At first, there is nothing—just the cream and brown clad figure of Scottish Dance Theatre's guest dancer Yosuke Kusano who walks across a wooden floor. As the floor is bare, so too are his very exacting movements, just enough to infer tension: minimal, sharp and mired in a kind of self-protective series of gestures. A hand is raised like an alarm signal. He tiptoes. He moves instinctively, his body governed entirely by the feelings that exist in that exact moment. Suddenly, he pulls at something just visible to the side of his shoulder—a strand of hair that is seemingly not his own. Golden wisps of hair are picked out by the light, and Kusano pulls carefully at the strands, then recoils.
Lien copié dans le presse-papiers
Yosuke Kusano in Scottish Dance Theatre's new film, “Thin h/as h/air” by Pauline Torzuoli
subscribe to the latest in dance
“Uncommonly intelligent, substantial coverage.”
Weekly articles from the world of dance
Wide diversity of reviews, interviews, articles & more
He bends, with both hands holding the hair, and crouches down, extends a foot, contorted, and the hair seems connected there. Hunkered down, vulnerable, aware only of his breathing and the strands, he flexes again, his foot bent back as though it belongs to another body. Soon, it becomes apparent that there are clumps of hair almost like a forest to one side of the dancer, and hanging from his body. He twines it around his fingers. He is now no longer just a dancer, not merely just a human being, but rather, akin to a curious woodland creature, and accordingly, he attempts to regain and hold on to his territory, scurrying along the space, blowing at the strands to form curved patterns on the floor.
Yosuke Kusano in Scottish Dance Theatre's new film, “Thin h/as h/air.” Choreographed by Pauline Torzuoli
Pauline Torzuoli's masterful choreography of Kusano examines the link between our own human hair growth and naturally occurring phenomena in forests—Itla Okla, South American air plants which resemble hair, and Hair Ice, rare strands of ice which also look hirsute and silky, growing on fallen trees in northern broadleaf forests. So the emphasis through Torzuoli's work is on movement that is as ephemeral and wondrous as this. Tao-Anase Thanh's film of the performance is no less a mysterious examination of such strange and intriguing plants and ice, stuffed with moments which feel like sorcery—choppy camera edits and trickery that fools the eye: it is elusive, baffling, and magical, hard to explain away and the whole atmosphere is tense and febrile.
Kusano's breathing becomes more ragged as he attempts to navigate this peculiar interaction with the mysterious clumps of hair, and he seems to almost hyperventilate and coughs, inhaling and exhaling like a balloon, and sounding like a tree surgeon chopping down a tree. As he scans the space with both feet, he is growing in confidence, sweeping, swinging back and forth, rolling the entire length of the floor. Now he is enmeshed in ritualistic movement, gathering the hair in clumps as though stockpiling, and his hands sculpt slicing shapes into the air. He tastes the hair, bounces on his knees and does handstands and half-bunny hops.
The strands appear to grow, becoming more like floating sculptures, and Kusano's still cautious, always sensing things out. Now though, as the soundtrack emerges- crackling electronic music from Kurup and biosphere—he is more present, more assured, literally at one with nature and no longer dwarfed by the unknown. He is a man and dancer once more, energised with a proud Shaman kind of energy, clapping out a rhythm reminiscent of Steve Reich.
What a unique, brilliant and strange little film, and how marvellous the execution. As a dance film this is unparalleled, and as a reminder of the connectivity between humans and the planet, it is a stark warning to preserve, cherish and sustain what we have, as the clock ticks and deforestation continues.
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.
To Sir Frederick Ashton’s fast footwork and musicality belongs the Australian Ballet’s double bill “The Dream” and “Marguerite & Armand.” To the charming misadventure distillation of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream bubbles “The Dream.” To the legend of Margot Fonteyn and Rudolf Nureyev, dovetails Amy Harris’s Marguerite, in Harris’s last stage role before her retirement. After 22-years with the company, Harris bids farewell in a delicious camellia-bloom, echoing Marguerite’s own departure (thankfully for altogether different reasons; Harris is retiring from the stage, whereas her character Marguerite is dying of tuberculous).
The moment arrived two-thirds into the program, near the peak of Donald Byrd’s “Love and Loss.” For more than an hour, the beautiful bodies on screen had been doing eloquent things, to curiously numbing effect.
Since its founding in 2012 by Benjamin Millepied, L.A. Dance Project has not been lacking in talent, ideas, or, fortunately for them, funding, something that most dance troupes desperately need.
When a choreographer takes on volcanic and iconic works from American musical giants like Leonard Bernstein and John Adams one move they could take is to cool them down with a couple of more soothing European works in between.
comments