Los Angeles Festival : MONNIER-DUROURE IN DEBUT

The L.A. Festival hype machine calls Jean-Francois Duroure and his partner Mathilde Monnier, who made their debut Saturday night at the Japan America Theatre, “the Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers of the 21st Century.”

That’s very cute, very inventive, very dumb and very misleading.

True, there is an element of slick show-biz dance in their bold and tough little routines. But their work isn’t pretty. Perish the outdated thought.

Monnier and Duroure don’t aim to please, don’t want simply to entertain. Their collaborative choreography is bleak in perspective, black-edged in tone, faintly satirical in accent and intrinsically competitive in spirit when it comes to the inevitable conflict between the genders. It also happens to be well marinated in ever-mod Angst .

The opening Monnier-Duroure bill--the first of two to be presented here--involved somewhat less than an hour of dancing. For those who bought the top ticket, the tab came to about 50 cents a minute. The performance was politely provocative, but the price was wrong.

One didn’t leave the theater with a sense of maximum stimulation, much less climactic fulfillment. Here was a case where a little more might have been more. Still, in this day of “Rings,” “Nicklebys” and “Mahabharatas,” a too-short program--no matter how flimsy--is vastly preferable to a too-long program.

In any case, one couldn’t be sure that the protagonists would have had much energy left for another installment. They already had done a grueling amount of running, jumping, stretching and palpable fretting, not to mention mutual lifting, climbing, slamming and thumping.

The enthusiastic non-capacity audience may not have been exhausted when the curtain fell. Monnier and Duroure, however, had every reason to be.

The first half of their evening was devoted to something called “Pudique Acide.” A casual glance at the program had led at least one observer to expect something pertaining to bitter pubic explorations. But no. The title seems to refer somehow to acidic modesty.

Sorry. No explanations.

In this introductory opus--it was created in 1984 when Monnier and Duroure were studying in New York under a French government grant--the battle of the sexes seems especially insidious because the opponents are virtually identical.

Both sport the same uniform: plaid skirt, short jacket, suspenders over loose blouse, sensible walking shoes. Both can be lyrically “feminine” and dramatically “masculine.” Both eventually strip a little, demurely, without teasing.

Dour in expression when not simply numb, the two begin by stalking each other in silence on a bare stage. Their steps are always identical.

Inspired by the quaint decadence, simplistic rhythm and grating dynamics--if not the specific texts--of songs from Kurt Weill’s “Dreigroschenoper,” they eventually enact violent yet disciplined athletic-balletic scenarios.

Alternately graceful and mechanical, they perform like inspired, wound-up zombies. In its taut and primitive way, “Pudique Acide” is undeniably theatrical and at least momentarily compelling.

“Extasis,” which follows intermission, suggests more of the same. Here, in addition to Weill, the accompanying tape blasts some ear-splitting, over-ripe movie music by Bernard Hermann. Spotlight fixtures strategically clutter the stage, and a blank screen serves as backdrop. One is led to regard the mysterious ambiance here as something pertaining to the sinful cinema.

Our dauntless duo, now barefoot, begins this exercise in trench coats and ruffled slips. As agitation mounts, the dancers flail, wrap their frail bodies around each other, use each other as props, tug at their clothes, undress (the skin- colored tights stay on, Aunt Bertha), collapse in crinoline heaps and play hide-and-seek in the artful shadows designed by Eric Wurtz.

The ecstasy in “Extasis” certainly seems agonizing. But that, no doubt, is the point.

It may not be as profound as we are supposed to think it is. Nevertheless, it is well crafted, well-focused and undeniably economical.

We may learn more about this precise study in symmetrical agitation on Saturday when the Lyon Opera Ballet presents an expansion called “Mama, Sunday, Monday, or Always.” In that version, the cast will swell to eight and the score will embrace chansons by Eartha Kitt.

Hope springs internal.