I realize rather late that I’ve failed to track where we are within the seven titular scenes. Some sections are bounded clearly, but others blend into the next scene. Some, like the women’s trio, return to be continued at a later time. Between scenes, the cast members take a seat among the audience. A dancer reaches out to shake hands with someone in the front row. I give up trying to count and surrender to the moving feast in front of me. Dancers repeatedly cut in on each other. There are moments that make me smile such as when Schraiber clambers on his knees to kiss Bozinoff’s upraised hand: I’m reminded of the “Fiddler on the Roof” wedding celebration when the men form a rhythmic procession of three steps forward, one back. When Schraiber leans backward as if to fall, the two men at his side casually catch him before he hits the ground—repeatedly.
The energy is fierce, proud, and staccato. The dancers don’t perform the actual tango. It’s more that they become the tango itself. With “Seven Scenes,” Smith and Schraiber take on the task of deconstructing a celebrated social ritual. The music—a diverse selection of Brahms, Bach, Schubert, Handel, Willie Nelson, and original compositions of Ringdown—includes not a note of tango.
The frenetic pace slows for a final scene, with Mikael Darmanie at the piano playing a heartfelt Handel Minuet, eyes closed. Jonathan Earl Fredrickson stretches out his impressive arm span, rubs his head. He dances in place, mostly arms and torso, taking all the time of history, it seems, to scoop and carve the luxurious space, a flourish of the leg trailing. Languid, he eases us into the night.
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