Flamenco diva Soledad Barrio is the only woman onstage this time. Her company, Noche Flamenca, is halfway through its latest run at the Lucille Lortel Theatre, and hulking male figures surround her with their shadows.
The male singers are hoarse as if from breathing dust, the guitarists focused and alert, and the male dancers are tense, their heels striking the floor.
The atmosphere seems humid with their sweat and desperation. Clearly terrible things have happened: Lovers have been untrue; money has run out; people have been murdered. And worse can be expected. Flamenco thrives on such intimations of tragedy, expressing red streams of emotion.
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