In the powerful opening scene, the five stand shoulder to shoulder in house dresses that hearken to the 1950s. In silence they gesture, sometimes in unison, sometimes alternating in a kind of canon: raising a hand to a cheek or forehead as if to brush back a strand of hair or wipe away a tear. They solemnly cup a palm at the ribcage. Sharp elbows and furrowed brows activate to a syncopated rhythm. Their heightened breath is an a capella chorus. One falls to the floor then stands back up. Then another. The shifting gaps that occur in their line-up remind me of a manual typewriter with a couple of broken keys.

From France, Ka initially came to dance via urban hip hop, and began choreographing her own work after performing with Maguy Marin. Her solos and duets have won awards and “Maldonne,” her first group work, was considered for the International Dance Prize 2025 at Sadler Wells. Tonight is the US debut. As I watch, “Maldonne” brings to mind precision drill team work, police line-ups, Pina Bausch dance halls, Graham-esque falls practiced in dance class, and the creepy robot women in the Stepford Wives from the 1970s. Ka’s cast expresses grief, exhaustion, persistence, distress, strength, resilience, pain—all channeled into crisp gesture, military precise. The dresses anchor the piece to a domestic realm. The work of women is never done. On their knees, these women scoop an invisible pile of laundry. They squat, tip over, roll across their backs from one side to the other—first their butts in the air, then their knees. Faster and faster. Wait, is that a flash of bare ass? Cheeky.

The dance could easily have ended here, so arresting is this opening portrait. But Ka is only getting started. Things begin to escalate when the women change into floor length animal print dresses. On their knees, they scrub the floor with their skirts. Gripping the corner of a hem between their teeth, they stamp and pound rhythmically. They pretty much beat the heck out of these dresses—twisting the fabric and tossing lengths of it like a jump rope, slapping it against their hips and thighs, slamming it to the floor like a wet towel. The outrage seems justifiable, given news of the day: sex trafficking, rape, repeal of abortion rights. Yet I’m struggling to accept that Ka’s dresses, which speak so fluently as a symbol of female identity, are now objects of women’s rage. Maybe I’m over-thinking, but after a while of this, the women themselves seem to have second thoughts. They stop to pull themselves together, adjust a collar and sleeve, fix their skirts.