“Gulf of America” opens with a cluster of five people dressed in nondescript street clothes—cargo pants, t-shirts, thick-soled shoes—stepping in a quick-quick-slow salsa rhythm. Eventually, two duos pair off and Kyle Sangil performs a liquidy solo. Liony Garcia rather dramatically divides the group by knifing his body through centerstage. It’s in this separated formation that the group first encounters soldiers in combat fatigues, their faces covered with balaclava masks. The five take a step closer together, visibly concerned; shadows cast on the rear scrim multiply ominously as the commandos advance to encircle them. The partnering here is violent: a soldier throws a woman to the ground, she punches him back. I can hear people cry out with effort, or in pain. It’s a chaotic scene, genuinely disturbing, and goes on longer than I’d like. I notice the floor is vibrating under my seat with a loud thrumming bass. A flashing video projection by Lianne Arnold heightens the disorientation.

 “Gulf” goes on record as a powerful statement in dangerous times, but that doesn’t make it easy to watch. Given the recent murders in Minneapolis, this fight scene, impressive as it is, feels too on-the-nose. I guess that’s the point. I do love that Christian’s music invites the spectre of TS Eliot’s “Wasteland.” Like many, I know the famous poem mostly by its opening line, “April is the cruelest month.” It was written following WWI and, reading it now, after the show, there is much that resonates with Comfort’s theme. Christian treats the lyrical language as an atmospheric element of her haunting score.  

The fight comes to a draw with a long moment of stillness, all the characters still standing. No one dies in this instance. The five original dancers each face off one to one with a soldier, the pairs close enough to stare into each other’s eyes. One reaches out and removes a soldier’s mask, as if saying, “I see you; I am seen.” The rumbling bass starts up again, the unmasked man turns and walks away as the scene fades to silhouette.