The Surrealists had a favourite game; it was called cadavre exquis and involved each artist adding to a drawing or poem written by the previous one without knowing what it contained. The result was three or four supposedly unrelated elements which, when joined together, made up a Surrealist whole. I often think the titles of NDT productions are a bit like that, seemingly random words arbitrarily thrown together to make an intriguing phrase that has no obvious connection with the show – or does it?
This production celebrates Nederlands Dans Theater’s sixty-fifth anniversary and includes pieces by three major choreographers whose work spans three generations of contemporary dance. Architecture of the Invisible adheres to NDT’s tried and tested formula of a performance consisting of three short pieces, two of which are in repertoire and one that is brand new.
Jiří Kylián has been a mainstay of NDT for many years. His Vanishing Twin, from 2008, explores a strange medical phenomenon whereby one of the twins in the womb of a pregnant woman oppresses the other until the weaker is vanquished and completely disappears. Hmmm. It makes an interesting premise for a choreographer to explore the darker side of human nature.
The piece is set in a giant womb, dominated, on the back wall, by a floor to ceiling gaping slit. On the wall is projected a kaleidoscope of pulsating dots just like blood seen under a microscope. The three pairs of dancers vie for superiority to an incessant tabla-based percussive soundscape. The back wall is soft but each time one of the dancers touches it there is a loud crashing sound. Dancers are occasionally sucked in to this soft wall, struggling to free themselves. Powerful stuff.
The premiere in this programme is Ties Unseen by new kid on the NDT block and internationally renowned choreographer Christos Papadopoulos. The piece is billed as, “An ode to invisible forces, it testifies that the most profound connections often go unnoticed, yet intricately shape the tapestry of our lives”. It starts in the dark with gentle tapping, like hesitant footsteps, and the sound slowly builds to an obsessive all-encompassing crescendo. The fifteen dancers are revealed, all in black in a black-box set standing in a rough circular group, randomly twitching and jerking. Slowly they come together to form a coherent mass which moves as one, rather like those vast flocks of starling ‘murmurations’ that fly in huge swirling formations in the darkening sky at sunset.
A lot of people are afraid of clowns; they find them scary and threatening, their gaudy make-up and painted smiles concealing some hidden menace. The clowns in Hofesh Shechter’s . . . err . . . Clowns, reprised from 2016, do not have clown make-up but are certainly a bit frightening. This group had a sort of ringmaster in a gold-braided frock coat but these jesters were more like inmates in a mental institution who had raided the dressing-up box in order to find as many ways as possible to kill each other. They mimed slitting each other’s throats, stabbing and mock execution by shooting of kneeling figures. But it was all good fun until the final act when the ringmaster . . . no spoilers here.
Clowns was very playful, in a murderous sort of way, incorporating lots of different dance styles including, rather incongruously, Scottish country dancing and there was even a beautifully executed classical pirouette en masse. If you are one of those who is scared of clowns, Shechter’s depiction will not reassure you. If you liked clowns, you may want to think again. Michael Hasted 29th November 2024
