Lar Lubovitch’s “Many Angels” has a similar changeability to it, to fainter effect. It’s flighty yet measured, the group moving through slow promenades and stately formations against a celestial backdrop of Hallmark-style clouds. There’s something polite about all the pretty lines, even when they crook into pointed angles—elbows, knees, scooping arms and pitched arabesques. The reach for the heavenly is there, but I wanted to see more temper and more ache.
The stage is handed to Yannick Lebrun for Jamar Roberts’s “Song of the Anchorite,” a spartan solo that speaks to penitence and a fraught inner life. Light and wisps of smoke feather through the branches of a large, spindly tree. A reworking of Ravel’s Adagio sprinkles in soft horns and plucking double bass. Lebrun reaches, kneels and prostrates, travelling the slews of the music, which wends through notes of dread, longing and assent. Eventually he puts on a green robe, signalling a shift towards something like serenity, his body balanced after so many diverging registers.
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