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A narcotic swamp, faithful to its title, stitched from the cloth of its opening salvo.—Two new ballets based on the life and work of Spanish playwright Federico Garcia Lorca — alongside a third, flamenco-inflected piece — highlight the annual spring season of the country’s premiere Latino dance troupe.—, made by the cross-generational quintet of Chris Potter on tenor saxophone, Steve Nelson on vibes, bassist Peter Washington, and the legendary Lenny White of Return to Forever fame on drums.The record’s nine songs were inspired by Canadian painter Emily Carr (1871–1945) — namely her , which depicts a lonely tree, spared by loggers, holding its ground in a majestic, solitary stance.Set around the real-life Midwestern conference of single agrarians looking to socialize, the piece found Rosebrock — as playwright and co-star — showing a burgeoning comedic voice tinged with a bittersweet realness.Her characters were vulnerable, heartfelt, yet splendidly hilarious.Excess alcohol sets off a series of events causing Nora to lose her way.Seemingly without hope, she reaches out for help from an unlikely source — her estranged, evangelical mother.
Accompanying this collection of sound is a rapid-fire collage of middle-aged, beachwear-clad butts and tummies belonging to some Argentine swells, each one of them determined to remain stupefied against boredom with alcohol, cigarettes, and naps.
This engagement is no exception: The master of extravagant gesture returns to town with his setting, last seen here in 2007, of Tolstoy’s , finding passionate, phantasmagorical themes to reflect in dance.
There are only a few tickets left, up in the nosebleed section; the city’s Russian emigre community turns out in force for Eifman’s company, and to hear the New York City Ballet Orchestra, under the baton of Nikolay Alexeev, play music by Tchaikovsky.
—In which Gena Rowlands plays a celebrated actress who drives herself up the wall while struggling to be worthy of the love of a deranged fan who died trying to get close to her.
The once-pernicious myth that the films of John Cassavetes were the result of on-camera improvisation has now largely faded from view.