The latest double bill from Staatsballett Berlin features two choreographers keen to subvert the idea of what a contemporary work of dance should be, with varying degrees of success. Alexander Ekman and Mats Ek’s choreography makes for witty and thought provoking entertainment, whilst at the same time parodying what art should be and how we should understand and respond to it. It sounds high brow but it’s not. In the case of Ekman, writing a review of a work that sought to be somewhat “critic-proof” feels a little meta but it certainly raises a smile after Mats Ek’s confused opener which offers up snapshots of lives and relationships but with no real conclusions.
In Ek’s A Sort Of …, the title is left ambiguous much like the work itself. It follows a company of dancers disappearing down the rabbit hole of a stage with sections of reflective stillness contrasting with chaotic noise and props. The opening scene sees a man (Arshak Ghalumyan) alone but clearly lonely too. He lies on the floor, thrashing around unhappily until he gets up and retrieves a female (Vivian Assal Koohnavard) from the audience. Henryk M. Górecki’s score provides a mournful backdrop. The pair dance a slow pas de deux in oversized costumes (Maria Geber) that appear to be deliberately ugly - baggy winter coats in muted pinks and browns. Their shoes are rigid and feet flexed, you won’t see any pretty lines here.
Finally, after locking the woman in a suitcase, the pair escape to a world hidden behind a bright yellow layer of stage, vibrant colours, raucous laughter and messy formations follow. Personally, I could have done without the simultaneous and repeated bursting of balloons. Despite the cheerful colours, the women are conservatively dressed, the second pas de deux following interplay between a couple (Clotilde Tran and Johnny McMillan) sees the former in a long yellow woollen skirt and solid ankle boots. They make the many lifts seem clumsy and inelegant despite dancing with wholehearted attack and a watchable dynamic.
As we are returned to the bleak setting of where we started and our original couple, the man is left alone, she has left him for another man. These complicated relationships, jerky, uncomfortable choreography remain throughout, meaning the audience never quite gets a handle on what Ek intended.
Cacti first premiered ten years ago, when Ekman was still in his 20s and at a time he was disillusioned with reviews and what critics had to say. Cacti sees him take control of the dialogue, the dancers responding to a soundtrack mostly of spoken word interspersed with a string quartet who provide a playful, rhythmic accompaniment with excerpts from Beethoven and Schubert.
A full cohort of dancers fill the stage on individual raised platforms. They wear black swimming-style hats, flesh coloured leotards and baggy shorts, any kind of individuality is erased throughout this explosive cardio workout, each on their own plinth. The irony is not lost as they endlessly run without getting physically anywhere. Initially, they mimic the string quartet and there are echoes of Cathy Marston’s The Cellist, but eventually the costumes and the stylised hops and flaps, combined with the costumes, is more reminiscent of Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake.
Later, corps de ballet members Marina Duarte and Archille De Groeve are centre stage in the piece’s only pas de deux danced to a dialogue between two dancers rehearsing a duet. It’s informal, conversational, and as it progresses, clearly witty and self aware. “This part feels weird,” says one voice before going into the next move, ”I always forget this next part,” says the other, and as they become exhausted they consider whether they are finished, “Is there something left?” “Oh yeah, the section with the cacti,” replies the female voice flatly.
The high-energy of the early moments; the stage filled with dancers responding to the dramatic score played by the quartet contrasts nicely with the casual vibe of the rehearsal pas de deux which raises more than a few laughs. Ekman knows this, as his narration continues to describe the action. He begins to mutter as the dancers creep towards the front of the stage, “this has to be the end? Yes … it’s the end … it’s the end now,” he repeats until the stage is dark.
Anyone who’s sat through some baffling contemporary dance and tried to make sense of something impenetrable will share a wry smile, for Cacti is great fun, Ekman is laughing with us not at us as the audience. Whether we have found great meaning in what we have seen or not, he is fine with either.
