Recorded voiceover narration set the context, proclaiming historical milestones like “1922 . . . Cecil B. DeMille’s Manslaughter shows the first gay kiss captured on film.” That kiss was just a glimpse in the movie’s background, but as Smith and Yebel Gallegos entered the gallery for the first duet, we got much more—we got a strip tease. Off came the page boy cap, the overcoat, the trousers, in a stream of big, inventive lifts, until Smith poured his drink down Gallegos’ heaving chest, and at last the viewer next to me, who until then seemed to be shielding his eyes, laughed and relaxed.

Where to go from such a peak of eroticism? The next duet, danced by Brandon Graham and Kyle Limin, took us to 1940, the men lying on a white sheet in boxers, tanks, and sock garters, Graham reading a pulp magazine, Limin teasing him with little swats, then wrapping Graham in the sheet as though to dress him for a drag show. In a nice surprise, Graham then picked up a pile of fabric that turned out to be a beautiful dress, prancing for Limin’s admiration—until a siren sounded. This was the strongest of the four duets, with the most texture and spontaneity.

Duet #3 took us to 1951. The inspiration: a photo of two Black men in Army dress, smiling in a studio shot, one man held on the other’s lap. As their live embodiments, Juan L. Ruiz carried in Calvin L. Thomas Jr. Between coupling, they marched, and saluted, and ultimately Thomas Jr. seemed only a ghostly memory, leaving behind his Army cap for Ruiz to mournfully pick up. Ruiz and Thomas danced beautifully in passages of whirling passion (and in technically tricky turns that looked amazingly seamless even close up). But this was the least interesting duet, more predictable in its implied narrative.