Miraculously, Eliot seems, 75 years later, to speak directly to us. “There could be no dance, and this is only dance,” Eliot writes early on in the first poem, “Burnt Norton,” as he tries to go beyond poetry with poetry. Eliot creates a seeable sense of place, each poem has both a specific and otherworldly setting. There may be little about “Four Quartets” that is danceable, but its lines dance off the page when read with Chalfant’s unerring lilt. al., is thankfully and magnificently superficial. Most important and most impressive of all, nothing competes with or makes an unenviable effort to find meaning in a text that stuffed with it. The lighting, also by Taylor captures the soul of illumination. The pale pastels blend effortlessly with Marden’s bold primary colors and transparency enhances dancers’ movements. No art form, here, competes with the other, and that even includes the diaphanous costumes by Reid Bartelme and Harriet Jung.
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