MINIMALIST SPINNING IN NEW YORK : LAURA DEAN COMPANY TURNS 10

It is tempting to think of Laura Dean as a brand-new phenomenon, as a brash young child of the times--or, if you will, as a latter-day enfant terrible .

Her choreography--an essentially orderly but ultimately hysterical fusion of spinning maneuver, stamping orgy and geometrical trance--looks mod, mod, mod. Rhythmic reduction remains the primary concern.

Her minimalist music--Dean cranks out her own--seems comparably mod. It is predicated on loud, incessant, beat-’em-over-the-head variations on Johnny-one-note thumps which, in moments of extreme sophistication, give way to Johnny-two-note thumps.

It is easy to be zonked by the visceral impact of Dean’s work, at least during the first 10 minutes. What happens thereafter, however, depends on one’s tolerance for aesthetic bludgeoning and one’s interest in expressive repetition.

A sympathetic consumer might want to attribute Dean’s heroic primitivism to the pioneering spirit. Revolutionaries always enjoy the right to overstate their cases.

But the brashness of callow youth isn’t the issue here. Not any more.

The novelty inherent in Dean’s special vocabulary of movement and sound seemed dangerously limited from the start. Now it may be flirting with exhaustion.

The current engagement of the Laura Dean Dancers and Musicians at the lovely, intimate Joyce Theater on 8th Avenue at 19th Street commemorates the 10th anniversary of the debut of the company. It may be time for nostalgia.

Dean actually has been around long enough to influence other choreographers, long enough to flirt with old-fashioned ballet techniques as well as independent experimental gestures. (Los Angeles has witnessed her collaborations with the Joffrey as well as performances by her own company.) In the cold light of 1987, it may be time to look for signs of refinement and development.

The signs are bleak.

The modest retrospective at the Joyce samples presumably characteristic Dean creations from 1980, 1982 and 1986. The triple bill doesn’t demonstrate much dynamic variety or--perish the possibly inappropriate thought--emotional depth. Nor does it suggest artistic change. It makes one fear that Dean is trapped in a cultural cul de sac.

The rituals began Friday night with a recent revision of “Sky Light” (1982). Accompanied and/or driven by a stoical pair of drummers, six dauntlessly energetic dancers entered singly to enact a presumably hypnotic series of imitative sequential rituals. These entailed Asian-accented arm movements, tapping and hopping endurance contests, swirling and whirling patterns explored ad infinitum if not nauseam.

In the archetypal “Tympani” (1980), the dancers donned unisex pajamas of a different color, and a keyboard thickened the simple sonic fabric. In “Magnetic” (1986), a third color scheme was introduced, the cast swelled to ten, the footwork took on added complexity and the deafening music became electronified.

Nevertheless, it all seemed numbingly familiar. It all seemed surprisingly predictable.

The resident dervishes performed with admirable discipline and virtuosic fervor. They didn’t even seem dizzy.

That is more than can be said for at least one critical fossil out front.