Sometime in the middle of Charles Atlas’s stunning video for Richard Move’s new dance work, “Toward the Delights of the Exquisite Corpse,” an image we have seen repeatedly — a sleeping woman’s face cradled by two hands — suddenly turns menacing. The hands, which seemed to belong to a lover, creep rather than caress, and the woman bolts screaming awake. Mr. Move’s program of serious pieces, his momentary farewell to the delirious camp that has made him famous, isn’t quite that alarming. But still, you may occasionally wish you were opening your eyes to something else.

The first half of the Richard Move/MoveOPolis! evening shows the strain of trying to cobble together an entire act. Only one number, the strippeddown “Lust,” holds its own. Set to a pounding trance beat by DJ Savage, Catherine Cabeen moves in high-tension slow-motion through a series of preening poses. What should be liquid — a woman stroking her hands down her torso, a telescoping arabesque — instead turns into a trembling, nearly unbearably rigid series of gestures. It may be a piece with only one idea, but it’s a bang-up one, a fantastically suspenseful showcase for Ms. Cabeen’s powerful instrument.

The other solo, “Dilemma,” featuring Miguel Anaya, also celebrates the dancer’s body, but this time in ways we’ve seen before. Topless and golden in squares of light, Mr. Anaya does simple folding and controlled collapses, moving with and then without the keening of a Cheb Khaled vocal score. It’s gentle but unimpressive; it feels like filling time. But that is still far better than the forgettable “Verdi Divertimento” trio, which showed a bewildering lack of focus despite being danced ably by Kristen Joseph Irby, Kevin Scarpin, and Blakeley White McGuire.

The real reason for the program comes only after the intermission. Mr. Move’s title signals his postmodern ambitions (the “Exquisite Corpse” was a Surrealist composition game in which each word was written by a different author), and he certainly does cede enormous ground to his collaborators. He also displays a desperate need to show off every fancy-pants cultural credential he posses. In addition to Mr. Atlas’s work, Hilton Als, best known as a writer at the New Yorker, contributes a “soundscape,” essentially placing pieces by Julius Eastman next to the terrifying Crystals song “He Hit Me (And It Felt Like a Kiss).” And designer Patricia Field, best know for her work on “Sex and the City,” did the costumes, thoughtfully matching their hot-pink hues to her own hair.

Unfortunately, for long stretches, these elements upstage Mr. Move’s own work. Wrenching oneself away from Mr. Atlas’s gorgeous amalgam of 1950s movie divas, snorkelers, and what appears to be a topographical map having an orgasm would never be easy, and Mr. Move makes the job even harder. His quartet (Mr. Irby, Mr. Scarpin, Ms. McGuire, and Ms. Cabeen) chase each other through a series of uninteresting frolics, starting with an elaborate sequence of rolls on the floor that quickly devolve into yoga shoulder stands and fake running.

His best work comes in the long ending sequence, which is as innocent as a square dance and as unforgiving as a mathematical proof. The four dancers face each other, trading positions, filing into line, and then squaring off again. It’s the first moment of the evening that doesn’t feel like a quote.

In a way, it’s a shame that Mr. Move has already leapfrogged to the front in modern dance. Presenting work that is still so unformed shouldn’t be a problem — it’s only that he is already a tremendously visible presence, which also makes him a visible target. Mr. Move made a name for himself impersonating Her Late Eminence Martha Graham, dodging her estate’s legal wrath, and yet somehow coaxing the Graham company to actually work with him: Clearly, he’s no dance community naïf. But watching his work, you can still feel its relative underdevelopment. He’s still young to choreography, and the flaws, then, are inevitable. Those moments that do work, however, bode well for the future.

Until December 23 (219 W.19th St.,between Seventh and Eighth avenues, 212-691-6500).