Micro at the Gate

Pierre Rigal’s follow up to his wonderful solo show Press, also staged at the Gate, is a curious hybrid. Part garage jam, part dance piece, part something else entirely, it’s at times inspired, at times a bit directionless.

Described by Rigal as a ‘physical concert’, Micro is like a rock gig in which the performers are as likely to play each other as their instruments. The tiny Gate stage has been equipped with drum kit, guitars, keyboards and amplifiers, while the band takes the form of a charismatic quartet of French performers, three men and one woman, all clad in black vintage rock T-shirts: Bowie and the Ramones.

In between more straightforwardly performed songs there are sequences in which the group, Melanie Chartreux, Malik Djoudi, Gwenael Drapeau and Julien Lepreux, use one another as human xylophones and turn the demo instructions on the keyboard into a kind of free-form riff. There’s a nice line in wit running through the piece, which is full of inventive instances of physical comedy. Chartreux’s spike-heeled sandals are used as drums and, in one memorable routine, they split into pairs, using alternate arms to play their instruments. It’s made to look effortless but clearly requires a superb level of musicianship and timing.

The choreography revolves totally around the instruments and the music gives the piece its pulse. The merging of the performer with their instrument is a recurring theme, given full weight in a welcome encore where the drummer seems almost as if he is possessed, giggling as he runs around the stage in a kind of drumming frenzy. The instruments are repeatedly used as masks, rendering the performer faceless as they play, half man, half guitar.

From a slow beginning, in which the performers emerge from behind their equipment, crawling on to the stage - a kind of a birth – the piece builds like any gig, the songs getting stronger, taking over.

Not everything works; there’s some slightly wonky robot dancing, an overlong air guitar sequence, and the piece as a whole, goes on a bit too long, but taken on its own unique terms this is a memorable and inventive show. It might not share the same wealth of ideas as the compelling and intense Press, but Micro is an exciting and energetic merging of forms, performed with real wit and skill.

Reviewed for musicOMH

Ivana Muller: Playing Ensemble Again and Again

The performance begins with a bow. Six smiling people stand in a line on stage and slowly, very slowly, soak up the audience’s applause.

Ivana Muller’s performance piece is interested in the half-way space of the curtain call. The show is over, but not quite over, and the actors themselves do not know whether they are still performing or not. In this space, the rules and relationships of performance change: the actors can acknowledge the audience and each other in new ways. Yet they are not free. There are patterns to be followed, there is a system to things.

Croatian choreographer Muller’s entertaining Playing Ensemble Again and Again is not a dance piece in a conventional sense. There is not much in the way of actual dancing. Instead the six performers move in slow motion, bowing and smiling, clapping the technicians and each other, trapped in a kind of theatrical limbo.

Once the whole process has been completed all that is left is an empty stage and the sound of the actors’ voices behind the curtains. Then it begins all over again: the same slow motion movements, the same bowing, clapping, and smiling.

What prevents the piece from becoming too tedious for words (because visually it is very repetitive) is the script. Muller allows the six performers to speak, not to each other, but to voice their thoughts. Each actor is wearing a mic so their voices sound over-loud in the compact Lilian Baylis Studio, and eerily detached from the speakers. Their words however are usually quite funny. Sometimes they muse philosophically on the nature of performance in general and sometimes their thoughts are more specific in nature: one actor wonders where he put his backstage bottle of cognac.

Muller allows a little flicker of narrative to enter proceedings, though she never goes so far as to give her characters names or anything approaching a back-story. The performers describe how they are actors in a long running show of some description. Sometimes they fret over their billing and how much actual time they spend on stage; other times they describe the process of touring, the stream of new cities and hotel rooms.

Though their actions remain unchanged, time shifts. At the start they are young and keen, by the end they have aged, grown older together, married and divorced (at one point one of them appears to have delusions of being a vampire) but still they perform, they still continue going through the motions, taking their bows.

Though the words are spoken without emotion, in the same smiling, toothy tones throughout, the script is diverting and funny enough to stop the piece being a trudge and while 70 minutes seems an over generous running time, it’s a strangely engaging piece on its own terms.

Interestingly and amusingly, at the end, when the lights have dipped for the last time, the performers return to the stage and take their bows in a conventional fashion, though its difficult to watch this without reflecting on all that has gone before.

Reviewed for musicOMH

Tanja Liedtke's Twelfth Floor

In a typically passionate manner Andy Field blooged recently over on the Guardian about the potency of dance. I've also been finding that some of the most memorable and exciting things I've seen recenly have been movement based - dance. I don't always write about them though, not here; I think I watch dance in a different way - or at least I tell myself I do, I suspect it's more to do with the worry that there is a particular way of writing and discussing dance and I might expose my gaping ignorance of such things more so than normal.

But. Anyway. The most recent thing I saw and enjoyed was Twelfth Floor, choreographed by Tanya Liedtke, a compelling, frequently amusing and ultimately rather disturbing hour of dance set in an unspecified institution.

The walls are painted a muddy mix of cream and green and the lone window is shuttered. Two men, clad in sloppy T shirts and track-suit bottoms, spar and play-fight while another chalks words onto the walls seemingly lost in a private world – it is possible to glimpse the word ‘escape’ among his scrawling.

A nurse-like figure escorts a fourth person into the room, a young woman. Though there are obvious parallels with One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Liedtke’s piece does not mirror it too closely. Her nurse is not nearly as formidable as the Big Nurse of Ken Kesey’s novel. As danced by Amelia McQueen, she is a skittery, jittery thing in a pink uniform with neat little socks. Her movements are intricate yet jerky: robotic and repetitive. Her finger constantly jabs the air as if independent of the rest of her, seeking out transgressions, admonishing her charges.

The remaining characters sometimes stand up to her but at other times they cower in the corner, jiggling like pepper pots left on a washing machine during its spin cycle. A battle of wills plays out between them – inmates and nurse – and small victories are celebrated on either side. There is much humour in Liedtke’s work – especially during a well-timed sequence involving a revolving door and, later, when the inmates mock the nurse’s mannerisms – and at times it feels cartoonish, even approaches slapstick in places, but, always, there is this sense of tension just beneath the surface: the under-toad is lurking.

The piece makes clear that while it is possible to win in the short term, a certain status quo remains: there are lines that can’t be crossed and the consequences of attempting to do so are severe. The caged human has a capacity for aggression and violence and as the piece progresses the levity of earlier scenes is replaced with something much darker and more unsettling. The power games cease being games.

Though Twelfth Floor is walking on oft-visited ground and at times it tip toes fairly close to cliché, is in places formulaic, it manages, in the main, to remain fresh and exciting to watch. The production as a whole isn’t as successful as some of its individual moments, but there is much to revel in: Liedtke’s ability to convey character through movement, to build a rich and complex world, is considerable.

Knowing this, it's all too tempting to be side-tracked by Tanja Liedtke’s own poignant story (she had just been appointed Artistic Director of the Sydney Dance Company when she died in an accident in 2007 - this was her only full length piece) but the work stands on its terms and that is the important thing. However one can't quite escape the feeling that this is an early work - shot through with youth - and that hers was a talent that would have, given more time, matured and evolved and created even better things.

Swishy-Kicky

Last night I took my mother to the bland, boxy Peacock Theatre on Kingsway for an evening of what my great aunt would call, with a dismissive wave of her hand, that ‘clicky-clicky stuff you like.’ And what PR folk would probably term an ‘international dance spectacular’ or words to that effect.

The show was Tango Fire, a blend of music and dance from Buenos Aires – more swishy-kicky than clicky-clicky if we’re to be precise about such things (and we are). And it was, well, it was very disappointing actually. In my mind tango exists as a seductive and deeply sexual form of dance, and this show, while it was technically incredible – legs moving at lightning speed, all manner of acrobatic flips and spins, and a fair bit of, for want of a better term, what we’ll call lady juggling – had something rather cold and clinical about it, it was too polished, and the musical interludes, from the accompanying band Quatrotango, though enjoyable, dragged on for far too long. It just wasn’t as sexy as I was expecting, unless your idea of sexy involves being twirled and tossed across the stage at frightening speed or being repeatedly thrown in the air and caught just before you crash to the ground.

The costumes though, the costumes deserve a post in themselves, lots of unflattering satin and baffling cutaways, plus one shimmery purple outfit that seemed to consist of one leg (yes, just one leg) of a velour tracksuit combined with a bodice made purely of flimsy ribbons of chiffon. That alone made the evening worth it in my book.

Clicky-Clicky

“Why you want to go see that?” asked me great aunt, stubbing out a cigarette in a ridiculously chunky crystal ashtray, “it probably just two hours of clicky-clicky.”

My great aunt, a solid Serbian seventy-eight year old, who stands five-foot-nothing in her crocodile court-shoes, has a way of dismissing things that makes most come-backs redundant. She’s never been much of a one for the whole theatre thing either, preferring the oeuvre of Schwarzenegger to Shakespeare (though if Peter Hall were to direct something that featured a lot of oiled Central-European types kicking each other in the head, I suspect she might be swayed otherwise).

The show she was so quick to write off? Paco Pena’s A Compas! To The Rhythm, which I’d been excitedly describing to her – while idly wondering if anyone had ever done a study into the health giving properties of drinking a double-whiskey a day whilst wearing a whole lot of leopard print. And, yes, it was two hours of clicky-clicky, but it was also much more than that.

This celebration of all forms of flamenco has played in London before now, and was returning for a short stint at Sadler’s Wells. The dancers – two male (one spectacularly be-mulleted) and one female – were incredible, their moves full of sensual and writhing gestures and impossibly intricate footwork. They performed in shafts and squares of light with Pena and his fellow musicians and vocalists seated on stools behind them. It was a hugely atmospheric show; I’ve never seen a Sadler’s Wells audience so lively, all whooping and stamping feet.

Oh, and the shoes. I must mention the shoes. Just as Savion Glover’s only concession to the glamour of his profession, when performing at this same venue, was a pair of cool green tap shoes, one of these chaps sported a pair of aggressively scarlet flamenco heels. Now of those, my great aunt I’m sure would approve.

Jazz Hands (Well, Feet Actually)

So, the soundtrack to my Wednesday evening went a bit like this: Tap. Tap. Tap. Tippety, tap. Tippety, tappety, tippety, tappety. Tap, tap, tippety, tap. Tappety, tappety, tappety. TAP. TAP. TAP.

I was at Sadler’s Wells, watching Savion Glover make his London debut. Glover is a big name in the US tap scene, though his name was new to me (apparently he had something to do with that icky, animated penguin syrup-fest Happy Feet, but I shan’t hold that against him - though someone, somewhere should surely pay).

Anyway, being a creature of habit, I went to the Tinderbox Café on Upper Street first, as I usually do when seeing anything at Sadler's, and had a big, frothy mocha – because they serve it in 1950s milkshake glasses and that’s really all it takes to make me happy – and read a few chapters of my book before heading over to the theatre.

The posters for the show had led me to expect some kind of big dance spectacular but actually the show was very minimal in its approach and it was all the better for it. There was no set to speak of, just a four piece jazz band gently noodling away. Glover came on, dressed all in white save for a pair of bright green tap shoes, and, head down and dreadlocks bobbing, began to do his stuff, tapping away in time to the music. It felt more like a jam session than anything else, with the rhythms made by Glover’s feet forming an integral part of the music.

This idea – the body as instrument – was taken further in the livelier and longer second half, where he was joined on stage by three supporting dancers – they each had their solo moment, taking turns to create riffs, but in his own understated way Glover was the star. In my rare brushes with traditionally staged ballets, I’ve always come away feeling in awe of the dancers’ evident technical skill but unable to connect emotionally with what I had seen. On this occasion I was able to do both. I left the venue feeling pleasantly uplifted though, unlike some other audience members, I was (just) about able to restrain myself from testing out some rudimentary tap moves on the Islington streets as I walked back to the tube.

Cuban Grooves

After a pleasantly aimless week of No Theatre, I ended my drought by drifting over to the boxy, character-free Peacock Theatre, Sadler’s Wells city-centre sister venue, to see their new show Havana Rakatan.

This is one of those big dance extravaganza type things that Sadler’s Wells likes to stage from time to time. The last one was Brasil Brasileiro, which I saw last summer, and this new production does for Cuba’s musical heritage what that show did for Brazil’s.

Havana Rakatan is a kind of chronological trawl through the country’s musical history, so we get opening scenes devoted to Cuban music’s colonial and African influences, with a second act concentrating on mambo and salsa, with a little chachacha chucked in for good measure. And it was entertaining, as these things go, though I often find these shows work as a kind of two hour build-up to that bit at the end where they want to get everyone on their feet and clapping in unison. Something I whole-heartedly detest, being both a natural introvert and a bit of a snob. Still despite my resistance to the enforced enjoyment factor, the sheer energy of the musicians and dancers made it nearly impossible not to get swept along by things - at least a little bit anyway.

I was however distracted by the dancers’ costumes on a number of occasions: in the earlier tribal set-piece, one chap appeared to have scalped Bungle and be wearing the results on his head, while later on, one woman was sporting, not only an Ed Wood-worthy mid-riff exposing angora sweater, but also these bizarre billowy satin hot pants that resembled, rather disconcertingly, an adult nappy. No-one else on stage was thus encumbered. I think she may have lost a bet or pissed off the costume designer.

There were also a large number of toned, shirt-less and sweat-slick torsos on display, Lisa, I suspect will be rather sorry she sat this one out.