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n a brilliantly worded introduction, New Zealand Dance Company leader, Shona McCullagh, eloquently articulates the purpose of both the company and this season of inventive contemporary dance. She deserves congratulations for her curatorial choices and passionate vision.

Finely tuned dancers take command of the stage; with crisp and assured execution of choreography that takes our imaginations into a dark absurdist realm.

Whispers from Pandora’s Box, choreographed by Lina Limosani, demands, in a curmudgeonly manner, our attention. The soundscape, of expertly mashed film soundtracks, propels the action as it flirts with a malevolent comedic narrative….

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The curtain is open as the audience walks in, with a solitary, un-occupied chair at the front of the stage. As the house lights dim, the first dancer, Emily Adams, takes a seat.  A glowing white box – “the kind you bury a cat in” my companion quips at halftime – moves across the stage towards her.  Emily’s movement is appropriately exploratory as she investigates the box and her subsequent vocalization strong and committed, but I find myself asking not only (in a B-grade horror movie kind of way) “why would you go back to the box a second time?”, but more importantly “why am I not engaging with this work?” Carl Tolentino is the first of the possibly-nightmarish-yet-somehow-appealing clowns to appear, and again gives an assured delivery of the somewhat grotesque movement.  Still, I feel outside of the work, cautious and hesitant to be drawn in. There is an almost clichéd familiarity to what is presented – “where have I seen this before? Lord of the Flies?” – reinforced by an overbearing soundtrack and vocalizations – both recorded and live – that unnecessarily repeat messages already being delivered through the movement.  But perhaps this sense of discomfort and over-familiarity is entirely the point?  The Whispers from Pandora’s Box are shouted loud, and while definitely unmissable, are still open for interpretation. . .

By the time three ‘chickens’ are moving in and out of unison on a diagonal pathway downstage I am hooked: after a brief moment of “how did that happen?” I am fully drawn in and no longer questioning what or why.  Xin Ji (the male chicken) in particular has an arresting otherness that he brings to this role: a riveting and beautifully detailed physicality that he maintains throughout the remaining two-thirds of the choreography. In fact, the energy and vitality of the company as a whole feels well harnessed, with deft partnering sequences that are satisfying, strange and somehow sensible in the slap-stick, horror clown, splatter-movie world we have been drawn into.  Choreographer Lina Limosani lets us like these extreme caricatures of humanity that didn’t seem possible at the beginning of the piece.  Horror becomes comedy as the clowns freeze, but trap one of the chickens; who is released by her compatriots, with another becoming trapped in the process.  The piece moves forward: the resolve is foreshadowed and somewhat unnecessary, but overall the piece is pleasingly absurd and very well executed (pun intended).

Ross McCormack’s Matter is detailed, nuanced, wide-open for interpretation and exquisitely beautiful.  It explores the human need for system, order and explanation: linking the random and creating meaning from nothing.  The personification of objects – in this instance the striking poles that form the sparse and somehow meaningful set for Matter – and the way we personalize them also.  The piece is exquisitely crafted: combining rapid, detained and almost obsessive movement sequences alongside simple, almost elegant, groupings and repetitions, with a seemingly effortless understanding of what the audience wants to see. I say ‘almost’ elegant, as I am reminded of local Christchurch artist Julia Morison’s use of the word ‘grotty’: an arresting blend of grotesque and pretty. Hunched over, contorted, with movements designed to deform their beautiful strong bodies, the eight members of the New Zealand Dance Company deliver this dark and absorbing work with aplomb.  The match of choreography, lighting and soundtrack too is masterful in the precision of its execution. Video artist Daniel Crooks has talked of sounds ability to be an “emotional dictator”:  with this work composer Jason Wright and choreographer McCormack harness this ability to maximum advantage, with Jo Kilgour’s lighting adding an additional layer of polish.

Matter is full of contrasts: light and shade, release and containment, movement and stillness, and appears to explore both sides of several themes at once: expulsion and inclusion, interest and indifference, curiosity and resignation. There are pleasing juxtapositions of movement styles and changes of dynamic and focus, and many standout moments: both in the choreography and its performance. McCormack often combines the dancers’ bodies in ways that leave you wondering “whose hand / arm/ leg / body / head is that?” and “how are that doing that?”. . . Perplexing in a most engaging and satisfying manner. “Wow” moments include the full company sequence that build from a sublimely perfect duet by Xin Ji and Lucy Lynch (their unison is breathtaking), and the clever way in which the back to back lifted walking partnerships are instantaneously shattered for the company as a whole after the tentative exploration of Chrissy Kokiri’s feet toward the floor.  Emily Adams solo work is detailed and engaging and leaves no questions about the depth of her ability. It builds nicely into another duet with seconded New Zealand Dance School student Connor Masseurs, who has an earlier, subtly nuanced duet with the very watchable Carl Tolentino.  The way in which Adams is fed back into the larger group is animalistic in that most human of ways. I could go on. . .

The Absurdity of Humanity presents two distinctive choreographic voices, each finding very different ways to explore the commonalities of what it means to be both human and absurd.  While Limosani’s Whispers from Pandora’s Box was for me initially less readable to the audience, on reflection – and after the superb performance of McCormack’s Matter – my appreciation continues grow. There is a lot to take away and think about, and these choreographers do not merely employ but showcase the superb abilities of the dancers – their strength, flexibility, expression, and sensitivity.

In an election year, government funding by CNZ  could easily be called into question, but The Absurdity of Humanity shows our tax dollars hard at work. Congratulations to the New Zealand Dance Company for creating and maintaining an environment where such works can be created, and thanks to the Christchurch Art Festival team for bringing it here.

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I am always excited to see what The New Zealand Dance Company has to offer. ‘The Absurdity of Humanity’ exceeded my expectations with two no-holds-barred works by Lina Limosani and Ross McCormack.

The first piece of the night was  Whispers from Pandora’s Box by Australia’s Lina Limosani. It is a surreal, macabre comedy with splatterings of horror. This is a disturbing work, and I truly feared for the dreams of the few children I had seen entering the theatre with parents! (My advice, don’t take the kids! Seriously!)

The piece directly references horror classic ‘Saw,’ and ‘Batman’’s Joker – the dancers are smeared in white paint with the trademark bloody lips and green eyes. It is also evocative of Stephen King’s ‘IT’, David Lynch films, and the Elizabethan fool tradition. The mash-up of these elements,  with unsettling horror soundeffects, and shadowy downward and side lighting, create an incredibly disconcerting atmosphere. To begin, a woman sits on stage as a box creeps towards her. It opens itself, and from within a chorus of brutal desires  and impulses emerge to ‘play a little game’. The choreograhpy mixes expressionist horror, surreal vaudeville, slap-stick and viscious combat choreography. Once her desires are freed they feed upon each other; three ‘chickens’ are then brough in to the slaughter by the five ‘jokers’, and the eight performers play out the struggle between brutality and innocence.

There is great comedy in the fight sequences and moments when the innocent ‘chickens’ attempt to escape. The ‘jokers’ in particular use great facial expression to heighten the terror. I love the theatrical influences in this work. The five evil-doers do brilliantly with the frenetic, heightened Commedia/Vaudeville/Expressionist choreography. There is a reason these dancers work for such a great company, they are flawless, individual and completely immerse themselves in the feeling of the work.

While ‘Whisper’s From Pandora’s Box’ had quite a clear meaning, ‘Matter by Ross McCormack was less singularly focussed. I thought this piece might stand in counterpoint to the first, but instead it seemed to build on the disturbing atmosphere, this time evoking human downfall, apocalypse and our relationship with, and decay of, the environment. A single dancer stands beneath a streetlight (Or is it a tree? Or a standing stone? Or a hangman’s gallows?) as a surveyor sizes up the environment in a breathtakingly fast piece of choreography.  A dancer is then stalked by the pack, and a series of solos and group sequences follow, which all tell tales of duality, escape, containment, relationships with the symbolic poles and each other, both individually and as a tribe.

There are some truly frightening synthesised sound effects, over and an apocalyptic drone with mechanical clanging and clanking.  I found the zombie-film visuals powerful, such as seeing the pack devouring ‘a kill’, or the back lighting as the figures slowly swayed, transfixed. The imagery could equally have been interpreted as animals of the forest being hypnotised by the lights of diggers and trucks.

The highlight for me was the hands and arm movement in this piece. The choreography created multiple inhuman forms using the dancers visible limbs. They seemed to form cyborgs, spiders, hanging corpses, giants and siamese twins. Interesting effects created heads and legs on bodies in ways they shouldn’t be.  Emerging from the dark, or scuttling across the stage, many of these were quite terrifying.

It felt ‘Handmaid’s Tale’, ‘Metropolis’ or ‘1984’ in moments, but not without some tender humanity, such as one man takes a stand to hold up the felled pole (could this Tane?). With the exeption of only a short lull in the middle of second work, this hour and a half left me genuinely breathless.

The work is most certainly relevant and provocative. Artistic Director Shona McCullagh has not yet failed to amaze and enthrall me with the work she curates and creates. I hope the Company enjoy another success with this tour, and that not only dance fans, but the public get along and see this fantastic contemporary show.

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The Absurdity of Humanity offers two highly contrasting works with a broad collective appeal. The whopper of a title suggests that the state of being human is flawed, perhaps tragically, perhaps comically.

Australian Choreographer Lina Limosani presents Whispers from Pandora’s Box, a significant reworking of a piece premiered by the New Zealand school of Dance in 2011.

Hapless Chris Ofanoa unwittingly unleashes a goonish clan of killer clowns from an incandescent box which, with a bit of theatrical jiggery-pokery, ominously slides across the stage. Led by the masterful Carl Tolentino and resplendent in smeared clown face, white shirts, and red pantaloons, the clowns look like the hybrid children of Queen Elizabeth I and Pennywise, the nightmarish character from TV mini-series IT.

Shrieking with laughter at their own machinations, the clown’s hyper-violent antics are juxtaposed against childlike merriment.

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The company of dancers is extraordinary. There is a remarkable precision in their movement and timing is impeccable. Jo Kilgour’s delicate lighting and the evocative soundscape (including samples such as Muppet Chaud by AlgoRythmiK and Jason Wright’s score) are the perfect aesthetic accompaniments.

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The Absurdity of Humanity is NZDC’s new double-bill performed on Q theatre’s Rangatira stage. The double-bill’s curation features a complementary contrast between boisterous anarchy and harrowing quiet.

First up is Lina Limosani’s Whispers from Pandora’s Box.

A lone performer sits on a chair as a luminous box slides apparently unaided across the stage towards him with a will of its own. Opening it, he unwittingly releases the evil and madness within – it exerts a curious influence on him. He is trapped in an artfully and articulately performed cycle of quick-change emotions. During his struggle we are introduced to the first of several clown-like looking characters, painted faces reminiscent of Jigsaw, Joker or a mime, blod- stained clothing, unkempt and manic in appearance. Throughout the work they squawk, dither and exert their control as individuals and corporately. Deserving of mention is Carl Tolentino who performs his insanity with 100% commitment in each moment, and commands the gaze.

Contrasted in character are three powerless and fearful ‘chickens’, unable to break free from the violence, objectification, and amusing yet disturbing games they are subjected to. I am curious as to their significance in relationship to the clown characters as they make attempts to freedom. How badly do they want it?

Following the tone of the initial scene, the work is a gratuitously hysterical and violent performance. The scenes of insanity and depravity are comical, accompanied by gimmicky sound effects and a carnival-esque soundtrack to complement the clown-like characters. It feels like a circus-themed Tom and Jerry, and draws many laughs from the audience.

So much is happening on the stage, it’s difficult to know where to look, adding to the confusion and chaos of the work. The moments of unison in the piece are very satisfying, providing breaks from the pressure of choosing what to watch. Sweeping spins, suspensions, and clever partner work travels the stage seamlessly. The work has several pleasantly unpredictable and risky moments that enhance the theatricality of the work.

The work’s conclusion is theatrically abrupt, and left me with questions. Where do these relationships end? What are the absurd madnesses we carry within our own natures? What is our relationship to them?

Following the intermission is Ross McCormack’s Matter.

Five plinths supporting tall, industrial, rusted poles are placed in the space under focussed spotlights. It is difficult to determine whether they are aggressive or atmospheric. Minutes before the intermission is signalled to an end with dimming of the house lights, a lone performer in black inhabits the stage, understatedly yet determinedly examining one pole with relentless focus.

High angle amber side lighting cuts through the haze. I can’t help but appreciate how the space has been carved in a very 3-dimensional way. Light and shadow provide areas of focus and neglect. The assuredness of the poles creates places of tension, and division, not just on the floor but also drawing attention to far above where my stage gaze usually rests.

A pod of performers clad in black begin navigating the space. Unexpected explosions of sound almost blow me out of my seat- yet they are unfased. Throughout the piece the unpredictability of the soundtrack grows anticipation. I am always waiting, but it never comes when I expect it. I find myself bracing as high pitch rumbling gives way to dissolution of tensions.

Performed with a strength that is not forceful, but nuanced – understated and effective – I am left with a sense of quiet. The movement gives an impression of intentionality that dissipates into a directionlessness until a new movement idea is introduced. Power is passed from performer to performer without a sense of competition – it is an intriguing dynamic that falls eloquently within the structured space they occupy. The kinaesthetic connection and empathy I feel from and for the dancers leaves me emotionally drained.

Matter offers a series of striking and provocative images – bodies walking through the air, a body with an upside down head, two-storey people poles – some of which are so mesmerising I would have liked to have seen them explored further. The way the set, lighting, and sound elements are coordinated with these moments provides a depth and texture that resonates deeply and stirs the soul.

Overall the show is entertaining and satisfying, with more than a little emotional punch to leave me thinking into the evening. The performers prove great physical and performative endurance. The Absurdity of Humanity is a bold step in a different direction for the NZDC, created and performed with passion and nuance.

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