Ce site Web a des limites de navigation. Il est recommandé d'utiliser un navigateur comme Edge, Chrome, Safari ou Firefox.

Prelude to Anarchy

There is no genuflecting here. Joan Clevillé's new film for Scottish Dance Theatre, The Life and Times, is as close to the classic lush period cinema of Peter Greenaway and Derek Jarman, with all of the integral anarchy, mischief and darkness as it's possible to create, without getting too controversial or explicit (neither director was a stranger to controversy, or well-crafted filth).

Scottish Dance Theatre in The Life and Times by Joan Clevillé. Still by Tao-Anas Le Thanh

subscribe to the latest in dance


“Uncommonly intelligent, substantial coverage.”

Your weekly source for world-class dance reviews, interviews, articles, and more.

Already a paid subscriber? Login

Like an old-fashioned wooden puzzle, component parts reveal themselves through the drip-feed of Clevillé's knotty, intelligent choreography, filmed with one camera by the equally wonderful Tao-Anas Le Thanh, who freewheelingly tracks the action with twists and turns, framing the piece so as to place the viewer up close to the ensemble, as if following in the empty auditorium, and then right there on stage with them. Clevillé dispenses with the archetypes associated with the Baroque period of dance: monarchs; courtesans, noble ladies and men, sundry guests and ribald jesters. Instead, in the main, the dancers, mostly in modern costumes, perform a contemporary spin on this decadent era, albeit with a few typically Clevillé touches, and still using a triumphant soundtrack by Handel and Bach. There is enough surrealism to counter choices which could have been considered wacky in lesser hands, such as the parade of sliding platforms, wooden slats that seem to go on interminably like extras, and a set unfolding like a work-in-progress, all brooms, props and dry ice being brought on as the action begins.

There are no powdered wigs here. A few concessions are made to the era, though, of sorts. Matthias Strahm, whose gorgeous costumes tip a nod to the 17th century, also designed the set with lovely velvet drapery. There's a ridiculous incident at the start, with a fine lady almost tripping over her dress, until the camera pans upwards to expose . . . a bucket on her head. It's as though Cleville wants to prick the reverence, but also the pomposity, of these times, with its well-documented clear divide between the rich and poor.

Two brats take centre stage in glorious costumes, all piled up hair and silk. Said urchins, portrayed by Jessie Roberts-Smith and Kieran Brown, bring a rolling, carnivalesque spirit to the piece, bookending it with their bouffon humour, reminding me at times of Clout Theatre, superb proponents of the anarchic French clowning from Lecoq school. When not bickering over a loaf of bread, or perceived slights, the impish duo run through an astonishing series of routines together. One sees them embrace a madcap flurry of acrobatics with flailing limbs, races on tiptoe, clapping games and exquisite pratfalls. Another has Roberts-Smith almost unscrewing Brown's head as though it were a cork stopper from a wine bottle—it's bizarre, disturbing and hilarious, all at once.

There are no heroes and villains here. Emma Jones has lit the ensemble in gorgeous Renaissance chiaroscuro, meaning there is an undercurrent of fragility to everyone. This is especially true when the music stops playing, and mimesis and dance is fused. These silent scenes are ambiguous, running counter to the puckish pranks of the bouffons. Clusters of dancers strike poses with legs extended to the point of discomfort, and hold them fast there, as they stare back at the camera. The effect is discomfiting, almost as though the ensemble is asking the viewer how much physical human endurance is required of dancers.Nicole Nevitt's solo is the most balletic, and by extension the closest thing here to tradition; and Luigi Nardone is almost giddy-drunk, falling through a series of twirls and extensions, weaving out and in the others (observing impassively) a modern play on courtly dance rituals. Then, the bodies tangle and hands link in a sweaty mass, like the saddest orgy there ever was.

There is no join-the-dots, linear narrative here. Nor should there be, as here, the dance is storytelling enough—just the most extraordinary, breathless work from a company who are not afraid to take risks, and a choreographer who trusts his audience to understand the complexity of his works of great integrity, space and playfulness.

The Life and Times streamed live through Dundee Rep Studios on June 17 and 18, 2021.

Lorna Irvine


Based in Glasgow, Lorna was delightfully corrupted by the work of Michael Clark in her early teens, and has never looked back. Passionate about dance, music, and theatre she writes regularly for the List, Across the Arts and Exeunt. She also wrote on dance, drama and whatever particular obsession she had that week for the Shimmy, the Skinny and TLG and has contributed to Mslexia, TYCI and the Vile Blog.

comments

Featured

Good and Evil, Embodied
REVIEWS | Sophie Bress

Good and Evil, Embodied

During opening night of Ballet West’s performance of Val Caniparoli’s “Jekyll & Hyde,” my dad turned to me and said, “I remember you once told me that dancers are telling stories with their bodies.

Plus
Working the Room
REVIEWS | Lorna Irvine

Working the Room

In a small white studio space, the line between performers and audience is being blurred. Choreographer Meytal Blanaru, born in Israel but now Brussels based, has devised this piece along with the dancers, and it’s multifaceted indeed, a study in hope and community spirit, with many playful detours along the way.

Plus
An Empire of Florals and Tweed
REVIEWS | Madelyn Coupe

An Empire of Florals and Tweed

Staging the biographical details of someone’s life is by no means an easy task; doing so for a figure who was complex and controversial amplifies this charge to a new level. 

Plus
Good Subscription Agency