Adelaide Festival of Arts March 2017

Jérôme Bel, Gala, Scott Theatre, 15 March
L-E-V, Killer Pig, Her Majesty’s, Theatre 18 March
L-E-V, OCD Love, Her Majesty’s Theatre, 19 March

Neil Armfield and Rachel Healey’s first Adelaide Festival of Arts has been a triumph, not only at the box office, but also in terms of its dance programming. Covering a spectrum from the epic (Crystal Pite’s Betroffenheit) to the miniature (Restless Dance Theatre’s Intimate Spaces), from the virtuosic (L-E-V) to the everyday (Restless again), and from self-expression (Gala) to transcendence (Dancenorth’s fabulous trance-dance, Attractor), this program has explored the possibilities offered by the form. The Israeli company L-E-V and French choreographer Jérôme Bel occupy opposite ends of this spectrum: the former epitomising hyper-virtuosity, the latter a deep philosophical investigation into the nature of performance itself. 

L-E-V, the Hebrew word for heart, is directed by Sharon Eyal, formerly a long-standing dancer, house choreographer and Associate Director of Batsheva Dance Company, and her collaborator Gai Behar, a producer of techno raves and other multi-media events. The third member of the creative team, Ori Lichtik, a DJ/musician from Israel’s techno scene, creates a live soundscape to each show. The trio launched L-E-V, largely composed of Batsheva alumni, in 2013. 

In Adelaide they presented two works: Killer Pig, billed as a glimpse into the origins of the group –“a place of minimalist expression, intense honesty and uncompromising physicality”­– and OCD Love, a work about “love that always misses”, partly inspired by Neil Hilborn’s poem OCD, which depicts the destruction of a romantic relationship by the author’s obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Killer Pig opens on a darkened stage swirling with dry ice. Down spots gradually pick out a huddle of five dancers – three women and two men – wearing beige leotards and high-waisted underpants respectively, who en masse take tiny steps on demi-pointe accompanied by small hand gestures and shoulder movements of greater amplitude.  A male dancer breaks from the huddle, performing an extended solo that showcases his astonishing flexibility. Various groupings ensue, with canon used effectively, as the dancers break out of and return to the primal horde. The movement vocabulary is an amalgam of ballet, with much use of arms en couronne, sautés, posé turns and retirés, moves from techno dance including popping, chest pumping, and hip swivelling, along with hinges and use of gesture derived from contemporary dance. 

The dancers are superb, seemingly with no limits to their technical abilities, speed or precision, especially the men, who are phenomenal. Although the loud techno beat is relentless, it suits the work which seemed like a theatrical version of a rave party.

Seeing OCD Love the following night, however, revealed the company’s limitations. Although the subject of the work is different, the sound track, visual aesthetic and movement palette are very similar, albeit with more emphasis on gestural tics as the OCD dancers slap and grab at themselves. This time the women are clad in black leotards and long black socks, and the men variously in black leggings, a very distracting thong, and underpants.

Again, the work opens in darkness, the dancers gradually emerging into down spots as dry ice swirls about. This work has more of a narrative, with a sense of missed connections pervading. To a loud ticking sound, a solo woman traverses the stage on demi pointe, her torso bent at odd angles and her arms flailing behind her. A male dancer joins her, plucking at an invisible string instrument, but they fail to connect. A later duet between two women is more tender, but ends in small acts of violence.

As with Killer Pig, the men are extraordinary, especially Darren Devaney and Shamel Pitts. However, the long ensemble sections, in which their rippling muscular torsos are picked out by the lighting, felt fetishistic, as if we were being titillated by their superb physiques. In the end, this work seemed to be more about sexual obsession and body worship than love; for me, its relentless intensity and lack of light and shade, along with the endless techno beat, rendered its virtuosity an empty spectacle.

Nothing could be more different than Jérôme Bel’s Gala, a playful work performed by 13 local amateurs of all ages, shapes and levels of ability, alongside two professional dancers, Larissa McGowan and Thomas Fonua. It begins with a photographic essay on the theatrical space, with projections of opulent opera houses, shabby church halls, and even a ring of plastic chairs under a tree, which frames the performance that follows by asking us to examine the expectations we bring to the theatre. Then, a single dancer walks out and opens up a sign that states “ballet”, and we are treated to the 15 dancers doing their darndest to execute pirouettes and grand jetés across the stage. A young woman with ballet training executes with a high level of skill while others struggle, but this is reversed in sections that follow as each dancer is revealed to have their own specialty.

Thus, a Michael Jackson moonwalk, a Hoola Hoop dance, a waltz, an indigenous dance, a Dying Swan and a David Bowie dance are demonstrated with great seriousness and intent by a single dancer whom the others strive to copy. A woman in an electric wheelchair has limited movement, but is able to execute a sensational tilt that none of the others can even come close to; similarly, the highly specialized Hoola Hoop dance is beyond reach even for the professionals. No one can match the artless skipping of the small girl. The finale, a Bob Fosse type-rendition of “New York, New York”, led with swashbuckling aplomb by McGowan, is a knockout, with the audience cheering, shouting encouragement and hooting.

In this simple but perfectly structured work, Bel offers “an alternative to virtuosity” by foregrounding the unique qualities of each of us, asking us to consider what it is that gives the exchange between performer and audience meaning. He raises serious questions about the separation of performers and audience in western culture, not through preaching, but through a profoundly moving celebration of diversity and humanity.

- MAGGIE TONKIN