Already a subscriber? Log in
Has dance-theatre given up the ghost? Judging by the two performances I saw last week, Eonnagata and The Twelfth Floor, it would appear so. Not surprisingly, one may add, given that, after more than two decades, the provocative, elusive, multilayered, postmodern genre has exhausted any chance to renew itself. Yet I am not sure whether Eonnagata would have made a different impact 15 or so years ago. Its flimsy narrative, which draws upon the mysterious life and the ever more mysterious gender of the Chevalier d’Eon, is as lame today as it would have been in the Eighties. At least in the heyday of dance-theatre, issues of gender, transgender and sexuality would have been addressed more boldly. Here, everything is tamer and more sanitised than in family shows such as Victor/Victoria or La Cage aux Folles. It matters little what the poor Chevalier might have gone through, being forced to end his life as a woman at the king’s behest. His drama is never explored in depth, and his story is told in an utterly boring, detached way. The various events in his life merely provide a series of closed numbers that follow slavishly what are now trite, overused and unbearably typical dance-theatre formulae.
In my view it is the overuse of performing clichés, such as the ritualistic theatre, choreographic stillness, quotations from non-Western theatre practices, gratuitous visual sensationalism and straightforward storytelling that castrates — forgive such an intentional metaphor — the performance, thus preventing any dramatic growth. As for the three performers/authors — controversial ballerina Sylvie Guillem, provocative theatre maker Robert Lepage and cutting-edge dance-maker Russell Maliphant — there is little to say. In line with the tediousness of the performance, they contributed little or no gravitas, whether intentionally or not. Their performances were thus uncharismatic, at least in the eyes of those who know what real theatre charisma is like. Yet, at the end, there were the usual enthusiastic noises and applause from those who only see what they want to see when it comes to the objects of their blinkered idolisation.
At least in Tanja Liedtke’s Twelfth Floor there was some dramatic tension, as well as some spirited and intriguing movement ideas. Dauntingly claustrophobic locations have long been the favourite of many dance-theatre makers. Here, we have a room in which four people are kept in captivity under the watchful eye of a cyborg-looking version of Nurse Ratchett from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. It is difficult to state whether the captives are mental patients in one of those horribly inhuman places one reads about, or a group of equally inhumanly isolated political prisoners. Their need for freedom — that is, political, personal, sexual, etc. freedom — underpins the whole 75 minutes of the performance, leading to a semi-cathartic ending.
It is a pity that, among many excellent ideas, including some powerfully conceived movement patterns and effective use of both the set and the props, the work soon becomes too repetitive and fails to take off fully. In the end, what we are left with is some reiterated display of exceptional physicality, and little drama. Which is unfortunate, given that each of the extraordinary performers is much more than just a wonderful mover, as demonstrated by the way in which they manage to build their characters throughout. After all a seamless, cogent and theatrically powerful interaction between dance and drama was one of the most distinctive traits of the dance-theatre genre. Something that, alas, seems to have been forgotten.
Also in Society
Also by Giannandrea Poesio
Latest
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in