When XY begins, we see the whole cast of women. They stand in a vast circle. To the rapid battery of the log drum, played by Raisedinland Iose, they commence. The ten women are all dressed alike, in full length silky black dresses with spaghetti shoulder straps and slits to the thigh. A tapa cloth cummerbund synches their waists, and a cluster of red feathers ornaments their hair. To a melody sung by one of the women, they slip and slide through graceful undulating gestures from Samoan traditional forms. It is familiar to a certain degree, and that fine balance stays as the piece’s phases unfold in surprising ways.

Entrances and exits, combined with configurations made with three huge finely woven mats, divide the work into sections. The mats are also decorated with scarlet feathers — one in extra fine detail. The stage is boldly shaped by the cast’s manipulation of these mats: the three, held high, form a long wall — from one side of the stage to the other; they are wrapped around clusters of the women standing together, to corral then into small circular hideaways; they are used as covers, under which the women crouch, entirely hidden from view; and, in their first appearance, one mat is used as a carpet, under which roll and creep three women whom we will come to see as being apart from the whole.

These three depart from stable stances and supple undulations to leap, roll and spiral in ways akin to contemporary dance. Moreover, these dancers appear to be the ‘non-pacific female dancers’ who are signalled in the programme notes. There is a relationship established in which these three women, moving together, merge into and out of the whole larger group, named the ‘Chorus’. In addition to the distinct vocabulary of the three, one of the group is distinguishable because she is blonde and pale skinned. She is also not fully able to join in all the movements. This is not a critical judgement: this is how the piece is constructed. She repeatedly attempts to complete actions her peers execute fluidly and smoothly. But her gestures are staccato and unfinished, like a malfunctioning robot, a broken live connection or downloading footage buffering. Something is holding her back. When she speaks, it seems it is perhaps her doubt about her capacity to join in.

No such hesitations manifest when the company make a big leap in traditional practice. They deftly render slaps and claps often seen in Samoan men’s dance — catching their heels and thighs and chests. It is this detailed departure Raisedinland Iose has especially asked them to explore. All tribute to his artistry and the dancers’ skill and application, for these actions meld seamlessly into the whole wave of movement conjured in the space. Moreover, the women become assertive and commanding as they call out vigorously and carousel in celebration around one of their number who glides in a chiefly dancer’s full regalia — including an ornate headdress. They go further into new roles and make short speeches. Their increase in commanding presence sits harmoniously with the authority their gracefulness and elegance have generated.

It feels like a very different aesthetic world that is opened by Atali’I O Le CREZENT (Sons of the CREZENT). The shift is first notable because now it is a cohort of men who move before us. Each of them wears a different distinct brightly patterned short sleeve shirt. Each has a different hair style – dreadlocks, undercut, bandanna, headband (and goggles!)…

As they stand in the corner, ready to enter the main space and begin their performance, a recording plays. An elderly man tells of when the move was made to the home in discussion. He talks of who came to the home, and who was yet to be born. It is about being in a place that was once a new place and is now the place known best of all. It is all about the move to South Auckland.

The men carry into the space a small wooden coffee table (like a delicate stool), a little cream-coloured woven mat, the scarlet circle of an ‘ulafala, a tall salt container and a brown glass mug. The last item is polished to a sparkle by one of the men. All the items are positioned with utmost care in a precise arrangement on central view.  Then the pace rockets ever upwards.

The men are rapidly recognisable as a set of close-knit characters; best of pals from back in the days, maybe work mates, cousins perhaps. Their vivid charisma and relentless vitality fill each and every action they make with purpose and a bursting enthusiasm. They are figures larger than life (or from its biggest days), vibrant as a classic cartoon and as quick and slick as the sharpest of clowns. Their physical humour throws the whole audience into bursts of belly laughter and whoops of delight. Particularly remarkable is their address to things seen off-stage. It is not quite clear what it is they envision somewhere in the dark beyond our seats, but the myriad ways in which they engage with this imaginary focus point generates a parade of actions and reactions. The audience are whipped to a super high state of delight.  When their play becomes one of words the cutting edge of the men’s wit is edgy and pushes boundaries. Listing favourite aspects of their home area the men name primary schools, lollies, classic TV adverts, favourite pastimes and… recurrent diseases and health conditions prevalent in their community. Some jokes are too peculiar to catch, but it feels less like being excluded from private humour and more like being included in the loop but just not quite getting the punchline. 

The close of their rampage returns to the older voice narrating settling in the area. One by one, the men take turns to rearrange the objects in their own permutations — sometimes the mat on the table, the mug underneath, the table upside down… a different order to the same items, a different relationship between the same factors. Throughout this performance, the audience nod, sigh, gasp and laugh in sync with the men. The work speaks to a sense of place in ways that surprises and challenges but acknowledges the local lives people live, and in doing so it affirms their value. 

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