Those props remain in place as Quan has her turn. Her style of movement is more lyrical and contemplative than that of her predecessors. She slinks in one of two chairs that stands on the stage, amid the yellow tufts. At one point, she hugs Gandelsman as he continues playing. At the start of another movement, Gandelsman stops playing live, as a recording pipes in, and he dances, awkwardly, with Quan.
It’s not the only time that Gandelsman gets involved. At another point, he mimics Heginbotham’s poses, balancing on one leg while continuing to play. It’s a cute bit, if not profound.
The dancers eventually sweep away the yellow tissues, running long, wide brooms across the stage, and prepare for their final bit of the program: miming a sequence of fancy footwork as they sit on the floor, each holding a pair of white sneakers. It’s the kind of movement that a ballet dancer might do to mark a barre exercise before doing it full-out. Satisfying to watch, though not exactly innovative.
“Johann Loves Johnny” in its full two hours, starts to bend under the weight of its own length, and the jokes within it start to feel tired, dulling the impact of some truly luscious moments of movement. There are also plenty of simple passages—the dancers in pairs, swinging each other around with glee—that capture the unexpected levity of Bach’s cello suites. Still, the work as a whole feels a need to insist, rather than simply showing, what fun this music can be. Fit in-between jokes, the dancing often doesn’t get the space it needs to achieve its full potential.
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