The New York Times
“Eight of the 12 commissions turned out to be vividly distinct examples of dance theater…
True, I’m eager to revisit only two of these — “Your Flesh Shall Be” and “Hurry Up” — but these eight were so striking, so fully developed along their own lines, that the four evenings all felt substantial.
Mr. McIntyre’s “Your Flesh Shall Be” and Mr. Pita’s “Björk Ballet” are both to recorded music — and both amazingly odd. Because Mr. McIntyre’s subject is often the vulnerability and private impulses of young adults, his ballets can come close to sentimentality; what fends that off is the peculiarity of the ardently human behavior he dramatizes. Each Garneau song here features a different group of young people, all outgoing and endearingly raw (with choreographic phrasing of wonderful dynamics), until it ends with the two solos for Benjamin Freemantle, who not only dances with a four-legged stool but at one point buries his face into it as if into a mask. The quality of private fantasy here is as disconcerting as it is touching.”
San Francisco Examiner
“this week held more surprises than last week’s Unbound A and B. Choreographers in Programs C and D pushed beyond the safe neo-Balanchinian language to which so many contemporary ballet makers default.
Most notably, Trey McIntyre’s “Your Flesh Shall Be A Great Poem” and Dwight Rhoden’s “Let’s Begin at the End” each in radically distinct ways allowed movement to push against and upend tired formulas that trap so much contemporary work.
McIntyre’s “Your Flesh” is emblematic of the choreographer’s brand of wistful sweetness and wry meditative engagement.
Through unabashed use of pop culture (songs by Chris Garneau) and undulant, Rube Goldberg-style movement, he allows dancers to use the floor and engage in acrobatic maneuvers without eradicating the dance’s ballet-ness. With a title taken from Walt Whitman, allusions to death and an eclipse evoked by Alexander V. Nichols’ dramatic set design, McIntyre goes far in embodying a lush and deeply democratic engagement with the human and natural world.”
“Trey McIntyre offered the mostly indescribable and altogether wonderful “Your Flesh Shall Be a Great Poem.
In “Your Flesh Shall Be a Great Poem” (from Walt Whitman), McIntyre offers an autobiographical essay, mingling memoirs of the choreographer’s eccentric grandfather with a meditation on the recent solar eclipse. In this intimate gem, Benjamin Freemantle seems to summon events of his past as they drift in and slip away. Nostalgia is a boon and a curse. The vocabulary shuns traditional ballet and favors an arm-rolling, floor-hugging style, yet McIntyre’s musical sensitivity is a compelling force.
In his dances, this choreographer works mostly with pop music, and he seems to inject it into his dancers’ bloodstreams. Here he transmutes Chris Garneau’s wistful and bouncy songs into a second skin, and the result is a bittersweet triumph. It helps that Freemantle (recently promoted) may be giving the performance of his young career. Jennifer Stahl and Sasha De Sola were two of the women drifting through the protagonist’s life story.”
“I have to admit that I don’t always refer to program notes before a dance performance. Don’t get me wrong. I’m definitely someone who’s interested in background and context. But from time to time, I think it’s valuable to see dance free of framing. See what resonates in the moment. In those instances, I will often read the notes after the fact, which is what I did with Trey McIntyre’s Your Flesh Shall Be a Great Poem. In that post-performance reading, I learned that the work is personal, familial, about McIntyre’s grandfather. When I was watching it, I may not have known who the ballet was about, but the human journey Flesh traversed was undeniable. Its layered narrative collage, danced by a cast of nine, communicated a range of emotion and connection.
Flesh had an epic start, almost cinematic. The curtain rose ever so slowly, like an old-school movie where the credits come at the beginning rather than at the end. A bright moon illuminated the backdrop. With a distinctly frontier feel, Reid Bartelme and Harriet Jung’s costumes placed the action back in time; Chris Garneau’s folksy recorded score lilted through the air, like trees rustling in the wind. What followed was a suite of dance vignettes (each one set to a different Garneau selection) where multiple aspects of the human condition were explored.
Solo work factored heavily in Flesh, which made sense considering the dance had a protagonist. Skillfully interpreted by Benjamin Freemantle, it was the emotional quality of the solos that really struck. Particularly the feeling of absence. Alone on the stage, Freemantle looked out into space, his gaze fixed longingly on the horizon. You could feel that something was missing. Was he yearning for connection, searching for connection or remembering a connection from the past? While I enjoyed these solos, I actually felt that Flesh’s emotional breadth was conveyed more strongly in the dance’s small groupings. Two dancers faced front, near each other, but not touching. Their hands softly covered their hearts, then their mouths; an attempt to transfer their feelings into words. Their arms reached for each other, but they were unable, or maybe even unwilling, to make contact. The distance between them, whether literal or figurative, was too great. But Flesh wasn’t all heaviness. Plucky staccato footwork brought joy to the table. High soaring lifts and jumps in Isabella DeVivo and Steven Morse’s pas de deux, elation and excitement.”
“Dance often works its deepest effects through the gaps and ambiguities of its language. In contrast to Wheeldon’s over-signalling, the charm of Trey McIntyre’s Your Flesh Shall Be a Great Poem lies in its willingness to let the audience find their own way into the material.
The work is about McIntyre’s grandfather, who died after suffering years of dementia. Set to the waif-like folk songs of Chris Garneau, McIntyre’s choreography cleverly evokes the past without sentimentalising. Freemantle as the young grandfather dances among his male friends with a slightly stilted jocularity. He flirts with sweetly artless young women, and McIntyre adroitly captures their individual vulnerabilities in the rawness of the characters’ steps and their eccentricities of phrasing. At the end, when Freemantle is left alone, dancing a strange, ragged duet with a three-legged stool, we glimpse the pain of the grandfather losing his mind and the choreographer trying to piece it back together.
Flesh is a very personal work, authentic and generous.”