For Bill T. Jones, A Bracing Return to Form

To some, Harlem Stage at the Gatehouse may seem a distant destination on a winter evening, but for admirers of Bill T. Jones's unique brand of dance theater, it's a trip that shouldn't be missed. The world premiere of "Chapel/Chapter" marks an invigorating return to form for the 54-year-old choreographer. Mr. Jones's usual political concerns (here, crime and press) and performance-art experiments are still a forceful presence. But this time, they function as engines of movement — never as impediments to it.

What is so refreshing about "Chapel/Chapter" is the way Mr. Jones prioritizes momentum. There may be boulders in its river, but unlike in some recent works, there are no dams. From the opening moments, the choreography, music, and text flow together, gently propelling one another forward.

That momentum serves as a form of consolation for the piece's three grim tales, which hit like a kick to the gut. A soprano at the edge of the stage (Alicia Hall Moran) and a tenor (Lawrence "Lipbone" Redding) in the musicians' balcony take turns reading and singing from the actual depositions of two criminal cases. In one, a man nonchalantly murders a randomly-chosen family of four. In the other, a frustrated father kills his own little girl. The third story, supplied by a dancer, involves a traumatic episode at summer camp.

An especially strong musical underscore by longtime collaborator Daniel Bernard Roumain adds an emotional layer to the words. At times, the tracks are appropriately haunting; and other times, a feel-good groove creates a wild dissonance between mood and music.

The duality set forth by the music pervades Mr. Jones's sharp-eyed choreography. The four-member family and its trusty dog (played by Erick Montes) have the look of a 1950s sitcom family when they form their hand-in-hand dance lines. Later, when each heaves his or her body around in a series of floor-based movements that represent the last moments of life, there's a fatalistic detachment to their struggles. It's as if somehow, they had already heard what the deposition has to say.

Most of the movement is confined to a narrow stage shaped like a basketball key, which is divided into 10 equal gray squares with a semicircle at its top. (The design is by Bjorn Amelan.) The overhead lights pick out individual squares, turning them white. The crowd sits on all four sides of the narrow stage, on pews upholstered in the same red fabric that swaths the walls from floor to ceiling.

At all times, the distinctive set frames the action. As the piece opens, the dancers are already milling about onstage in a variety of solid-color costumes, of which the most striking are the handful of orange prison jumpsuits. During the tale of the murdered little girl, a hopscotch grid is projected onto the stage, while a sweet, childlike voice emanates from the speakers. Five chairs are placed at intervals around the stage; in one of them, above the top of the semicircle, the girl's murderer (played by Andrea Smith) sometimes sits, surveying the action.

In "Chapel/Chapter," Mr. Jones still has twice as many ideas as most artists would try to cram into a 70-minute dance theater piece, but in his case, that's a welcome reduction from his usual number. Some of his ideas — spelling out phrases, doubling key roles, whispering en masse in the dark — feel a little cumbersome, but even these have a clear connection to the aforementioned stream that courses determinedly through the piece.

Meanwhile, the best of Mr. Jones's ideas produce powerful theater. The cacophony of church bells that sounds at the beginning and end of the piece is a shock to the system. And his images — like that of a camper crawling under another's backbend, or of the girl making kissy noises at her dog — can be remarkably strong.

The more ambiguous movements are haunting. The murderer's method of killing — a barely firm touch of the hand to the victim's body — lingers for hours. Proceeding by steps and drops to the floor, the dancers recall many images — a child learning to walk, or even a routine from gym class. The audience is free to make up its own mind about their meanings, as it is with the painful themes swirling through the piece.

As is his habit, Mr. Jones will likely continue to refine "Chapel/Chapter," which at present seems to conclude a few times before it finally calls a halt. One hopes that in revising it, he won't add any starch. For now, the piece's lucid, direct energy allows it to reach the eye at the same rate that it reaches the brain. For a choreographer whose intellectual aims can sometimes get in the way of compelling theater, the immediacy of "Chapel/Chapter" is a precious quality.

Until December 9 (150 Convent Ave. at West 135th Street, 212-650-7100).