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In a more literal manifestation of the horror idea, the audience is
startled by the sudden appearance of the dancers from the shutter-like
curtains. The music's every jolt is responded. When they walk in a line onto
the stage, hand in hand, they look ecstatically happy; you know something
will inevitably go wrong, just as you know what will happen next when a
young couple is happily singing in their car in an episode of
Casualty.
But this horrible something never quite materialises; what we get
instead is a series of surreal imageries. Against whisperings of Beckett's
Worstward Ho, and with some creepily manic laughter, someone fidgets
uncontrollably; another has a handkerchief in her mouth, which is ripped off
by yet another, like a mad dog.
Elsewhere, there's a gender swap: a man is
in a tutu, covering his partner's mouth as if hiding a secret. Perhaps most
perplexing is the recurring motif of tin cans. We see someone run across the
stage in a boa made of cans; someone sweeps cans from the floor as others
dance. At the end, masses of cans fall from above, and our protagonist
escapes just in time. Mémoires d'Oubliettes is supposedly inspired by
'things that have been imagined but never realised' - and Kylián's piece
feels like lots of underlying ideas that never become fully-formed
themes.
Meanwhile, Studio 2, as a piece of physical expressionism, is
engaging and high in energy. Choreographic duo Lightfoot León made this
piece for NDT II, the 'second' company that houses dancers under 23. Not
that you could tell these are less experienced dancers; the manner in which
they attack the chorography is admirable.
Seven dancers, in various duets and trios, appear to tempt and seduce our
central figure, the magnificent Riley Watts, whose contorted yet very
balletic movements never lose your attention throughout what, at 30 minutes,
is a rather long piece. An opening couple in black appears in vain to
distract Watts, while the appearance of another duo, less serene than the
first but more athletic, seems to overpower him as he falls to the
floor.
So there are a lot (and I mean, a lot) of développés à la
seconde, and the slow second half loses its opening panache somewhat,
and the elevator-style entrances can look a bit daft, but Studio 2 is
lifted into something memorable from its superb dancers. More fast-paced
action and less of the agonised, drawn-out développés, please.
NDT's programme two closes with Kylián's 1978 piece, Symphony of
Psalms, set to Stravinsky's composition of the same title. And really,
the near-euphoric quality of this piece of religious music makes it hard not
to be absorbed into the dance. The movements of the eight couples, light and
airy in style, at times reflect the theme, with arms reached out and palms
out, or in open fifth position.
But all is not as it seems, as their open, curved arms are pulled up into
straight parallel, and their open chests are closed in suddenly, their
bodies trembling. There is also a hint of fanaticism suggested as the 16
dancers, packed closely together, move in a line. Different couples and
individuals falter and lag behind at various stages. But before we can work
out what any of the stumbling couples mean, they are seamlessly incorporated
back into the main group again, as if all is forgiven. Perhaps that is the
point: it doesn't matter.
With the remaining chords of the choral music still playing, the dancers
walk to the back in a line, as if they had found something they had been
looking for, and we are left staring at the huge backdrop composed of,
bizarrely, rugs. Perhaps they say something about the company itself:
there's a certain class and grandness about it, but definitely an acquired
taste.
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