Most performances beginning with the announcement, “Wait, we’ve got to start it again. Sorry folks,” don’t end up being worth the time spent in an uncomfortable black box chair (luckily, this one was free).

Most also don’t include two synchronized TVs, pre-show advice to use provided flashlights in moments of intense darkness, and a goggled, silly-string spewing man in a silver suit. In light of these distinctions, Bwog quickly forgave the show’s momentary technical difficulties.


In the following nine-part series, ten female dancers acted out the saga of existence from start to finish, whirling, jumping, writhing, and arching in numbers named things like “Creation” and “Afterlife.” Controlled improvisational madness transitioned oddly into coordinated movement, with the dancers sometimes acting atomistically and sometimes as fused into one organism.

Bwog admits that it dozed off briefly during a moment of intense darkness and mellow music. But crazy shit like people in monkey masks and ten dancers impersonating zombies happened often enough to keep us awake through the end, at which point we were well rewarded by the antics of aforementioned silver-suited man, whom an audience member in the know said had directed the show.

“He seems like he’s stoned all the time, but he’s not, he’s just so chill,” she said.

It takes a special person to make interpretive dance at once worthwhile and non-ironic.