Review: ODC at The Presidio Theater

Dancing for Dwindling Crowds: ODC’s Struggle for Relevance by Teo Lin-Bianco

The Presidio Theatre is only half full, its blue velvet seats glowing softly under the house lights. Around me, there’s a low murmur of polite conversation, but what I notice most is the sea of gray hair. At 22, I am one of the youngest people in the audience by decades. A few other twenty-somethings are scattered here and there, but the overwhelming demographic is older, loyal, and, judging by the applause at the end of the night, deeply devoted to ODC/Dance.

On paper, the evening promises excitement. Founded in 1971, ODC/Dance has long been recognized for its “rigorous technique, groundbreaking collaborations, and entrepreneurial savvy.” Its reputation as one of the West Coast’s most inventive dance companies precedes it, and the program offers a mixed repertory of bold, contrasting works. But sitting in the theater, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m witnessing something quieter, more unsettling: an institution searching for its place in the present.

The three works on the program span nearly two decades: Brenda Way’s A Brief History of Up and Down (2024), a newly premiered exploration of pedestrian movement; her earlier Unintended Consequences (A Meditation) (2008), a meditation on isolation set to Laurie Anderson’s “O Superman”; and Kimi Okada’s INKWELL (2024), a cartoon-inspired fantasia. The program hovers between past and future, and the half-empty theater makes that tension impossible to ignore.

It isn’t just that certain works feel outdated; they reveal a deeper uncertainty about what ODC wants to be in 2025. Can a company rooted in modern dance technique and postmodern experimentalism keep pace with a rapidly evolving cultural landscape where audiences are younger, attention spans shorter, and ideas about performance constantly shifting? Or does the empty space between these seats suggest a harder truth: that without bold reinvention, even the most respected institutions risk dancing for dwindling crowds?

The evening opens with A Brief History of Up and Down (2024), a new work choreographed by Brenda Way. On paper, it promises something intellectually engaging: an exploration of when pedestrian movement becomes dance. But the concept never fully materializes on stage. The projections, meant to scaffold the idea visually, add little depth: plain text on a solid background types out questions like “When does walking become choreography?” or “Can you see better in silence?”. The choreography gestures toward transformation, everyday actions morphing into formalized concert dance, yet there’s no narrative clarity or philosophical payoff. For an audience as dance-literate as ODC’s, it feels strangely elementary, as if the piece is asking us to marvel at questions we’ve long since answered. The result is a frustrating mismatch: a work designed to provoke thought that skims the surface rather than diving in.

To understand that risk, it helps to know Way’s legacy. A co-founder of ODC, she has been shaping the Bay Area dance scene since the 1970s. Born in New England and trained in ballet under George Balanchine, she carried with her the discipline and aesthetic clarity of that tradition. Later, she immersed herself in the modern dance experimentation of the late twentieth century, absorbing an era that prized concept-driven work and explorations of pedestrian movement. ODC itself was founded on the conviction that rigorous technique could coexist with intellectual inquiry, and Way’s choreography has long sought to bridge the cerebral and the visceral. A Brief History of Up and Down continues in that lineage, but its reliance on older structures and familiar questions reflects the era that shaped her. Methods that once felt radical have now hardened into cliché, and what once sustained the company may now hold it back.

Where the first piece feels slight, the second, Unintended Consequences (A Meditation) (2008), also choreographed by Way, carries more weight, at least on paper. Commissioned by the Equal Justice Society, it uses Laurie Anderson’s haunting track “O Superman” as its backbone. The piece was intended to explore themes of human isolation and vulnerability, and at its premiere it reportedly offered “a cutting critique of human relationships.” But nearly two decades later, it lands differently. Here, the cracks in ODC’s programming become clearest.

The scale and gravity of Anderson’s music overshadow the choreography, making the movement feel reactive rather than generative. More crucially, the piece feels trapped in its original cultural moment. In 2008, isolation meant something else: smartphones were just emerging, social media hadn’t yet restructured human connection, and COVID was still more than a decade away. Watching it now, I’m struck less by what the piece intends and more by what’s missing: no reckoning with technology, no engagement with pandemic-era solitude, no reflection on the new forms of alienation that define our time.

Programming it in 2025 without recontextualization exposes a larger issue. ODC seems reluctant (or perhaps unsure) about how to evolve alongside the culture it inhabits. A dance about isolation in 2008 is not the same dance in a post-COVID, hyper-digital world. Instead of feeling timeless, Unintended Consequences comes across as a time capsule sealed too tightly, unable to breathe in the present.

Then comes the night’s surprise: INKWELL (2024), choreographed by Kimi Okada and inspired by the surreal cartoons of Max Fleischer from the 1920s and ’30s. Suddenly, the energy shifts. The dancers channel caricature-like movements, infused with ballet-derived technique but performed with wit, intrigue, and repetition reminiscent of Bob Fosse’s theatricality. Leaning fully into these exaggerated, elastic characters, the dancers embody the physics of the cartoons that inspire the piece with both technical precision and infectious joy. The costumes pop, the staging crackles with invention, and the narrative flows without feeling simplistic. Though the piece runs slightly long, it feels alive in a way the earlier works don’t, drawing from cultural history while transforming it into something distinctly enjoyable and resonant. It’s a reminder of what ODC can achieve when it fuses rigor with imagination and commits to building a world the audience wants to inhabit.

Taken together, the three works reveal more than their individual successes or failures. They map out a company at a crossroads, torn between honoring its legacy, experimenting conceptually, and finding ways to resonate with contemporary audiences. The mixed results point to a larger question: what happens when a company founded on innovation begins to feel defined by its past?

The lesson isn’t that every program should look like INKWELL. Rather, ODC thrives when it treats contemporary culture as inspiration, not threat, using its rigor to build bridges instead of walls. The way forward lies in honoring its roots while opening itself to the present: programming works that engage urgent themes, inviting choreographers with fresh perspectives, and embracing interdisciplinary collaborations that provoke rather than reassure.

But strong programming alone isn’t enough. ODC must also reevaluate how it connects with audiences. Younger audiences encounter dance differently now through TikTok, immersive pop-ups, and cross-disciplinary collaborations. ODC doesn’t need to chase trends or dilute its artistry, but it does need to tell its story in new ways, to make clear why dance—and why ODC’s voice within it—matters here and now.

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Teo Lin-Bianco is a queer dance artist and writer based in San Francisco. They studied dance and performance at UC Berkeley, where their choreographic and academic work began to intertwine. Currently, they serve as co-director of Tether Dance Project, a company committed to interdisciplinary collaboration and embodied storytelling. With a background in circus, gymnastics, and modern dance, Teo brings an intuitive and critical eye to their writing. They are particularly interested in how movement can act as emotional language, cultural archive, and collective memory.