Does it matter that Michael Clark's latest work has no real title? Probably not, as his choreography tends to be one long work in progress. This latest piece, with music by Scritti Politti and Relaxed Muscle, has evolved out of dances staged earlier this year in Glasgow and New York. It is an evening of different halves, and disparate material – but it also often fabulous.
Clark has eight top-flight dancers in his company, including the hauntingly pristine Julie Cunningham (formerly of the Merce Cunningham Company, although no relation). During the first half, their movements are simple classroom steps that are torqued into resonant sculpture, spun into shifting patterns and angled into flights of art-deco chevrons. Irradiated by Charles Atlas's lighting, they are also cushioned by the surprisingly lyrical accompaniment of Scritti Politti (which came as a surprise to me, considering that the last I heard of them was the wittily abrasive 1982 single Jacques Derrida).
When Clark is at his purist best, his choreography has an otherworldly beauty at its core. At his weakest, however, the simplicity of his movement can look sketchy. The central duet in this section barely transcends a warm-up exercise as its two dancers slowly wind and unravel their bodies. Clark sometimes seems to be just filling time, not using it.
Everything changes with the crazed dynamic of the second half. With the sound of Pulp warping around the dancers' bodies, and an accelerating display of projected graphics, we're led into the other main element of the evening: Jarvis Cocker singing live with two backing musicians.
Skinny, mincing, camp, sardonic, wearing 1970s gear and Halloween makeup, Cocker is a class act. He takes us back to the good old days when Leigh Bowery used to be the rogue anarchist stomping through Clark's productions. Yet, for all the fun Cocker delivers, I wish Clark had attempted more stage chemistry between him and the dancers. By dialling the latter down and rendering them into little more than a backing group, he inhibits the way Cocker's energy and theatricality could have infected Clark's choreography. One brief moment, when a sultry Oxana Panchenko rides off stage on the back of her partner, as if astride a wild panther, gives us a snapshot of what kind of party this closing section could have been.
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