The Anjali Dance Company presents Genius at The House, Plymouth, 25th October 2017

Frisson: a sudden, passing sensation of excitement; a shudder of emotion; thrill – something I was not expecting when I sat down to the Anjali Dance Company’s production of ‘Genius’. The company comprised of performers with various learning disabilities whose goal it is to break the stereotypes and perceptions of people with such disabilities through performance. Given the opportunity, their creativity and talent was allowed to shine through in the most amazing ways, and created the aforementioned ‘frisson’. Their unique and, often times, haunting use of sound, staging, and bodily interaction in ‘Genius’ created a professional performance that gave me chills.

In the brief first half, the six performers, all pale-faced, dressed in black, and gloved in blood, performed an amusing rendition of the big screen’s Nosferatu. Each would enter a small section of the stage, surrounded by iridescent tinsel curtains, to an eerily rising note, and perform their simple sketch (often involving bloodsucking) before exiting as the sound cut out. The repetition of the sketches felt very much like film takes, the pattern only broken when part of the curtain was accidentally pulled down, creating a break in the wall of indistinct silhouettes that stood on the other side.

For the second half, however, a contemporary rendition of the life of Beethoven was performed. This utilised stage lighting, voiceover, and the music of Mozart (and, of course, Beethoven himself) for dramatic effect. Since none of the performers ever spoke, all their emotion had to be conveyed through body language, thus the music became their conductor: reaching, holding one another, falling, and crawling across the floor. Scenes of performance and death featured heavily, the one slowly bleeding into the other, so that a celebratory effusion of white roses became a delicate cascade of red petals onto a fallen body. It was such poetry in motion that I felt myself tearing up a little. The grandeur of Beethoven’s music which made me realise just how perfect this story was for the stage – as well as why the protagonist of Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange got such a kick out of the music. I had those beautifully intense and melancholic compositions to thank for several moments of frisson.

Of course, this whole thing would not have been possible without the co-ordinated efforts of the six performers. True to the company’s aim, they danced with a grace and dedication which belied any previously held beliefs one might have had about those with Down’s syndrome, autism, or other learning disability. They exuded an energy which never seemed to fail, a personality which engaged with their characters and struck a balance between humour and solemnity which kept the pacing fresh. Knowing this was a life story, it undoubtedly had to end. However, the final laying to rest of Ludwig van Beethoven, clutching a small bouquet of white flowers, was no less desired than the fact that it signalled the end of the show.

I wish Anjali Dance Company all the best with their future performances! 

In Bed with my Brother presents We Are Ian at The House, Plymouth - 3/10/17

The advertisements for this show were already crazy enough, but little did I know just how much crazier things could get. Not one for the epileptic, gluten-intolerant, or shy, We Are Ian took audience participation to a whole other level. A genuine 'you had to be there to believe it' experience, which I am glad I didn't miss. I hope I can give you at least a taste....imagine the taste of Maria or Rich Tea biscuits, it's the best I can do - besides this review, of course.

If you follow the trail of biscuit crumbs back across campus, past the raucous group of golfers with limp inflatable clubs, duct-taping each other’s legs together, down past the library, and into The House, you will find their source: a catastrophic biscuit massacre scattered across the main stage. But why such a bizarre scene, you might ask? Well, because We Are Ian was there, of course. 

In a bid to discover a better youth, the youth that Ian had, Nora, Dora, and Kat (the three ladies of performance group In Bed with my Brother) transported the audience back to 1989 in a trippy cocktail of lights, 80’s beats, clowning and chaotic dancing, and lip syncing; back to the last real era of youth culture. With attentive ears, they listened to Ian’s cynical yet nostalgic voice pulse through a single lightbulb suspended within reach of the stage. He told them about the illegal raves and acid parties which, only five minutes into the performance, got not just Ian’s protégés bombastically dancing their LED high-tops off, but the audience too, the immortal ‘hot potato’ and ‘cold spaghetti’ slowly infecting everyone present. However, this was only one level of crazy, as Ian went on to introduce them to the wonder of ‘getting wankered on brown biscuit’. Even if you aren’t fluent in street terms for ecstasy, the world you were presented with made the drug reference very clear. Taking the name literally, the ladies apprehensively wield a packet of biscuits, first rejecting the proffered novelty before individually succumbing to temptation, stuffing their faces, dancing with euphoric frenzy, and showering the front rows in partially-chewed biscuit crumbs. Again, audience participation was required. Although initially possessive of their newfound diversion, they coerced only a few people into eating with them, but were soon depravedly forcing handfuls of biscuits upon us as they raved in the strobe lighting. It was the most bizarre performance I had ever seen as Nora, Dora, and Kat paraded and bounced about the room, grinning inanely and miming for us to eat; having had at least ten biscuits forced upon us, my friend and I modestly obliged before trying to pass the rest along: no one was interested. Had the biscuit’s metaphorical significance sunk in already? Were they afraid of getting addicted? When the small pile on my knee reached its final two, I started to think maybe I was.

Unfortunately, all good things, they say, must come to an end, and soon Ian was reminiscing about the slip into club culture and football hooliganism and how things just weren’t the same. Frantically, the ladies began prodding at the lightbulb as if to change the channel back, but it was too late. This slip was mirrored in the seemingly interminable dancing which began to take its toll, their once ecstatic and inane grins slipping into pained and exhausted grimaces as the projected images in the background took on a familiar and contemporary tone: Theresa May, Donald Trump, Brexit. They eventually sank to the biscuit-strewn floor, silent once more except for their tired breaths. And then, just when we thought the whole thing would start over, we found ourselves prompted to dance for them, as if to symbolise a refusal to let modern society drag us down. One by one, we were compelled to take to the stage, ‘hot potato-ing’ and ‘cold spaghetti-ing’ to rainbow lights, mad beats, and Margaret Thatcher’s face plastered across the projected screen. And when the ‘party’ was finally over, we found ourselves looking out to our seats. We were at first observers, we were now participants. The three ladies looked back at us as if to say, ‘You are the future; don’t let it get you down.’ And you know what, despite the struggles of university life, when the rambunctious beat kicks off again in my head, I can’t help but smile and think ‘Don’t worry – I won’t.’   

James Wilton Dance: Leviathan at The House, Plymouth University

I am unsure what drew me to want to watch Leviathan. Most likely it was the title, or the promise of a progressive rock soundtrack by an artist called Lunatic Soul, or maybe I just fancied another dramatic slice of entertainment. Whatever the case, Leviathan delivered on all counts. Choreographed by James Wilton, the cast of 6 performers re-enacted scenes inspired by Herman Melville’s Moby Dick through the medium of capoeira-esque dancing, while simultaneously examining the relationship between man and nature. It was a performance with a narrative of blind obsession and conflict, a desire to conquer the unconquerable. The five men portraying Ahab and his crew (or man and civilisation) danced in a symbiotic fashion, at times animalistic or violent in their moves, struggling against one another, lifting and throwing effortlessly. In one scene, they began to form a magnetic chain, hypnotically weaving and leaping around each other, yet not once did they break contact for more than a few seconds or become tangled, even with all five men linked together. Their only prop was a large quantity of rope which was used to excellent effect, pulled across the floor, wound round the dancers, and lifted in intricate patterns in an attempt to catch the whale. The singular woman of the company (Sarah Jane Taylor) played the part of the whale (or nature), her movements lithe and fluid, yet also contorted and spasmodic, never rising far from the floor. After a certain point, the crew dancers became whale dancers, no longer fighting but moving in sync with one another, helping to emphasize the scale of the whale, and tease Ahab with their elusiveness in scenes reminiscent of a tormenting nightmare. Their movements were always more gentle than the crew’s until the finale when they became more violent, chasing Ahab back again and again. All the while, the music built and dissipated with the energy of the story, a mix of pulsating tribal electronica, indie-style rock, and unsettling sound effects such as what I felt sounded like the hollow cries of a dying whale, or the ominous beat of its heart. It all contributed to building tension and enhancing an already taut atmosphere – made so by the bare stage and minimal lighting. Even the weather went towards setting the mood: a raging rain-storm at night. Returning home, I definitely felt the force of Nature at work as the roads were turned to rivers and Niagara might as well have been falling from the sky.