Made Up of Time and Energy

Notes on choreographic aspects in the work of Nature Theater of Oklahoma by Pieter T’Jonck

In recent years Nature Theater of Oklahoma’s work has taken many different directions but recently they went back to choreography as their main medium. With “No President. A Story Ballet of Enlightenment in two Immoral Acts” they return to HAU.

In “No President. A Story Ballet of Enlightenment in two Immoral Acts”, the tables are turned. The piece is modelled on the Handlungsballett or ballet d’ action to the music of Tchaikovsky’s “Nutcracker”. Thus, an entire artistic genre serves as a ready-made here. As is central to this genre, the story is of the essence. A ballet d’ action, as theorised in the second half of the 18thcentury by Jean-Georges Noverre, is all about the expression of emotions and character in a story  and in that sense thrives on truthfulness, not on artifice. This is also the case for “No President”, but only in a very specific way.

ballet d’ action is not an evident concept. It only developed fully in the 19th century as the romantic ballet but still determines the conventional image many people have of ballet. Despite this, few people are able to read the meaning of the poses and gestures of the dancers. There are some 80 of these, each of which conveys a strict meaning. Usually, they are more than enough to convey the rather elementary plots of ballets such as “The Nutcracker” or “Swan Lake”. But still, the majority of the audience has to rely on a summary to follow the plot. That in itself casts doubt on the theory about dance as an expression of emotions and character. But nobody cares because in the end, the audience only wants to see how many pirouettes the black swan can perform.

How could one dancer cannibalise another while elegantly flapping their arms and feet?

This eagerness of the audience to see neck-breaking stunts is somehow paradoxical. As a romantic fantasy, ballet is the perfect demonstration of the theory of the fourth wall: what happens on stage is totally unrelated to the actual reality of the audience. It is as if they were absent or become so absorbed in this alternative reality that they forget themselves for the duration of the performance. But neck-breaking pirouettes are more of a circus act: they are only too real. There is no fourth wall in the circus.

Watching “No President”, it soon becomes obvious that Copper and Liška will wreak considerable havoc on their model. To begin with: the story is not rudimentary at all, but crazily complex. It is about a security firm that is commissioned to guard a mysterious theatre curtain. The security guards are jobless dancers and actors. Two of them, Mikey (Ilan Bachrach) and Georgie (Bence Mezei) are best friends until they discover that they are in love with the same woman (Tale Dolven), who unfortunately is also their supervisor and married to the company’s boss (Gabel Eiben). Their lives don’t get any easier when a rival company, the Ballet Bandits, threatens to take over their jobs and even launches an attack. By accident, Mikey almost kills Georgie during the fight. It seems he will die, but later he magically revives, and even starts an affair with the supervisor. Mad with anger, Mikey cannibalises his boss and in turn becomes President. Through some more unlikely plot twists, he loses the job again but this time he is purified and makes friends again with Georgie. The reconciliation is celebrated by cannibalising the supervisor. It is only then that they dare to open the theatre curtain they were guarding all this time. They discover a mysteriously lit stage, full of smoke. There, they perform the dance they have been rehearsing all the time they were on guard in front of the curtain.

It is as if we were watching two set designs that got mixed up: one an old theatre, the other an old subway or factory.

It would be impossible to tell this story through movement alone, with or without a summary. That is why Robert M. Johanson is always present on the stage to explain the events and comment on them. But that is not his only role because it appears that he, as the omniscient author, is very unreliable. He actually is the devil that set this train of extremely violent events in motion. His relentless comments are one way in which Copper and Liška poke fun at the concept of a ballet d’ action: without his presence this ballet would only be a series of incomprehensible routines, odd props and similar costumes. But he is unreliable… They make it even more ridiculous when it comes to the violent scenes. There is no way to represent them within the conventions of ballet. How could one dancer cannibalise another while elegantly flapping their arms and feet? But still they do, in a half-clumsy way. They destabilise the concept of the ballet most obviously when they introduce elements derived from alien sources such as splatter and horror movies or wildlife documentaries. (In this respect, Nature Theater still is working with found material from everyday life. It is in their blood, obviously). All this “fun” however hardly distracts the audience from the fact that what they see is an overblown image of the violence that governs social relations these days. Indeed there is not one conflict that doesn’t have a heavy death toll. All the time, however, Mikey keeps on desperately hoping for the best. The redemption at the end of the piece, when they finally conquer the hidden stage behind the forbidden curtain, can only be a very bitter one.

There is much to say about this ballet, but I would like to point to two specific and related aspects; one scenographic, the other choreographic. The scenography (Ansgar Prüwer) is the very first thing that might strike the audience, even before the show begins. It is in its own way a textbook case of alienation. In the centre is a weathered stage portal, on which there are still traces of gold leaf. The frame is symmetrically flanked by two oblique short walls that frame equally weathered doors. The upper part of the right wall seems to have disappeared: you can only see the underlying woodwork. It looks so convincingly old you would swear that this is a historical stage portal. Except for the curtain. That looks brand new.

On both sides of this stage frame there are two more parallel, slightly offset walls. No effort has been spared to make them look real too. They are covered to half their height with heavily damaged, old-fashioned tiles. On the battered plaster walls above one can make out faded painted frames. The surface of the walls thus resembles those of old factories or subways. But despite the effort, they look completely fake: not only are they impossibly thin, they obviously only serve to hide the light batteries at either side of the stage. They function in the same way wings do on a conventional stage. But that is absurd, because wings belong behind the stage frame, not in front of it. Behind the stage portalthey could add to the atmosphere of the piece. Standing in front of it, they compete with the stage portal. It is as if we were watching two set designs that got mixed up: one an old theatre, the other an old subway or factory. It is a cadavre exquis.

A hotchpotch of ballet, calisthenics (exercise) and slapstick.

There are two parallel ways to explain this odd stage design. From the spectator’s point of view, it means that we are actually behind the scene or, to put it differently, we are behind the fourth wall. We are part of the illusion and in that sense, we are also responsible for its message and effects. We are no longer allowed to ignore the atrocities we see in front of our eyes, whether we like it or not. From the performer’s point of view, it means that the “reality” they live in, the way they understand the events, is really an illusion.

The piece confirms both points of view emphatically as Mikey doesn’t stop wondering whether the fourth wall is still present. But what is most striking is his overall attitude during the play. He swears by the texts of Stanislavski, the theorist who demanded that the actor should really feel the emotions he is representing (an anti-Diderot therefore). Through the teachings of the Actors Studio, this still remains the predominant model for the bulk of American movies. Because of their impact, these define the way in which people understand themselves to a large degree. The result is one we all know: endless psychobabble leading, after as endless difficulties, to redemption or any other happy ending that forgets all about the victims along the way. But if the play succeeds in something, it is at least this: it shows most clearly how this sentimental psychobabble about personal redemption more often than not serves as an excuse for inexcusable conduct. That is exactly the structure of this play: an endless series of fake-real sentiments, inspired by a fake-real idea of authenticity, that cause enormous human damage but are still absolved by the happy reconciliation between Mikey and Georgie. In no way can this leave the spectator unharmed. He or she has to take a position on this, whether he or she likes it or not.

This is all confirmed by the strangely hybrid nature of the choreography. In essence, most actions are performed in an abstract way, as abstract as the ballet code initially was. Which is funny, because the light movements of the dancers (some of whom are indeed young dancers, though others are actors or have no proper professional training either as an actor or a dancer) are more often than not in stark contrast to what Johanson tells us they mean. The fights with the Ballet Bandits, for instance, are choreographed as if no blows were dealt. Except for one detail: the corps de ballet does make an effort to mimic its consternation in the direst moments of the play. That is also true for the main protagonists. Usually they fully engage in the abstract ballet, but in the crudest scenes they start “acting” – albeit in a very crude way too. Their mime is closer to 19th century gestural and facial emphasis than to contemporary acting. On closer inspection, however, this proves that even the balletic moments are not really homogenous. They are a hotchpotch of ballet, calisthenics (exercise) and slapstick. The hybrid nature of the dance is telling in its own way.  It reveals an arbitrariness in the way we make use of what is at hand to gratify ourselves, if only by seducing our audience. 
 

This in an excerpt from the text “Made Up of Time and Energy” by Pieter T’Jonck, first published in the book “The Life and Work of Nature Theater of Oklahoma”, edited by Florian Malzacher.
 

  • Nature Theater of Oklahoma / Florian Malzacher

    Artist talk and book launch: The Life and Work of Nature Theater of Oklahoma
    read more
  • Nature Theater of Oklahoma

    No President. A Story Ballet of Enlightenment in Two Immoral Acts
    read more

Like a chain reaction

Isabelle Schad in conversation

The new work “Reflection” by Isabelle Schad will premiere at HAU at the end of May. The choreographer, who received an award at the “Deutscher Tanzpreis” 2019 for outstanding artistic developments in contemporary dance, completes her trilogy about collective bodies with this piece. In the interview she speaks about her research on movements and the stages at HAU1 and HAU2. 


“Reflection” is the final part of a trilogy about collective bodies that began in 2014 with “Collective Jumps” and continued in 2016 with “Pieces and Elements”. The word ‘reflection’ contains both physical and philosophical connotations. What does it mean for you, and how does your new piece differ from its predecessors?
“Reflection” is both a mirror and critical observation of realities and their respective perception. The reflection of movement plays an important role here, but also the point of view and perspective from which something is viewed. The term ‘reflection’ means many things: mirror image, self-examination, contemplation, reverberation, likeness, consideration and also retrospection – with my new group piece I look back in a certain way to the previous two works.
Central to “Collective Jumps” was the utopia of community as an (im)possible social model. We examined folk dances in terms of their order and structures. The interlinking of limbs, which functioned like individual performers, caused the appearance of a huge, endless group body. In “Pieces and Elements” an analogy with nature enabled us to organize bodies and body parts into choreographic arrangements that became a kind of cubist landscape. Here the individuality of single people was reduced to their specific physical contours, rhythms and characteristics – the audience rarely sees their faces in this piece.
In “Reflection” all the performers also appear as persons connected with the others in their own uniqueness. Everyone takes on every role in the course of the piece: that of protagonist, helper, victim or leader. A complex system of ‘taking turns’ comes about, leading to constantly changing figurations. The roles of the performers and their patterns of movement are repeated and reproduced so that the entire ‘organ’ appears to be an endless mirroring process, and every movement flows into the next, like a chain reaction.
The block-like structure of “Collective Jumps” and the landscapes of “Pieces and Elements” are replaced by a framework similar to muscle strands, within which leading involves following, and vice versa. The focus of attention has become the subjective uniqueness of moving oneself and others, of being a driving force and motor (or subject to one).
 

“In ‘Reflection’ all the performers also appear as persons connected with the others in their own uniqueness.”

“Collective Jumps” and “Pieces and Elements” were premiered at HAU2. With “Reflection” you’re going to HAU1, into a historical theatre building with special technical and architectural preconditions. How much did this place influence the choreography?
For me, HAU1 is like a character. It has its own presence; it’s full of stories, has its balconies and complex equipment. There’s an arch, a stage higher than the stalls, a former orchestra pit, a revolve, traps and flies. It isn’t a neutral place that disappears behind the events onstage, as is so often the case with the so-called black box. I find it fantastic, after all these years, to work in a traditional theatre. My strictly formal and abstract choreographies are challenged by the architecture and the history of this place. They can rub up against them.
During the performance we move from the space of the auditorium (which as a social meeting place is strongly influenced by history) towards the stage. We also interact with the apparatus, the stage machinery of HAU1, for example with the revolve. As soon as its motor gets going it releases a force that (along with gravity) acts on the biomechanics of the human body’s movements. At other moments it’s the mobile flies, curtains and so on that determine the events. So the stage hands have a great deal to do and are part of our choreography and processes …
 

“I’m fascinated by the ‘natural movement’, by its simplicity and by its beauty, sensuousness and complexity.”

The strong visual power of your work is based on continual movement research from embryology and somatic techniques like Body-Mind Centering and shiatsu. In “Reflection” you include elements from aikido. What is your relationship to this Japanese martial art, and how do you incorporate it into your choreographic practice?
The key to my research lies in the continuity of my own learning. I’m always learning, experiencing something new. Actually, my constant concern is with understanding ‘natural movement’. I’m fascinated by it, by its simplicity and – if it’s coherent – by its beauty, sensuousness and complexity. Up to five years ago I mostly nourished this fascination with BMC. In this ‘experiential embryology’ I was impressed by how the development of the human body as a biological process was connected with the exterior, that is, the visible form; how it predetermines directions of movement. This is like a choreographic process.
Shiatsu has very much to do with the connection between the self and others, and with how you can allow your own action to be guided by a counterpart. Aikido emphasises the understanding of one’s own movement in relation to gravity: how can forces be directed and reach an opponent? How can they influence one another effectively and become a free energetic flow, a unity with a partner? In principle all these practices share one thing: the idea of doing away with the inner/outer dualism through a physical practice, so as to understand inner/outer as a unity.
I see my artistic movement practice as a layering of experiences. So I wouldn’t really talk about different approaches, but rather about a continual development, a path – called ‘do’ in Japanese. I share this path with others, with the performers, some of whom have come a long way with me already. As far as aikido is concerned, in Gerhard Walter I was lucky enough to find a master who is certainly one of my most important teachers. In his daily training the emphasis isn’t so much on the technique of aikido as on the natural movement on which the shifting of weight is based. Being in harmony with gravity, finding a light, filigree balance with which to overcome gravity, exploring the shifting of weight and continually taking every movement back to the one constant basic principle – that’s the art we practice in the dojo, and it’s fascinating. Every technique is consistently taken back to the basic principle of the weight shift. One leads to ten thousand (techniques). The daily practice of these principles is what fascinates me, and what I pass on and then give a choreographic form of its own.

Interview: Elena Basteri
 

Isabelle Schad

Reflection

Part of the trilogy “Group Works”

read more