February 24–March 2, 2000
dance
Game Over

Endzone
Myra Bazell, Painted Bride Art Center,
Feb. 18 and 19

So much contemporary dance is hermetically autobiographical or else filled with trifles that the very ambition of Myra Bazell’s performance piece Endzone is remarkable, and commendable, in itself. Unfortunately, however, although she strives mightily, in my view she has not yet found a coherent and convincing way of realizing in theatrical terms her grand aspirations.

In the first section, a master of ceremonies frames the action as two dancers go through a series of theater games — the tone shifts seamlessly from anguish ("I hate myself," "I am so miserable") to ironic cliché ("whatever"). Seven others then score the performances, holding up cards in the manner of judges in ice-skating competitions. If the scorecards did not suffice, at the end of each section the performers then preempt the audience’s response by offering an "objective" critique of what has just taken place: e.g., a voice proclaims "excessively saturated content." We are in good old Pomoland, its all-knowing tone and corrosive irony implying that everything is and can only be regarded as a game ("whatever"). Several times the dancers employ the hand signals that football referees use to indicate penalties, but that is unnecessary; it’s clear enough that at this point the metaphor of the title is resolutely satiric.

Endzone proceeds by a combination of spoken text (by Anne George) and movement; throughout, the movement, which is always energetic and sometimes quite powerful, is far more convincing than the words, which are often mundane and uninspired (especially the tired parody of the American family). Bazell’s dancers are some of the best in Philadelphia, and when they are not slowed down by Endzone’s ideological program, they are excellent. The outstanding presence was the regal Katharine Livingston, her seven-months-pregnant belly proudly displayed; when she was on stage the rest of the cast was rendered invisible.

The strongest section of the work comes in a horrifying description of a mass rape of young girls by soldiers that is taken verbatim from the testimony of Bosnian war survivors. During this recital the speakers, as if tongue-tied, can only repeat the changing numbers of women as some die and others are brought in and assaulted. At this point the performance essentially comes to a halt — nothing further can be said and nothing can be done. In the face of tragic fact, contemporary knowingness shrivels up and blows away.

But if that is the point of the piece, did we need all the easy irony that leads up to the shattering conclusion? Bazell’s performance language, based as it is on parody and exaggeration, breaks down as she moves from the superficiality of modern life (symbolized in football) to that other endzone that is Samuel Beckett territory. It seems to me that the only way forward here is through myth, and perhaps that is where she will go next.
—Robert Ackerman