Review: Adapting For Distortion & Haptic

Adapting For Distortion & Haptic, Hiroaki Umeda

Hiroaki Umeda's Adapting For Distortion and Haptic is anti-narrative. The contemporary dance and lighting performance, it is said, expresses no (intellectual) storyline or message - it is quite simply just a visual spectacular.  

The show is composed of two distinct solo works - Distortion and Haptic, both lasting just under 30-minutes long. Where Distortion is more invasive; Haptic is beautiful - a staggering contrast and juxtaposition creating a stunning and vastly unique piece of performance art. 

Toyko-based Umeda is a sound artist, dancer, choreographer, and founded the company, S20. Showing as part of the Melbourne Arts Festival 2010, Adapting For Distortion and Haptic is an experience in all sense of the word. 

Umeda' choreography is hip-hop influenced - he is a master of isolation; popping, locking, waving to a soundtrack akin to white noise in the first half of his performance, Distortion. The lighting work, conceived by S20, is as much a lively performer as Umeda is, and creates a hi-tech, space-like feel, and illusions of perspectives. 

Whilst it is a solo work, Distortion is more aptly described as a tango, or a pair's dance piece with Umeda partnering up with the lighting. His timing is impeccable; at times ceasing all movement just as the dancing lights reach a static position. At other times, the lighting seems to control the dancer, bending and shaping him alongside the stop-and-start, non-melodious music. Just as the lighting sometimes controls him, Umeda's dancing ability possesses the remarkable skill to create the illusion of also controlling the lights. 

Hip hop is the perfect dance to pair up with such a performance. Here, Umeda is a shape-shifter; he moves from fluidity to hyper-controllled motions, to stillness - one memorable part of the show saw the dancer perform a kind of abstract krumping movement, launching his body in a controlled yet mind-baffling, awe-inspiring great speed, as the sound heightened in volume and distortion. 

Haptic, on the other hand, is more subtle. The artist re-enters the stage dressed in black (previously in white). The stage is bathed with soothing, much softer light - changing from blue, to red, to green. Haptic (the word) denotes the relationship of touch. In this interview with Umeda, he says: "It was my desire to transmit dance to the audience as an object touching eyes."(Beat Magazine). 

Here, the lighting is less invasive and frames the focus towards the dancer and his movements. The soundtrack remains the same - the by-product of what sounds like radio interference meets experimental electronica. 

Haptic showcases what the body can do. The choreography evokes more of a caressing feel - many times during this solo performance Umeda remains still in a pose. The movements are articulate, conveying balance and control, and the eyes are left to wonder the form of his dance, with little distraction from the lighting.

Adapting For Distortion and Haptic presents lighting as a tool to enhance the movements of the body. It highlights, climaxes, amplifies and compliments the choreography in which the dancer abides by. If you ever get the chance, catch the show, though be warned, there is loud music and strobe lighting.

(Season closed) 

What comes first, the vision or the concept?

Does art always have to convey an intellectual concept? Should it have a hidden message, reflect life or bring awareness to a particular social/political/whatever issue? 

I remember asking an artist friend about what comes first - the visual or the conceptual? Is an artwork more credible if first, a concept drives its execution? I recall my art student friends, weeks before an assignment was due, rushing to complete their conceptual diaries/scrapbooks, even though the artworks themselves were already fully formed and complete. It was very much the case of, "Now, what pictures can I cut out that'll fit the artwork I'm about to present to show that I have thought about its process?".

My artist friend sheepishly admitted that his latest public performance piece was first derived as a visual idea. Quite simply, he thought it would look pretty. The nature of that artwork was indeed, beautiful, but it also benefited from having just enough mysteriousness and quirkiness. I would even go as far as saying the performance was cryptic. However, in saying so, aren't I just trying to find meaning in a piece of work where really (and admittedly) it was inspired sans intellectual concept? In other words, there was no meaning behind it per se (as conceived by the artist), therefore does this necessarily mean no meaning can be derived from the artwork?

The next question is: Is a piece of art less credible because it lacks a depth beyond its visual aesthetic? As an audience member, do we try too hard to find meaning in art?

Which brings me to Hiroaki Umeda's Adapting for Distortion & Haptic

Speed Reviewing: Life Without Me

Life Without Me, Daniel Keene

This was my first Daniel Keene experience - a renowned, multi-awarding winning playwright responsible for such works as, To Whom This May Concern and The Nightwatchman (coming soon to Melbourne) - and boy was it superb! 

The play, which made its world premier at the Melbourne Arts Festival 2010, follows seven endearing lost souls who meet at a shabby, rundown hotel lobby. The set, designed by Dale Ferguson is realistic in style - in fact, it's pretty much an exact replica of what you'd imagine a sterile looking lobby to look like. It comes with a 'working' lift, rotating doors and real rain, and is the meeting place for the characters.

My review is here; this is more of an after thought. 

The characters in the play are stuck - metaphorically and literally speaking. Though they are plagued by their own unique issues, they all share the common symptom of feeling as if their lives have gone on without them. Life Without Me is rich in allegory - from the witty dialogue, to the 'in-between' nature of hotel lobbies ("la salle des pas perdus"), to the characters believing that they are literally unable to leave the hotel, as if it were some sort of whirlpool that sucks them in.

The first thing that came to mind was The Wizard of Oz when Glinda tells Doherty that she could've always gone home. This notion is also something that is discussed in the movie, Girl, Interrupted. In Life Without Me, the question, "Will they ever leave the hotel?" is a recurrent theme. So is the question, "Can they make it back home?" just as we asked whether Doherty could find her way out of Oz, or whether Susanna Kaysen of Girl, Interrupted could ever leave the psyche-ward.

Beyond the surface, the concept explores our ability to resolve our own issues, as only then are we able to really move on. The Tin Man grows a heart, the Cowardly Lion, bravery, and the Scarecrow, a brain. Before then, we are stuck, lost between somewhere and nowhere. Indeed it is true that we can always return home, but certain measures have to be performed if we are broken. For if we are fractured and unable to move forward, how can we even begin our journey home?

Venue: Melbourne Theatre Company, Southbank Boulevard

Dates: Till October 23rd

Tickets: Here

Ranters Theatre's Intimacy & Train Girl

Not long before going to watch Ranters Theatre's Intimacy, I was telling my dear baba (who loves stories) a story.

Intimacy, showing as part of the Melbourne Arts Festival, is a show based on the intimate moments one can share with total strangers, and the premise that only strangers can reveal who we really are. (Written by Raimondo Cortese, directed by Adriano Cortese, and devised by and starring Paul Lum, Beth Buchanan, and Patrick Moffatt.)

Breaking the fourth wall, Lum enters the stage and sets the scene: during a particularly lonely period of time, Lum felt the need to talk to someone. Instead of contacting friends or family, he decided to take to the streets and spark up conversations with total strangers. The show, rich in dialogue, then proceeds in re-enactment mode, showcasing the conversations Lum had with a string of quirky characters he encountered during this period of time.

I'm not going to go into too much detail about what I thought of the show - if you want to know, go here. But what the production did was provoke reflection, as it, itself, reflected a very special and unique aspect of life.

Intimacy reminded me of the story I told baba about a girl named Wyndham.

I met Wyndham at a university I attended. I had just been stung by a bee and was sitting in the waiting room of the university's surgery. Wyndham was there also. I don't remember how we got to talking, but do recall not saying much at all. Wyndham had that American sensibility - bubbly, chatty and fun to listen to.

Wyndham loved trains. Almost immediately after our respective brief, courteous introductions, her eyes lit up and she talked about trains. She spoke about trains for almost an hour and I listened.

Now, I like trains, i.e. I like riding on them and I believe most people find this quite enjoyable also. But Wyndham loved trains.

Wyndham loves:

1. Sitting on trains. During one trip to New York, she rode round and round on the subway, without a destination.
2. The sound of trains. The apartment she was living in at the time we spoke overlooked a train track. She had chosen this property because she enjoyed lying in bed and listening to trains go by.
3. The seats on a train.
4. Trains.
5. The control panel of a train station. She once saw a man shift a lever that changed the direction of a train track. She said that one day she would like to have a job like that, or anything to do with trains.
6. Riding on trains. Her favourite birthday/birthday present was a long train ride with her friends and family.
7. Trains.
8. New York. Because of the subway.

People come into our lives all the time. Sometimes they contribute something significant, at others, not at all, but that doesn't make their stay any less meaningful. People come and go, and on occasion, we find that brief encounters with strangers can often leave a permanent mark on our memories.

Almost every time I'm on a train, I think about Wyndham. I never saw her again after our chat. I also never thought of keeping in touch with her. I think sometimes we know who will stay in our lives, and who won't.

I do wonder sometimes if Wyndham is somewhere, cooped up in a control panel of a train station, shifting a lever, maybe somewhere in New York where they say, people go to make their dreams come true. Above all, wherever she is, whatever she may be, I do hope that Wyndham still loves trains.

Stifters Dinge Pt. II

Whilst I have given up trying to work out what Stifters Dinge is all about, my mind has now shifted towards contemplating the sheer majesty of the production. I mentioned in my previous post - to put it tersely - that I didn't quite enjoy the show itself. However, it is apparent that I'm still thinking about it, which seems to me, a little contradictory. Basically, I keep wondering, "Why the hell am I still thinking about Stifters Dinge?!"

This is why:

Stifters Dinge is huge (no pun intended). Its creation is so intricate and meticulous and sophisticated, I cannot help but feel in complete awe at the undoubtedly laborious process of bringing the entire show together.

On the surface, large and visible mechanisms drive the machines. Invisible to the audience, even more advanced technology and computers work behind the scenes. Working alongside all of these things are the lighting systems, let alone the music compositions and soundscapes.

I think on these things:

Everything has to be absolutely perfect - the timing has to be right; there is no room for error. A glitch in the matrix is not an option; the machines cannot improvise out of an accidental mistake. Need I even mention the remarkable creativity capable of devising a show like this from start to finish? How does one even conceive, or visualise such vivid and painstakingly detailed imagery?

Stifters Dinge provokes all kinds of contemplative enquiry within me. Maybe its the fact that it's so cryptic, or that I haven't been able to make sense of it, or perhaps I'm way too over-analytic - but here are two main thought processes that I keep coming back to.



1. The Teleological Principle (the argument from design)

(Disclaimer: I'm not going to Google this so don't quote me on this)

Wiliam Paley came up with an analogy to prove the existence god via the teleological principle. Said theory argues that since everything in the world appears to be designed (or the outcome of design), there must be a world-designer (whom Paley concludes is god, therefore god exists.)

His analogy is as such: You're walking on a heath and you stumble across a watch. You pick up the watch and take it apart, and upon seeing the intricate mechanisms within it (each placed to serve a purpose), conclude that the watch must have been created by a watchmaker (i.e. a 'god'). After all, what are the chances that such a meticulous creation should just appear by chance?

(Side note: David Hume argued that the analogy is weak as the world doesn't resemble a machine but an organic thing. A machine requires an external being to operate it; animals or vegetation do not. Therefore, weak analogy = rubbish argument. Furthermore, it usually takes more than one person to create a machine, like a car, therefore, in applying Paley's analogy, there must be more than one 'watchmaker' or 'god' - needless to say, not quite the conclusion theists were hoping for.)

It is pretty self-explanatory to see how this principle ties in with my thoughts on Stifters Dinge, minus the religious content. Shows like these make me reflect on the creator of the production as opposed to the production itself - it makes me appreciate the artistic, intellectual and creative mind behind it, which, to answer my own question I proposed at the start, is why I'm still thinking of Stifters Dinge.

My next point is this:

I enjoyed Stifters Dinge like how I enjoy architecture. Buildings, when done well, not only manifests good form, or rather, a beautiful exterior, but also contains well-thought out functions. In other words, good architecture, in my opinion, express harmonious form and function. It is a beauty I appreciate - a collaborative result stemming from a fine eye for aesthetics as well as the practical mind for function. Things that are beautiful at face value is quite frankly, bloody useless. But when something is beautiful and at the same time, serves a wonderful function - extraordinary.

If I contemplate Stifters Dinge at a level contained simply within the visions it created (including the structure of the machine/piano installation itself) and the mechanisms that created those visions, I surrender my need to find any conceptual or intellectual meaning behind it.

Or maybe, I'm just a cop out.

And with that, I bow out from my Stifters Dinge enquiry at pt. II.

Stifters Dinge

The very fact that friends sniggered when I mentioned I went to a show called Stifters Dinge (allegedly pronounced 'ding' meaning 'Stifters Things') is to me, a strong indication that (childish) humour is still (thankfully) alive and well.

As part of the 2010 Melbourne Arts Festival, the show has provoked a series of mixed reviews, a common denominator amongst them being a sheer bafflement of what Stifters Dinge is actually about. As such, most of the reviews that I have read have either done well in avoiding the issue altogether by describing the show in its entirety, or have flat out presented the shoulder-shrug equivalent in words.

I went to the show not knowing anything about it, and I left feeling exactly the same way aside from a heightened sense of peaceful confusion. Composed and directed by world-renowned German artist Heiner Goebbels, the show has provoked lines such as: “Stifters Dinge: who cares what it is? It's terrific. Totally mesmerising." (The Telegraph, UK) and "What the hell is going on? This is the question you will ask if you see Heiner Goebbels' Stifters Dinge." (Three Thousand)

Yet, this is a show that has travelled all over the world, from New York to Germany to the UK (and then some), and now here. It was inspired by 19th century romantic writer Aldabert Stifter, who was known to contemplate the vivid imagery of nature in his writing (thanks Wiki!). 

The set of Stifters Dinge, though poetically brute and industrial, has elements that tips its hat at nature. Right at the back of the elongated stage sits a magnificent structure composed of five bare-breasted pianos, which stands at roughly the height of three or so pianos stacked lengthways on top of each other. Placed between them are naked branches and other machinery and mechanisms. Between the structure and the audience are three rectangular lighting pools, which though start off void of anything but a piece of material covering them, is sprinkled with salt during the first five minutes of the show via a gurney-like sieve by two people we never see again.

If you are still reading this, I bow to you.

This is a performance driven by computers and performed by a machine. The words, 'deus ex machina' springs to mind, and the more I contemplate that idea, the more I am drawn by the paradoxical notion of being romantically courted by this cold yet beautifully melancholic production. 

Before going into wishy-washy details, Stifters Dinge is a sophisticated show composed of distorted soundscapes and remarkable lighting illusions, that present the epitome of the influence technology has on theatre. It is also framed alongside audio narratives by William S. Burrough, Malcolm X, Claude Levi-Strauss, and traditional, tribal-like chants from Papua New Guinea and South America. 

Visually, Stifters Dinge is enchanting, spectacular and aesthetically pleasing. Aside from the chanting, Goebbels has created an original score as the soundtrack for the show. Four screens slide down from the ceiling and rest in staggered positions. Music induces the sound of rain, the rectangular pools bubble up to give the illusion of water ripples, and a narrow spotlight from the piano structure penetrates the off-white translucent screens to create the warm, orangey glow of a sunset. The bubbling pools cease, so too does the sound of rain, and all that is left is the residual effect of troubled water, peacefully and subtly undulating above the surface of the pool. This image is reflected on the screens and suddenly, we are presented with a view of the ocean; the spotlight sun resting its head just above a pseudo horizon. 

It is true, I have no idea what the show was about. Whilst it was undoubtedly beautiful and mesmeric, it was also extremely Zen-like, and segue so effortless that at times, I found it quite banal. I can only best describe this show as a novelty performance that eventually wears off and loses its enticing-ness. Besides, what else, deeper than its imagery and distorted sounds was going to keep me captivated? Does the overly cryptic nature of the production limit its entertainment factor? Goebbels has been particularly mum about revealing too much about the show - is it pleasant to enter the unknown only to come out still not knowing? 

If you are still reading this, I bow to you.

To end, watch Stifters Dinge as I doubt you'll experience anything quite like it. It reminds me of that time I was given roasted rabbit's heart to eat - did I enjoy it? Not particularly, but I'm glad I tried it and the experience will always remain in my memory.

Speed Reviewing: Thyestes, Britney Spears: The Cabaret, A Study in Scarlet

Speed posting...GO!

I've seen quite a few amazing shows this year, particularly over the last few months. Then, there are others that I caught last year as well, which were great too. Point is, I'm now trying to gather up a nice detailed list of theatre/art companies that I like, which is particularly difficult when brain memory is as useful as nerd glasses without lenses.

Very quickly, here they are:

Thyestes, The Hayloft Project

Winners (and deservedly so) of the 2010 Melbourne Fringe Festival Best Performance Award. The young theatre group also brought us Yuri Wells, but Thyestes, a contemporary remake of Seneca's Greek tragedy of the same name about two brothers, made me feel things no show has done in the long time - scratch that - ever. Is this necessarily a good thing? Yes, no - doesn't matter. The show tells the tale of brothers Thyestes and Atreus and explores fraternity, incest, rape, power, violence and betrayal set in modern times. The production was confrontational, unsettling, powerful, but also oddly beautiful in the way it visually, stylistically, musically enclosed such a heinous tragedy. It also sealed the Hayloft Project as a theatre group to be reckoned with and to watch closely, for who knows what they will come up with next.

(Season over)

Britney Spears: The Cabaret

I did not expect to like this show as much as I did. Starring Christie Whelan, written and produced by Dean Bryant with musical direction by Matthew Frank (Once We Lived Here, Virgins), the cabaret was hilarious (literally, in tears from laughing) but also remarkably poignant. It is always a worry when shows take on such overdone subject matters like Spears; the production could have easily been a just another parody, or a lesser version of Saturday Night Live, instead, it was (surprisingly) original, fresh and memorable, and one of those few shows you walk out off but want to watch again. 

Whelan is Britney Spears - endearing, bimbo-esque but wickedly insightful in all of the cosmos' tactless glory. The show contextualises Spears' lyrics into a pseudo biography, and also irreverently explores the tragedy of fame with effective and heart-wrenching results.

Venue: Chapel off Chapel, Melbourne
Dates: October 6 - 24

A Study in Scarlet (A Study Of...), Vicious Fish Theatre 

Ordinarily, I would not have gone to watch a show like this. Firstly, they lost me at "CSI" (featured in blurb), and secondly, no sentiments of mine are (were) in any way drawn to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or his little friend, Sherlock Holmes. But boy am I glad I went! 

In this performance, we follow Robert Lloyd's multi-character one man show re-enact Doyle's debut Sherlock Holmes murder mystery with compelling anticipation.

I suppose, if I break it down to the bare minimum and ask what we look for in a show (minus the philosophical humdrum), then the answer to that would be simply: to be entertained. Being entertained can come in all shapes and forms, and in A Study in Scarlet (not sure about the name though) I supremely enjoyed Robert Lloyd's animated storytelling skills. It is no wonder he was a part of The Storytellers Club. 

If I break it down further, I remember feeling less cynical than my usual self, and thus found Lloyd's passion/obsession for the adventures of Sherlock Holmes rather endearing. The show was chock full of anecdotal material with Lloyd segueing in out of a multitude of characters from Holmes, to Dr. Watson, to the villain, right back to himself again. Particular attention was taken to capture a string of British accents, and for that, I am grateful. 

(Season over)