Paul Taylor Dance Company’s recent performance lat Lincoln Center, which revived dances choreographed in the 70s and 80s, seemed to be more about story than movement. The dancer’s bodies were instruments being used to a greater end. And while I was not always sure what this end was, the dances were nevertheless intriguing.

The first act, “Le Sacre Du Printemps,” consisted of so much pantomime that I forgot I was watching dance. It felt instead like a Charlie Chaplin movie. The movements were staccato, repetitive, and certainly not human. The performance elicited giggles from the audience, especially as a man and a woman argued in front of a dressing room mirror. Some of the humor—created by the critter-like movements and music that could have accompanied Super Mario—had dark undertones. At one point, people begin killing others with what we assume are knives. They fall quickly and without apparent pain, which made the audience laugh. Then a man kills himself and before dying also kills a small bundle that we assume is a baby. The mother tumbles around in agony at her loss. The brutal subject matter contrasted ironically with the playful movement and cheery music.

The bright lights were gone in the next act, “Last Look,” and replaced with a shadowy stage space bordered with mirrors. Reflected at us from all angles were the garish colors of silky costumes. It struck me as having some Eastern influence. The dancers began lying on the ground, and while I watched them wriggle and flop, curious, my friend whispered a single word in my ear: “Fish.” Then it all seemed to make sense, or at least I could concoct a basic but somewhat convoluted story based on what I was watching. Unfortunately, I found few of the movements visually exciting; as my friend said afterwards, they seemed random and unchoreographed, lacking clean lines. However, when the curtain closed I was left in contemplation: what was this dance about?

The last act, “Esplanade,” can best be described as a meringue: fluffy, sweet, irresistible, and requiring little work from the viewer. While evocative of other dance I have seen, it was comforting in its resemblance to my idea of dance. Dressed in salmon and coral and accompanied by Bach, the dancers pranced and played. Simple movements made way for mesmerizing coupled dance with a beauty that was absent in the first two acts. My favorite part was when a woman treaded on her partner’s body, creating an intimate moment on stage.

This unique performance challenged my definition of dance and left me feeling ambivalent, but inspired. Dance, I realized, does not always need to be beautiful. Sometimes it is simply a medium through which people can channel other beings.