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December 17, 2008 |
Issue # 75 |
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Invitation to the Dance
Winterfest showcases performances and choreography
By Jan Engoren
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| Gerda König and Marc Stuhlmann of DIN A 13, two of the opening night performers at the WinterFest dance faestival. Photo: Jo Kirchherr |
The curtain rises, the audience hushes, a spotlight illuminates the stage. A woman with long, strawberry blonde hair jettisoned out behind her is laying arms outstretched, knees up, her back to the floor.
Gongs, the faint tat-a-tat–tat of a drumbeat and the sound of bass strings being slowly plucked are barely audible in the background. Slowly, the woman reaches out a hand and wiggles her fingers. What is she doing? Slowly, we become conscious of a dark, male figure sharing the stage with her. At once, the figure comes to life and with a plié and jêté joins the woman lying prone on the floor.
The two figures roll together and embrace, their two bodies merged into one. Both on their backs, they intertwine hands. Agitated, atonal music thrums in the background.
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Made for a Madball Metropolis
Borscht Film Festival celebrates Miami
By Kevin Wynn
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| A still from the “Downtown” segment of The CCCV Project directed by Carlos Florez with text by Lucas Leyva, part of the Borscht Film Festival’s celebration of Miami |
There’s something about the Borscht Film Festival that spells trouble from the get-go. Maybe it’s the website: a blurry cellcam video of the implosion of the old Miami Arena tops the festival’s schedule page. Or maybe it’s the name: Borscht? Really? Borscht? In Miami? Maybe once upon a time, but, ladies and germs, Pumpernik’s sunny heyday is long past.
Check the festival’s staff list: There’s a Minister of the Interior and a Minister of the Exterior, a Master of Publicity, a High Deacon of the Visual, and somebody whose position is listed as “P.O.D.” In the on-screen words of the late lamented Rudy Ray Moore, “Are you for real?
The BFF is for real—or as for real as Miami gets, a yearly gathering of young filmmakers, artists, and musicians who are wrestling with their schizoid hometown, working to hone their craft and get their arms around the manic, Mondo Cane-worthy madball metropolis that is Miami.
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