I’m always curious what will happen when a singular performer makes work for a big troupe. Which qualities will s/he pass along?

A troupe of aliens arrives in our midst. They are muscular, flightless bird creatures, and the first thing they hear is Chopin.

Wearing black bathing suits and hair-dos that brought to mind tentacles or caterpillars, Chouinard’s ten dancers gasped, writhed, spoked, stamped, and slithered through the company’s impassioned performance.

Chouinard’s dancers threw themselves into the choreography and whipped through each phrase like demonic beasts. It’s just too bad Chouinard didn’t mix it up a bit.