High up and low-down
Chris Black finds heaven; Ken James gets mired in hell.

By Rita Felciano

IF CHRIS BLACK and Ken James had marketing foresight, they wouldn't have called their latest double bill (ODC Theater, Nov. 4) "An Evening of Heaven and Hell." They'd have realized that, for shell-shocked audiences, anything reminiscent of so-called Christian values might seem deadly. But Black and James weren't on a born-again crusade; instead, they invited us into a rarely visited arena. Or have you thought about the martyrs who populate medieval Western hagiography lately?

Well, Black has. Her Ecstasy of Saint Whatshername was a thoughtful, original dance theater piece about (mostly) women martyrs who gave their lives for something they believed in. Often, Black suggested, they did so despite themselves. In the process, "they lost their beauty and became – beautiful." As was Ecstasy, a polished collaboration involving writer-director Mark Jackson, sound designer Jake Rodriguez (though I could have done without the Philip Glass references at the work's climax), and lighting and set designer Clyde Sheets.

Always a choreographer of spare, pruned-down movement, Black has never been better. Structured almost like a play, with a rapid-fire prologue and poetically musing epilogue, Ecstasy was both hilarious and delicate. Some lyrical moments stemmed from Black's tentative gestures when, again and again, she reached into the darkness, trying to touch the ineffable.

Ecstasy's first section was a reenactment of saints refusing to die even while being stoned, decapitated, shot with arrows, or burned alive. In the best theatrical tradition, dying is a bravura act. Appropriately, after each death, Black took a bow to thunderous applause. In the second section, brilliantly scored, Black homed in on the saint-making process. She focused on a Joan of Arc-like country girl. The automatic-pilot quality of the girl's tasks (getting up, milking the cow, sweeping the barn) was marvelously realized, until – at first almost imperceptibly – a force entered this daily routine. Uncertain of her perception, Black's character staggered into Ecstasy's third section, realigning her body to get in tune with whatever was blowing her about; when she tried to get answers, doors got slammed in her face. Finally, she gave in to an ecstasy she couldn't name.

Actors are warned not to perform with dogs or children, because they steal the show. After watching James's Warning Signs, I'm tempted to add: also beware of ducks.

According to James, Warning Signs evolved out of last summer's The Appetite of Gluttony. Apparently this piece, the first section of a long-term project inspired by Dante's Inferno, has changed enough to warrant a new name. Clumsy though well performed, it began with striking images. James, in a wrinkled business suit, hung from the rafters. Cynthia Adam, in a formal red gown, stood on her head. A video presented the couple in sitting poses while projected text ("Receding hairline," "Fading eyesight") undercut their frozen formality. Later on, dancers Ann Berman and Julie Sheetz took their turns in having their portraits presented and modified. It never became clear why fellow dancer Shawn Oda wasn't included in this gallery. A duet for James and Adams seemed to touch on aging and devotion but didn't go anywhere.

Warning's stars were the ducks. Dozens of them were planted in nicely spaced rows, each one accompanied by the moniker "duck." When the rows were filled, flat-backed, bobbing "gardeners" reversed direction to give each animal a companion. James and Oda, to the sound of rushing water, sat in a well-delineated square. Their bodies spoke of agony. About what? The ducks? Revising a piece can be a fine idea, but sometimes it's best to let it die and start anew.