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Forsythe and Ballett Frankfurt, which he directed for 40 years, became the ultimate point of reference in the history of new choreography; his once revolutionary art soon became the choreographic canon, and a much plagiarised one, too. Tragedy struck when the Ballett Frankfurt closed in 2004. In retrospect, the end of one of the most iconic companies in the history of modern ballet affected Forsythe’s creative genius. Although the Forsythe Company is a concentration of unique artistic talents, the works created in the aftermath of the Ballett Frankfurt’s closure were never as breathtaking as the ones created in the previous two golden decades, bar a handful of exceptions.
Unfortunately, I Don’t Believe in Outer Space is not one of those exceptions. Created in 2009, to celebrate his own 60th birthday, the one-acter explores themes and motifs that have long been central to Forsythe’s aesthetic, such as the use of spoken narratives bordering on the absurd and the humorous, the use and misuse of props, and a fair amount of what comes across as pure improvisation, whether in danced or acted form.
Glimpses of great theatre-making are there, though, especially in the opening sequence, in which Forsythe’s wife, Dana Caspersen, plays both of the characters in a dialogue between an ominous-sounding new neighbour-from-hell and his shrill potential female victim. The superbly acted narrative never develops but recurs obsessively throughout the performance, evoking in turn both comic and unsettling images derived from old fairy tales and horror movies. Indeed, behind Caspersen’s laughter-provoking one-woman duet, echoes of long-repressed fears and imminent tragedies lurk.
Her words are matched by a dazzling array of movements, which are in turn matched and complemented by other (splendid) members of the company. Episodes seem to happen at random, but there is an almost musical order in the chaos, as demonstrated by the strategically placed reiterations of Caspersen’s narratives and the repetition of Gloria Gaynor’s ‘I Will Survive’. Both punctuate the performance and provide a rhythm to link more or less fluidly the choreographic and dramatic episodes.
But neither the contrasting architecture of the work nor the superb bravura of the interpreters compensate fully for a performance that alternates a few good moments with a load of ideas that have long stopped being innovative — such as improvised movements, use of words, apparent lack of structure, etc. As someone who used to respond enthusiastically to Forsythe’s innovative challenge to theatrical canons, I could not help feeling bitterly disappointed.
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