DANCE REVIEW : The Power, Gimmickry of Malashock : Dance: Of three works at Old Globe, troupe’s “Apologies from the Lower Deck” stands out.

John Malashock knows how to craft an image, but his most successful work as a choreographer relies neither on craft nor image for effect. His strength is in describing the outward, physical manifestation of an inner state, purely and naturalistically.

Unfortunately, he often buries that talent under a frosting of mannerism.

Malashock Dance & Company, now in its sixth season, performed Thursday at the Old Globe Theater to a more than half-full house. The program repeats through Sunday.

Of the show’s three works, Malashock’s latest creation, “Where the Arrow Landed,” suffered most from a reliance on artifice.

Looming behind mournfully costumed dancers, a large painting somewhat in the style of David Hockney featured a five-pronged image resembling simultaneously a tree trunk, a whittled branch, or, perhaps, a clawed hand.

Onstage, a circular guardrail, painted scarlet, curved out from one wing onto a third of the dance space, echoing a red rail in the painting. Dancers arched over the rail, fell onto it, stayed behind it, and laid on top of it. At one point, Malashock caught himself on it and froze, like a tree-caught kite.

Malashock set the dance to five segments of music by Villa-Lobos, including the Brazilian composer’s late 1930s vocalise classic, “Bachianas Brasilieras, No. 5,” a work utterly transcendent in sweet sorrow. The arched backs and macho shoves and postures of the males in duet (danced by Malashock and Greg Lane, a talented addition to the thin ranks of male dancers in San Diego) pointed to a Latin temperament, as did the swaying woefulness of the women (Debi Toth, Maj Xander, and Loni Palladino), but the dance did not come close to the emotional power of the Brazilian folk music.

Gimmickry, no matter how clever or polished, is gimmickry nonetheless, and unmoving. The use of the rail was awkward, and many of the idiosyncratic moves (odd walks, skips and hand chops to the chest, for example) were self-conscious. Minus these distractions, the dance fell naturally, rhythmically, into what could be called an oceanic flux in sync with the music.

Malashock’s choreography sometimes reads like a string of quirky poses. One is reminded of an unsure photographer who shoots a subject from every angle, in every light, with every available prop, unable to decide what works. Somewhere in the strips of film, a successful “take” is hoped for. If not, just the pure mass might be of interest.

The reticence to take a risk and make a statement (physical or literal) produces “safe” art. “Where the Arrow Landed,” with its big painting, moody lighting, black satin and velvet costumes, stayed, metaphorically, behind the safety rail.

“Unfortunate Names,” has improved since its debut at the Lyceum in 1990. Malashock’s stereotypes of neurotic women are still exaggerations with misogynist implications, but they are less histrionic than before and less overplayed by the dancers.

Loni Palladino’s characterization of a frightened female who repeatedly resists, yet succumbs to, her body-driven sensual desires, was fully congruent. Every move was believable, from her agitated adolescent bounces of indecision to her chaotic cross-stage stumbles as she was pulled toward an invisible urge again and again. This was the finest solo of the evening, both choreographically and in Palladino’s execution.

Another singular effort was the monologue by actor Steve Pearson in “Apologies from the Lower Deck.” His recitation of Michael Erickson’s absurdist tale was impeccable. Performed last season at Sherwood Hall, this humorous piece may be Malashock’s best work to date.

“Apologies” requires a constant shift on the viewer’s part, between five dancers’ moves and a narrator’s convoluted storyline. Generally, the two elements are equally matched, creating a witty gestalt.

The dancing doesn’t illustrate the text, but subtly responds to it, and this interweaving means the movements do not solely carry the burden of “meaning,” ambiguous as that can be for dance. Because the movement alone does not have to impress, the stress of which can shove sincerity aside, the result isn’t weighed down by pretense.

The final image of this dance--and the evening--was memorable. Inspired, rather than overtly crafted. In it, Malashock portrayed a character drowning after a shipwreck; as he floats in a backbend, his upside-down head rests on the shoulder of the stooping Pearson. The two faces--one upright, one inverted, one alive, one dying--confront the audience. Malashock’s arms hover outward as he slowly sinks. Paired with the text describing the character’s slow demise, this simple image was given a chance to linger, to resonate. It was the concert’s most powerful moment, artistically and emotionally.