State Theatre, Melbourne
July 13-18
This was the first time Netherlands Dance Theatre had performed in Melbourne in 14 years and the first time without its former director, Jiri Kylian. New director Jim Vincent brought a surprisingly sombre triple bill program notable for its dark colours and introspective moods.
Given that Kylian is still universally adored, it was a pity that he was represented with just a 12 minute solo. As the program opener, the first part in silence, it was a tough ask for dancer Bastien Zorzotto to command the audience’s attention. Called Double You, the solo is performed with a huge double pendulum swinging silently at the back of the stage, slightly out of tandem and gradually losing impetus. Eventually a harpsichord provides the accompaniment. With the dancer’s torso bared to reveal every muscular ripple, this is a typical Kylian combination of elegance, harmony and enigma. It was a lovely thing, but it certainly left me wanting more.
The Second Person, by Canadian choreographer Crystal Pite (whose work has been performed by Sydney Dance Company), was the most ambitious in scale on the program, and the only one to use a large ensemble of 22 dancers (a fact that the program makes a point of mentioning, as if this was to be taken as an unusual accomplishment).
The scene is a brooding landscape painting (projected) of storm clouds over a craggy horizon (like an Old Master that has dimmed with time). A wind howls. A puppet, manipulated by a large group of black clad people, struggles to walk against the wind. The scene stops, and now the marionette is standing in OP corner with a mike – and given a female voice-over. Previously the manipulated, it is now the manipulator, and from here the puppet’s voice leads the action, giving cryptic instructions to the dancers, such as telling them to look at pictures of themselves or describing their environment. The dancers, dressed in grey suits, mass and swirl, break into groups or pairs as the action dictates, suggesting the dulling conformity of society, along with moments of individual transgression or transport.
Put like this it sounds trite, and there is a hint of adolescent psychology about this piece. But nothing is completely obvious or conclusive and the choreography weaves and develops its themes and meanings with very watchable complexity. The puppet is a brilliant creation – grotesque, fragile and oddly sinister. Just as the work is getting a trifle too long, the puppet is replaced by a human being, playing the puppet. As she is carried around the stage, her limbs placed and moved tenderly by far more dancers than she really needs, the effect is magnetic – capturing the puppet’s awkward grace and vulnerability, while at the same time creating superb sculptural effects as the group clusters around her, their limbs linked. For a moment the puppet leaves the group – it steps away – but returns to be enfolded in its embrace. It is a powerful coup de theatre.
The last work, Silent Screen, is by husband and wife duo Paul Lightfoot and Sol Leon and is “inspired by the art of silent movies”. It has some memorable scenes, thanks to the use of huge rear projections and choreography that successfully integrates the dance with the screens rather than competes with it.
Set to the music of Philip Glass, Silent Screen begins with three figures in silhouette against black and white footage of an ocean shore. As the lights change we realise only two of the figures are real, the third is part of the projection. The scene changes to a forest, there is a child in a red coat; she splits a stick in half, and we are plunged through a vortex into another scene, this time indoors. The third figure returns, as a sinister, dark stranger.
There appears to be a narrative to this work – the presence of the stranger brings disquiet into the couple’s life, the colour red makes another appearance on a female dancer who is possibly the girl in the projection, and there is a theatrically stunning moment when a woman mounts the stage in an enormous black dress – is this a doomed wedding? Something sinister has happened – the death of the child, perhaps -- but, unfortunately, unlike the silent screen which inspired the work, nothing is very clear, and what this work was actually about I cannot tell you for certain.
I had the fortune to see this program twice – once from near the back of stalls and once from four rows in the front, and have to say that that all works benefit from being seen further back, where the design elements have their full impact. In particular, the choreography of Silent Screen is better from a distance. Close up, it can look frenetic and excessive. Synthesised from the mime show of silent cinema, it is astonishing in its speed and inventiveness, but leaves one feeling baffled as to what is being conveyed.
If you are happy to sit back and just enjoy the dancers’ extraordinary facility, their wonderful detail and precision, as I was, this is a beautiful program. But I have to admit I did miss Kylian. I missed his love of the baroque and the absurd, and his musicality. And mostly I missed his genius with choreographing for groups – the way he could draw unexpected patterns from skilfully lit arms and heads, or create moving sculpture out of massed bodies. The closest this program came to that kind of architectonic achievement was at the end of The Second Person – a short moment but the highlight of the evening.
- KAREN VAN ULZEN