DANCE REVIEW : A Fred Strickler Sampler at Santa Monica College

As dancer, choreographer, teacher over 30 years, Fred Strickler has become important to Southern California dance: a meticulous, versatile artist best known as co-founder of the Jazz Tap Ensemble.

However, a sampling of his work that Santa Monica College presented Friday on its Studio Stage suggested that Strickler is also a hostage to virtuosity, someone concealed behind intimidating technical display.

In “Spinning Yarn” (1986), Strickler circled the stage in a chain of perfectly centered turns, while speaking of his earliest memories of dancing. His control here proved nearly as remarkable as his estrangement from the text: He talked of still feeling exhilaration, but where was that feeling in his face, his body, his voice?

Dancing Strickler’s role in “Between Friends” (1987-’88) on Friday, Paul Maillard had all the warmth and engagement that Strickler lacked at the duet’s premiere. No, Maillard never looked as elegant as Strickler but his interplay with the accomplished Victoria Koenig (who had also been Strickler’s partner) now came fully alive and the piece seemed more than just a fluent exercise.

Similarly, Jeff Friedman pierced the remoteness of Strickler style in “Center Divider” (1990), though, Lord knows, he was dressed like Strickler and assigned Strickler’s trademark port de bras. Friedman’s urgency--his need to push through technique toward catharsis--gave the solo’s inventive, contorted lunges and undulations great emotional force. Composer Butch Rovan added his own intensity through the assaultive electro-clarinet accompaniment.

In contrast, the prowess that Strickler brought to an excerpt from “Fault” (1987) couldn’t make the twitchy, flailing vocabulary genuinely expressive--nor the partnership with Stephanie Gilliland memorable. This was bravura modern dance, all right, but even the wit of its juxtapositions seemed ultimately insular.

Two familiar tap solos found Strickler in spectacular fettle, though “Excursions” (1984) still vandalized its Barber accompaniment by its doggedly literal step-note relationships. (What a relief when Althea Waites was allowed to simply play , without the tap-clatter).

A section of “Tone Poem” (1981) led to the new “Five and Ten,” in which Strickler for once appeared to dance for sheer pleasure. The vocal exchanges with composer Ray McNamara also revealed a spontaneity new in Strickler’s performances, and the steps, too, looked relatively loose--though scarcely simple.

Beyond beguiling steel drum music and throwaway flair, “Five and Ten” represented a breakthrough: proof that Fred Strickler actually likes to dance. That’s not the same thing as his showing off his credentials as a dancer, or wearing painted smiles on stage. It makes a big difference.