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. 

A Busy Railway Terminus

As is usual when one is waiting, I decided to pull up my phone's notepad and read some of my past ideas. In light of recently learning about the art of creative non-fiction, I realised this passage fits that genre so I'm sharing it now, as a reminder to myself (if nothing else).

The busy railway terminus is multicultural and bustling with just a fraction of the city's populace. With each train arrival from the underground, another wave of people floods the dimly lit hall, the air alive with the beep and squeal of ticket gates, the drone of conversation, and the low roar of footsteps and luggage wheels. A noisy troupe of children; a small elderly woman; a man with an Ikea box, all pass by, occupied with their own private lives. Umbrellas are in abundance, dripping the excess of our British weather in their bearer's wake. People meet and part in this crushing concourse, with a hug, a wave, a smile. If you are fortunate enough to stand and watch, a whole play of life is enacted before your eyes as a multitude of unique people come and go, their destination unknown, their situation purely guesswork, their conversations heard in snatches. A romance blossoms in the midst of the flow, someone in bright clothing catches the eye, a sudden commotion of friends having fun - unexpected splashes of colour to break up the afternoon grey.

Rain Stopped Play

This was a scene I saw while walking to school one day; a crisp packet twirling in the wind across someone's driveway, and being halted by an incongruous but determined crocus. It struck me as an odd encounter.

The somersaulting crisp packet

Dances for the pioneer of early Spring -

A little spray of lilac crocus

Steadfast in growing through a crack

In the crisp packet's domain.

'Why are your roots not over here?'

The Walkers Ready Salted asked,

tumbling over the flowerbed.

'My seeds fall where they may,

And so here I grow,'

Crocus whispered, shivering

As the wind pulled at her petals.

'Do you not fear being trampled

Out there in the open?'

The crisp packet asked,

twirling in circles around the flower.

'My life is as fragile

As the last month of Winter,

so no, I do not fear death.'

A little rain begins to fall

Filling the crocus like open hands,

And halting the plastic packet;

He holds his growing puddle

And starts singing,

For the wet spray of Spring.