Candoco – Roehampton Dance Diary 30.10.13

Wednesday evening was rather a coup for Dance Diary – not only and evening with renowned company Candoco, but a world premiere to boot.

I had not previously seen Candoco’s work – through circumstance or maybe happenstance – though of course was well aware of the company, which integrates disabled and non-disabled dancers.  I was interested to see a range of their recent work on Wednesday at the Michaelis Theatre.

The first piece was the world premiere of Lea Anderson’s Miniatures.  Inspired by the traditional miniature portraiture of the 16th century, the piece muses on the process of painting these tiny mementoes and keepsakes, on the ritual of sitting to be painted, and, I guess, on the muses who appear in the paintings.  The stage is set with a camera pointed towards a blue screen upstage left, with what will become a live-feed projected onto a narrower screen, downstage right.  Annie Hanauer shuffles geisha-like onto the stage, bound up in a floor-length, skin-tight dress, which covers her down to her ankles and wrists.  She wears fringed, sequinned, platform shoes, and on the right shoe, a looped wire with a pom-pom at the end dances about her feet – I imagine like a Regency lap dog, fawning over its mistress.  A mauve lame ruff and wild, high-hairlined wild orange wig evoke an Elizabethan visage.  (Of course, of the first Elizabethan age.)

The piece is a work of great detail and refinement.  It unfolds as a series of tableaux which play out to what I would describe as a sort of modernised chamber music.  Each begins in stillness, and Hanauer moves through a series of very considered poses, in turn highlighting her face, or her arms and hands, drawing attention to different parts of her body, in the way that women have been depicted through history – she of the beauteous waist, the immaculate cheekbones, the graceful neck.  The beauty of the piece is really in that live feed – zoomed in to frame the face, we become privy to the incredibly detailed performance.  Every movement is beautifully captured, and heightens the sense of the miniature – the minutiae of the movement.  Each lift of the eyebrow, tilt of the head, spread of just a hint of a smile is captured and amplified to great effect.  However, as Hanauer shuffled off stage, with her tiny handbag, and bumbling pom-pom I couldn’t help longing for some sort of bigger shift, a change, or perhaps a sense of more evolution.  Though if the piece is about minutiae, Anderson certainly succeeds in testing her audiences’ capacity to find the beautiful in the small, as well as interest in stillness.

The second piece of the evening, Javier De Frutos  Two For C, takes its inspiration from Tennessee Williams’ Camino Real.  Set in a dark, hazy world, part living room and part boxing ring, two men (in Mexican wrestling masks) play out their troubled relationship, in which every move is a power play.  Performers Kostas Papamatthaiakis and Rick Rodgers form a little-and-large dynamic, with their body types heightening a sense of struggle.  The action moves between confined, distilled movement on and around a single chair and bursts of explosive bursts out into the space, which is delineated by a square of red carpet.  Their suits are emblazoned with words – I imagine from the playtext? – and the masks, along with the Ranchera music, create a disquieting sense of unreality.  And whilst the masks ‘suggest deeper, darker forces at work’, I think the oddness of the set up and sound, but more importantly the struggle inherent in the movement material, would have been enough to convey this, allowing us to pick up on even more nuance in the performance by allowing us access to the performers’ faces.  The piece builds to a crescendo of chair-swapping (or perhaps better chair-controlling) frenzy, until there is no option but for the victor to control the space and the loser to leave the ring.  

After a brief pause, we took in In Translation by Israeli choreographer Emanuel Gat.  Somehow quietly beautiful in contrast to the explosive and humourous first half, In Translation is a sinuous unfurling of movement and momentum, a single stretch of dance which moves, shifts and evolves a little like the wax in a lava lamp.  It flows and erupts in solos, duets and trios, seamlessly.  Less earth-bound than what we have come to expect from what I refer to as the ‘Israeli aesthetic (propogated by Schecter, Verdimon et al.), it is a gentle piece which truly showcases Candoco’s ethos of integration of many different types of body, and highlights what Candoco stands for, to me; that every body may look different, have a different level of ability, but that in movement, each unique body is beautiful.

Sara Wookey – Disappearing Acts & Resurfacing Subjects: Concerns of (a) Dance Artist(s)

Into the dark space walks a figure.  The stage is lit by just a single bulb, hanging on the end of a length of flex, held by the figure – now that my eyes have adjusted to the darkness, I can see that it is a woman – gently dangling at thigh-height.  Almost imperceptibly she begins to move, and I can’t quite figure out whether it is a movement of the body generally, or more specifically the tiniest flick of her wrist that moves the bulb which creates this small ripple of action.  The movement – I think it is the bulb, more than the body – becomes larger and larger, until the woman steps out from her position and walks forward, towards us, towards me, and the bulb swings more rigorously, more pointedly, from side to side, and then finding the necessary power from that subtle wrist, it swoops over the edge of the pendulum motion and becomes circular, swinging around and around the performer.  As she walks, clearly, pointedly, and the bulb swishes around and around, she is lit in a succession of angles, and to me it seems that her face, her body, shifts mood and tempo and quality at each point around the revolution of the light.  And then she is still.

The performer is Sara Wookey, and her piece – or perhaps performance-lecture if we want to be categorical about it – explores the nature of dance, it’s fleeting existence and ephemeral nature, as well as her role within and experiences of the dance world as it stands.  Wookey deftly weaves multiple strands of thought, to create a performance which is tremendously provocative (perhaps particularly watching as an artist myself, and having to negotiate the dilemmas and problems which she so eloquently raises).

Many people will inadvertently know Wookey, though perhaps not by name.  She wrote an incredible open letter to artists after a rather difficult experience working with a highly revered artist and establishment in Los Angles, and whilst the performance starts by evoking thoughts about how dance constantly slips away from us by its very nature, it turns to how dance artists – particularly in the current economic climate – can hold on to the ability to support ourselves financially and nourish ourselves artistically.

Disappearing Acts… combines personal account, philosophical argument and current debate to great effect, leaving the audience with a sense of Wookey’s place in the industry as well as how dance places itself amongst the arts.  I left the dark space with a memory of dancing shadows slowly slipping away from me, and a head buzzing with thoughts about what – and where – dance is.

Journeying through Battersea Arts Centre – London Stories, BAC

I didn’t really feel like going back out.  I was tired after another in a series of long weeks, and I had managed to get stuck in to some tedious but necessary admin (after a day of doing admin for someone else).  And then it was time to leave again.  I pulled on my blazer, and trudged across the road to the train station.

But once I walked through the grand doors of Battersea Arts Centre, my funk began to lift.  Perhaps because I love the building – its mosaic floor, and sweeping ceilings; the marble staircase (for now concealed behind a red velvet curtain); it nooks and crannies; it’s dark corners and (now, not-so) shabby chic.

I was presented with a map and a schedule, and after a brief and gentle introduction, my journey began.

I am all too worried about saying too much and too little here.  I don’t want to give anything away – I would like everyone to have an experience like mine, not waiting, expecting, or pining for a certain story, but just moving with the ebb and flow of the journey, taking each encounter as it comes.  What I will say, is that the candle lit route and rooms in which each storyteller (and, indeed, story) lives, is in its own small, quotidian way beautiful and utterly spellbinding.  You travel around the building, and you take in six stories – each person on a different route, but you meet a companion with whom you share two stories, and then part ways to meet a new friend for the next two.

I’m not going to tell you about the stories that I heard, but I will say that they all moved me in very different ways.  From the sublimely funny to the most harrowing and gut wrenching, each storyteller owns their narrative, and the meaning that it contributes to the experience.  And ultimately, as I walked back out of those grand doors and back down to the train station, it was apparent that really, these stories, all these people, are London.  They – we – are what make this city great; that it is not the tallest buildings, or the fastest trains, the rush-hour crush, or the houses of Parliament.  It’s just us, in our extraordinary ordinariness, our will, our survival, our desire to make a connection with each other, our need to share our stories.

Which of course, as a theatre-maker, is what I want to do.

And it’s funny, because in July, whilst rehearsing Every Way Up Has its Way Down, a piece made with Heather Caruso, a story of London and specifically the East End that encompasses our own journeys to the city, I found myself thinking a lot about London, how I live in the city, and why I love the city.  So I wrote her a letter, and here it is; a little chunk of my own London Story.

Dear London,

You are like a bad boyfriend.

I know that you are sometimes not good for me, that you sometimes treat me unkindly, and yet, I cannot bear to leave you.

As I trace your arteries, your veins, your capillaries, the roads at your very heart, I am invigorated, thrilled, even, by the wonder that you provide. I am in thrall, I am hypnotised, you are like a drug and your energy, the people who flow through you, keep me hooked.

Sometimes I can’t bear to stay. You are too rough, too hard, too brash, too busy, too cruel, too full, too humid, too intense, too terrifying, too inhuman, too human, too big, too cold, too inconsiderate, too anonymous and too, too close.

Sometimes I hear the call of the sea, and I want to run, run fast, run completely back to the land of the cool sea and flat mountain and blue, blue, (the bluest) sky.

And yet, for now, I am yours.

Perhaps one day, I will have had enough. I will write you another letter, a short letter, a ‘Dear John’ letter and say goodbye forever, never to look back.

But for now, I am yours.

Fable (Shoreditch Youth Dance Company, UK)

Shoreditch Youth Dance Company weave a story, or a series of stories, perhaps, of otherworldly beauty in Fable.

An odd creatue, pink googly eyes and black furry coat, dominates the stage in the opening scene, ad a grey silken wave ripples upstage, setting the scene and taking us out of the everyday. We then cut to an regular Joe, plaid shirt, jeans, off on an adventure perhaps, knapsack on his back. Through a playful dance, with what seems to be an impish spirit, our Joe is whisked from the everyday to a place of legend and etherial spirits.

The piece unfolds as a series of short scenes, knit together with the same ‘characters’ and world of movement material. The dancers are agile and committed, and whilst I found the movement material more on the abstract than narrative side, I enjoyed each segment in turn, and there was plenty of movement material to keep me occupied – perhaps, at times more than enough, as I found myself longing for more moments of quiet or stillness to create a more defined dramatic tension.

However, these are mighty impressive young dancers, with crisp technique and a lot of potential. I was particularly pleased to see so many enthusiastic, strong, young, male dancers on stage. I look forward to seeing them – and the company – continue to grow.

Like Enemies of the State (BeFrank Theatre Company, UK)

Like Enemies of the State takes us to the Democratic Republic of Congo, and on a journey down what I imagine to be dusty roads, revealing the stories of three child soldiers.

The storytelling shifts through time and place, intercutting the children’s personal testimony with fully played out scenes of both their lives, as well as the experience of international aid workers investigating the rebels (and army’s) use of child fighters.

It is a powerfully told and thoroughly researched piece of theatre, with superb use of projection, set, and props. The investment of the excellent cast is clear (even from the pop-song backed pre-set), with all elements combining to create a well constructed and thoroughly moving piece of theatre.

The Miss(is) (The NYLON Group, Hungary)

I rush up to the roof, and I think it may have already started. There is a giant, billowing cube on stage, made out of what looks like the material they use to make the tiny, folded shower caps they put in hotel bathrooms. Inside the cube is a woman.

She is writhing, moving, sitting, standing, and I’m not sure if she is trapped or trying to escape. She looks like she may be naked, but the plastic isn’t quite transparent enough for me to be sure. She moves across the cube, alternately revealing herself when right up against the wall closest to us, then concealing as she retreats across the cube.

And then, she emerges. Almost like a birth, she bursts through an opened seam, and she becomes a woman. The performer them moves through a series of different types (or stereotypes?) of woman, using the plastic as an ever evolving and shifting prop. Some of these moments work bette than others, but moments of clarity – such as when the plastic becomes a series of dresses, and the woman eventually a cat-walking model, then morphing into the tragic Madame Butterfly; or when the plastic becomes a man, who admires then ravages the woman, making her pregnant – are quite striking. I feel that a darkened theatre space would perhaps have highlighted the theatrical moments of the piece better (it was performed during the day on the rooftop stage), but there were lovely moments of ingenuity and clarity in the work.

Equilibre(s) sur corde (Les Cliquets, Belgium)

I stood on the mezzanine of the first floor to watch Equilibre(s) sur corde from a higher vantage point. Having caught snippets of the performance – which plays out in the ground floor foyer of the Kulturhuset – over the preceeding two days, I was pleased to finally see the full performance. Almost like finally seeing the movie after watching trailers in anticipation.

And I was not disappointed. The two aerial artists in Equilibre(s) are masters of their craft, and the ease with which they play on, wind up, and wrap themselves around the rope (and each other) allows the audience to see more than simple spectacle, but rather the playing out of the relationship between two people, through three short scenes. The mood shifts from the sensual to the playful effortlessly, and there are some truly breathtaking moments, with two seemingly weightless bodies suspended above the foyer, breathing new meaning into the phrase ‘dancing on air’. A piece that proves that sometimes simplicity of concept can make for the most clear and striking of performances.

Honest: Self-Portrait in Lies (Yvonne Lake, UK)

Honest: Self Portrait in lies tells one woman’s story of her journey through depression and discovery of Reasons to Live.

The artist, Yvonne Lake, gives a multimedia presentation, detailing her overwhelming depression and desire to die. Only through then researching suicide methodologies (‘How to tie a hangman’s knot’) does she discover she is inspired by creativity and making things. She then meanders through revelations about herself, her body, her relationships, her lies, her friends, her work, which are all reasons to live.

I think I caught the performance on an off-afternoon; a group of noisy and rowdy teens behind us spoiled the first section, and the piece was riddled with technical difficulties. I enjoyed the frankness of Lake’s performance, but found her shifts between the ‘real’ and performed versions of herself a little difficult to deal with, and I think because of this I held her at arms-length, instead of really sinking in to the material. I can appreciate her practice – I count another performance artist, Bobby Baker, who also deals with issues of mental health, amongst my favourite ever performances – and I think with a little more polish and refinement Honest could be a work of real power.

I Shit Diamonds (Not Normal Productions, Zimbabwe)

The nation of Congolababwe is run by an ego-mad, fearful and self righteous dictator, clad in full camouflage suit, replete with military decorations, golden tassels, diamond ring, blingy Rolex and compulsory army green beret, worn at a jaunty angle. He is a delusional tyrant, a murderer and all round bad egg.

I Shit Diamonds, a one woman tour de force by Zimbabwean performer Stacy Sacks, brings fictional Congolababwe to life through four characters – each exactingly specific and hilarious. The first, the President’s cleaner, reveals the state of the nation through his fall from fulfilled rural teacher, to city cleaner, as well as the sad demise of his sister due to a national cholera epidemic. He is funny and sparky, engaging with the audience, and his positivity undercuts the dire state of the nation, highlighting the traumas suffered by the people of Congolababwe.

As he exits the space – now readied for the President’s upcoming address – a pre-recorded news segment (on national broadcaster CvoNN) plays on a screen onstage. Between the husky-voiced (disinterested?) news-reader in traditional dress, and the hapless forensic scientist whom she attempts to interview we learn that this is a country of food shortages, corrupt officials, government propaganda, and a place where the discovery of the remains of hundreds of people in a mine is, if not routine, certainly no cause for concern.

And then, the grand entrance of Viktor Mugabatokwe, the self-styled high priest and most glorious leader of Congolababwe.  A composite of every African dictator we have every known, he paces, he preens, he fills the space with this presence, and we learn that he is not only deluded, but he is dangerous and utterly ruthless.  But he is not fearless.  In a bid to preserve himself (and his self-created legend) he goes as far as employing an audience member to act as his body double.  And after he finds a finger in his coffee, he sees fit to dispose of his cleaner (offstage) whilst his newly appointed double spouts the political diatribe that his been scripted for him.  When Viktor emerges, heaving with rage, wearing a bloodied apron, he is tearing, tearing across the stage, tearing off his clothers, in a firecracker of rage.  But as Viktors rage spirals up, the lighting shifts – and suddenly, we see before us not the preening, power-mad egomaniac, clothed in military reglalia, replete with ‘boep’ (as I would call it, or belly, for non-Afrikaans-speakers) and diamond Rolex, but rather, a very slight, very white woman, who is peeling off a stick-on moustache, which has worked so effectively as a mask for the last 50 minutes or so.  She is revealed; Stacy Sacks, a woman in voluntary exile from her own corrupt African home.  All of the comedy which has come before is suddenly swung into sharp focus, and our laughter is undercut by her honest revelation.  Perhaps as a fellow African – and an African away from the bluest skies, and tallest trees, and rolling veld of our childhoods – this piece found a deep resonance within me.  I was deeply, deeply moved, whilst also being incredibly entertained.  Sacks is a superlative performer, and incredibly gifted in being able to judge the audience and interact with them so (seemingly) effortlessly.  This mix of biting satire, clever staging and incredible acting – all the while with its undercurrent of humanity – is the kind of theatre I want to see again and again.

We’re Not Good People (Creative Electric, UK)

Cardboard houses in neat rows fill the space. The are White and crisp, and the sort of great playhouse I would have traded all of My Little Ponies for as a child. Music starts, and suddenly the inhabitants of the box houses begin the reveal themselves – eyes peering through cut-out windows, fingers emerging through door handles, and hands creeping out of doors and shutters.

The exuberant cast fully emerge, and gradually introduce themselves – both through movement, and also verbally at a lone microphone downstage. They begin to call into question how honest they are – both in the stories they tell about themselves, as well as the ‘facts’ the give about each other. The piece moves through movement material (an angry dance to a track of ‘Fuck off!’ was a highlight of energy), and more contemplative reveals through dialogue. Each moment was clear and defined, with the cast ultimately making allusions to what makes us nice people, or not. And whilst we all may lie, cheat or conceal, I think that the piece could have been digging deeper – after all what makes us Not Good People, is also what, ultimately, makes us uniquely human.