I'm more than sympathetic to dance. I'm biased. I love it - have done all my life. So when a show graces local stages, I'm there - well, try to be.
Last week, proudly expectant, I shuffled in the half light to my seat at Rafael
Bonachela's 360degrees - presented by the Sydney Dance Company and billed as "an explosive amalgam of dance, music and video that explores the experiences of contemporary urban life".
Bonachela is the company's Artistic Director and recognised as one of the most influential modern dance choreographers.
I knew that the dynamic set was designed to constantly skew my view, and I was all over the promise of a "visceral and engaging night of dance theatre". So I was more than a little miffed at being turned out 60 minutes later bewildered, amused even (shared confusion, "is that it?"), but completely unmoved.
Furthermore, I could tell my companion, a comparative dance novice but open to having a great experience, was now more
focussed on the
opportunity to grab a drink or two before the late leave pass expired.
It's a brave person who puts his/her hand up and admits that the darling of modern dance didn't do it for them, and, according to the art snobs, it's a dumb one who admits to wanting a bit of good old-fashioned emotional
engagement - being way too
puerile and sentimental for intellectual
connoisseurs of the arts.
But there you have it - I'm waving both hands.
The opening videography sequence did less to contextualise the piece and more to distract. It seemed self-conscious and contrived and quite frankly, I thought if the decibel level didn't finish off my hearing, then the constantly flickering black and white imagery would result in early onset alzheimers.
Of course I accept it's all about jolting me out of my suburban fog (or some such) but I just didn't like it.
When the dancers finally emerged I was grateful for the temporary reprieve from all things discordant. Call me old-fashioned but I think a good overture is arresting and builds excitement in a spine-tingling give-me-more kind of way. It's a crescendo. I shouldn't be checking my watch and devising endurance strategies.
The company was fabulous - a nod to the male dancers here who seemed, collectively, to outshine the women, except for one stand out. Although I took exception to one poor chap who had the temerity to turn up without his neck. He looked like a rugby league player - a centre - some snappy little terrier type, squat, square and the antithesis of good clean lines. Nureyev would have a fit!
I've since investigated him and concede that he has an impressive CV. Good for him. He's doing it and I'm not. But he was a distraction!
I'm trying to recall what was good/great about it but it's all a bit fuzzy one week on. I keep thinking of my companion's comments, (to which I never did reply).
1. Why do they deliberately move in such a spastic, jerky fashion when they have such incredible control over their bodies?
2.Does anyone ever laugh?
3.I didn't like the one where the guy looked like he was a junkie doing cold turkey. I liked the water one.
So did I - like the water one that is. And yes, there were other stand-out moments too. But they came as more a reprieve from the frenetic onslaught so that I feel I didn't fully appreciate them (perhaps that is the parallel with modern, urban life).
Of course the local reviewer for the daily rag is effusive about it. He totally bought the whole promotional spiel, appearing to regurgitate it in his review to such an extent I wonder if he actually went. And certainly, many more agreed with him if the standing ovation and catcalls from the centre stalls were anything to go by.
But I wonder; is this a case of cultural cringe mashed up with me-tooism? Is it from overseas? Check. Is someone who seems to know what they're talking about (even though we can't understand a word of it and deep down we think it all sounds rather pretentious), is he/she raving about it? Check. Well it must be fabulous then.
Clap darling, clap.
