Both critics and dance artists alike insist nowadays that to judge the quality of a choreography is a fool’s errand; that no choreographer is inherently better or worse than any other, and that the attempt to determine what constitutes good or bad choreography betrays some core principle of art itself. This couldn’t be further from the truth. If we have choreographic competitions, choreography degrees and an entire field of art criticism dedicated towards choreography, it stands to reason that there should be good and bad choreographers. The problem is that we don’t know how to have a conversation about artistic merit anymore. All we talk about in relation to dance performances is intention.

Intention has gained such protagonism nowadays that we are repeatedly told we should ask why something was presented on stage instead of whether it worked or not. And here’s the thing about intention-based analysis: it allows choreographers to get away with everything. Were you annoyed by a performance? That was the intention. Did it remind you of your childhood? That was the intention. Did it make you laugh out loud? That was the intention... We can go on and on like this forever because according to this kind of mentality, whatever is felt by the audience is attributable to the choreographer’s skill. Needless to say, this is an ignorant attitude to have towards dance. We can never really know what a choreographer intended, and in any case, if someone were to throw water in your face, you wouldn’t praise them for making you angry.

The reason why this kind of philosophy is so pervasive is because most people just don’t know what makes good choreography. Dance reviews rarely mention basic choreographic principles such as blocking, transitions, exits, entrances, relationship between music and movement or space composition. Instead, the general conversation surrounding dance has become more of a faux literary analysis. It revolves around things such as narrative and worldview, neither of which can really be transmitted through dance alone. And if you disagree with me, I challenge you to tell me at which exact point in a show you can clearly see the choreographer’s worldview on display.

This choreographic illiteracy draws people to use intention’s seductive sidekick: interpretation. There’s nothing wrong with interpretation per se. On the contrary, it can be quite fun to discuss differing interpretations of a performance with your friends. But at the end of the day, it says more about yourself than about what is displayed on stage. For example, in a review of Crystal Pite’s Angels’ Atlas, Alice Heyward writes “this ethereal and airy vignette into coexisting life forms allowed me to enter a state of mind/dreaming where I contemplated being human in company to other forms of life, movement, and change, beyond the Anthropocene.” I’m certainly glad Alice had such a profound experience watching this show, and it is a very poetically written text, but it doesn’t tell us anything substantial about what Crystal Pite presented on stage, and what exactly made it ethereal, or an “airy vignette”, as she puts it. To be fair, she does go into some detail about the movement itself, writing “the dancers move between group forms that are sometimes digital (glitching, popping) and sometimes organic (flowing, sequential).” This shorter, more specific phrase tells us much more about the choreography and the dancing than her beautifully written but otherwise vague reflection. Don’t misunderstand me, I wholeheartedly empathise with the difficult task that is putting words to movement. I too have fallen prey to the lure of interpretation.

In my review for Anna-Marija Adomaityte and Gautier Teuscher’s Workpiece, I wrote “The amplified sound of her footsteps creates a constant rhythm that lulled me into a kind of meditative state for the duration of the piece. Her piercing gaze, however, cut through it, and her brusque head movements reminded me of a stern teacher keeping an eye on misbehaving pupils.” What I regret about this passage is that it focuses more on my own experience than on the piece itself. And that’s the danger of interpretation. It can trick you into believing that the images that your brain conjures up are part of the fabric of the piece itself. And while we may occasionally be right, the odds are most of the time the choreographer will have had a very different image in mind when they created it.

So, how does one judge choreography? Let’s use a clip from one of Jiri Kyllian’s best pieces to find out: "Petite Mort" Pas de Deux (Jiri Kylian) (video below)

First, notice how the steps are made to match the music rhythmically almost note for note. Kyllian takes one of Mozart’s most beautiful compositions (Piano Concerto No. 21 in C Major, K. 467: II. Andante) and uses it to make a physical score of the music. The music is not only represented rhythmically but also through the intensity of the movements: at the 02:49 mark, the orchestra plays four chords in a descending minor scale. The choreography accentuates these chords by having four lifts occur on the downbeat. These are in fact two lifts (A and B) presented like this: A B A B. It is a very simple idea, but after seeing it, the movement and the music almost become inseparable.

The same can be said for the precise but gentle gestures on the pizzicato chords at the start of the first duet, such as the actions of letting go and grabbing that happen around the 00:16 mark. The movement is being directed by the music, and consequently, it seems as if the music is being directed by the movement.

These may seem like small, insignificant details, but it is precisely these kinds of details that create the effects in choreography that evoke images and feelings in us, and it is important to understand the artform at a level of craft if we are to talk about it in a constructive way.

Another commendable aspect of Kyllian’s choreography is his use of the stage. The dancers do stay in place sometimes, but when they travel, they go far in all directions.

The stage is deep as well as wide, so it is important to use the whole space that is available to the dancers. If I were to find fault with the first duet, it would be that it only ever moves from side to side, but this is rectified with the two following couples.

Here's a challenge: you’re a choreographer and you’ve created three duets that must follow one another. How do you put them together? Do you make them overlap? Having the second one start before the first one is finished? That may be the answer, although if you do that, won’t the audience be momentarily confused as to whom they should look at? Their eyes will probably be drawn towards the newcomers, in which case they’ll miss the end of the first duet, and since both you and the dancers have worked hard on it, you want them to see the whole thing, right? Unfortunately, many choreographers nowadays have forgotten the art of directing the audience’s attention and will have multiple events happening all at the same time, making the focal point unclear for the spectators and thus making them lose interest.

Luckily, Kylian is a master at directing our attention. In both transitions, he has the new pair of dancers come from the back of the stage. The first time, this is done swiftly: as the first couple breaks apart and runs off to either side (02:04), the second comes running from the back and immediately replicates the flute’s high note with a forward moving lift, starting the second duet by seamlessly taking the place of the first. In the second transition we can see the same technique, but this time done at a much slower pace: the third couple walks forwards slowly (03:24), staying behind the second couple the entire time. This creates an effective contrast between the fully visible dancers in the front and the approaching silhouettes in the back:

After half a minute, the second couple breaks apart and the female dancer behind them uses their last movement to initiate her own, creating yet again a seamless transition. Before you know it, you’ve seen three separate duets expertly crafted into one continuous dance. This is the beauty of good choreography.

Finally, the most important aspect of all dance performances is movement. We’ve already established the fact that the movement follows the music very closely, but what about the type of movement being performed? This is where style comes in, which is probably the most recognizable aspect of choreography and what allows us to most easily distinguish one choreographer from another. Any choreographer could replicate the same structure and use the same principles that Kylian does and still create a completely different sequence of movements.

Petite Mort is a very classical piece by today’s standards, but although Kylian’s base is indeed ballet, his dancers regularly go to the floor and bend their arms and legs in angles that can’t be found in classical ballet. I’d say his major trademark is his use of symmetrical shapes. In the first duet alone, we are presented with three perfectly symmetrical shapes in close progression to one other (01:04):

The other recurring motif he uses here are circular motions of the head, the hips, or both, as seen at 00:23. All this is aided by an element of risk throughout: risk in speed, in balance and in volume of movement. The best example of this, and probably my favourite movement of all three duets, is this speedy, wavy back bend that nearly reaches the floor at 00:56. Notice how the female dancer’s scurrying footsteps match the piano perfectly.

I must also mention the incredible performance done by the dancers. Dance cannot exist without dancers; a choreography depends entirely upon the person who is performing it, and many of the details I’ve discussed here could very well have been contributions by the original cast. To see how different this choreography can be with different dancers, watch this version performed by Sylvie Guillem and Massimo Murru in Tokyo in 2005 (the dance starts at 01:30):

The most obvious difference is that the three duets have been turned into one, which was most likely done because this was a gala event and not a full performance of Petite Mort.

In terms of the actual steps, while it is almost identical, Guillem and Murru perform it very differently from the original cast. They seem to take a more staccato approach to the movement. I myself much prefer the original cast because they aim to match the sensitivity of the music more closely, but since performance is a more subjective matter, I’ll leave my comments at that.

At the end of the day, this analysis might seem unnecessarily detailed to you, and you might be right. But I hope that my observations have made you see the skeleton behind this wonderful dance more clearly. I could just write that this piece is an attempt to physically describe the sublime and leave it at that. It has a nice sound to it, after all. But would we learn anything new by doing that? I’m aware that this type of in-depth analysis is only possible with video footage, but it is vital that we try to decipher the language of dance and choreography if we want it to develop as an artform. If we are blind to good and bad choreography, we’ll accept anything as worthwhile, and that would be a real loss to us all.