the
dance as well. There's no "Subject" to the dancing other
than the steps themselves. Those occasional lapses, like
waving a hand at the audience, only serve to point this
out. Eight jelly Rolls is all the stronger because of this
abstraction. The timeless appeal of the music is more
pronounced. Detachment is common to all Tharp dances;
its use here is particularly striking.