Company C, Charles Anderson’s contemporary ballet company from California, debuted at the intimate Joyce Soho performing space in July. The consistently strong element throughout the evening was the strength of the performers. They all dance well and invest themselves fully in the performance. Some of the works demanded this kind of commitment, others were boslstered up by it.

Alexandre Proia’s A Wold to Come was a good vehicle for the dancers’ acting. They looked each other in the eye and infused the duets with a tension and urgency, but I didn’t feel the choreography itself pushed any boundaries. The significance of the title was not evident to me.

Patrick Corbin, formerly of the Paul Taylor company, among others, is a talented fellow. I’ve enjoyed his performances for many years and believe he holds promise as a choreographer. His Partly Cloudy (again, a cryptic title) begins informally with the dancers walking into the space, setting up chairs, and getting ready. Then, indiscernibly, the piece begins. Corbin intelligently skews the technique of ballet and the dancers are up to the task. There was no dearth of movement – he really keeps the cast moving – and the solo sections get under one’s skin, particularly one by Jenna Maule. At the end, bows are blended with wriggles and steps from the choreography, making a nice return to the opening motif where performace is mixed with dancers just being themselves.

Anderson’s Hush, a solo for the lovely Alexis Drabek, might fall flat with a different performer. The movements are simple and rely much on the acting. For this role, Drabek carries the day by making herself childlike, vulnerable, and filled with innocence and wonder. Again, I wondered about the choice of title.

Twyla Tharp’s Country Dances had all one hopes for from her work. The characters alternate between drunken slowness and lively hustle. They’re goofy and floppy and funny. Alec Lytton and Lizabeth Saenz are standouts here, he with his wry smile and timing, she with her perkiness and strength. During the intermission, fellow critic Francis Mason pondered the title of the final piece.

“Aposiopesis – what does that mean?”

“I have no idea.”

“I bet we won’t be able to tell from the choreography,” he said, echoing my own thoughts about the titles on this programme (Tharp’s work being the exception).

As it happens, “aposiopesis” is a rhetorical device wherein one suddenly breaks off in one’s speech. Of course I didn’t have an opportunity to look this up until after the performance, but in thinking back on the work, I don’t remember elements that would suggest the term. I do remember Lizabeth Saenz turning in another fine performance; her partner, Elliot Mercer, managed to keep up, but the motivations for their relationship, and the situations surrounding it, needed more clarity – without it, the drama seemed more like melodrama.