Donald Byrd's The Beast attempts to address domestic violence with a pile of symbolism-heavy props (an apron, beer cans, a teddy bear, a pile of baby dolls, red roses) and brutal, graceful choreography. But despite gut-punching performances by leads Kate Monthy and Donald Jones Jr., The Beast fails—its narrative flaws are so deeply problematic, they border on offensive, especially considering the complexity of the issue at hand.
Choreographed by Byrd in 1996 with input from abusers, battered women, and their advocates, The Beast literally shouts language from domestic violence awareness pamphlets. The piece's heavy-handed simplicity can be grating, though it's impossible to remain unaffected by the blatant violence committed just in front of your seat. As dancers in gray mirrored the suffering of Monthy's character, I found myself perversely comforted that at least she wasn't alone.
The Spectrum dancers are gorgeous, and Byrd's choreography takes advantage of their balletic gracefulness, punctuating it with exaggerated stomps and thrusting pelvises. Women's bodies are constantly manipulated by the men—sat upon, pushed and pulled, twirled, bent, dropped. A particularly affecting segment titled "The Dance About the Joke About the Perfect Wife" ends with the women on all fours, beer cans balanced on their heads. (Google tells me the perfect wife in the joke is three feet tall with a flat head to rest your beer on.)
But Byrd's commentary lacks the grace of his choreography: those baby dolls birthed one by one to comedic pop! sounds, that slow and oh-so-symbolic donning of an apron. Monthy dances with strength and emotion, looking scared, angry, confused, forgiving, broken, degraded, appealing, and never hollow. But her character is a clutter of emotions with no personality—she's patronizingly described in the program as "a simple trusting woman." Jones, her abuser, gets a flashback scene, parents, an occupation, and a couple of songs. The disparity wasn't just poor storytelling—it was angering. During the post-show discussion, an audience member asked Byrd why The Beast spent so much time on the abusive man's interior life while leaving the woman as a paper cutout. "Good question," Byrd said, as if the thought had never occurred to him. "Let me think about it."
Did I mention that The Beast was first choreographed in 1996? Byrd has had 15 years think about it.
A shouted enumeration of emotional and physical abuse, phrased in the imperative ("Pinch her. Slap her."), is deeply unsettling, culminating in "Take her car keys. Take her credit cards. Take her checkbook. And take her fucking dignity." But the lines are delivered by a ghoulish white skull puppet that separates the abuser from his actions, an irresponsible devil-made-me-do-it decoupling of the evil from the person committing it.
It's easy to make audiences sad and angry by reminding us of things we already know. But for all the verbal and physical violence, we leave angry, sad, and without any new insight. 
