Wednesday was the latest offering from Scottish Dance Theatre.
I was about as unconvinced by this as I was by Beauty and her beast. But B S offered and I thought (middle class idiot) that even if I hated it, at least I was supporting home-grown talent. Although with 2 for 1 tickets, they were getting very half-arsed support from me.
Glass of faithful wine (and yes, this morning's news stories about liver disease are still ringing in my ears) and delicious not at all dry gingerbread (thanks B S) in hand, we settled down to watch.
Curtains drawn. Black stage. Lights flash on. Loud loud "Too Drunk To Fuck" by Nouvelle Vague pours out of the speakers. Some quite young people dash about the stage wearing short smart dress like things (B S did not like this. Boys in dresses are just wrong in his opinion. I thought the 'dresses' afforded a fine view of their legs) in a variety of monochrome colours. I'm liking my Saturday night music (make no comment) being turned into this modern dance soundtrack and lo - because it makes me feel momentarily cool - surprise - I feel I love the dance.
"Too drunk" turns into a succession of other pieces of music. Some exasperatingly I recognise but am not Cool Enough to know. Ross would have known. The quite young run here and there in their dresses, flexing their limbs and waving their arms. It is quite clear to me that I must never endeavour to review dance for any sort of publication.
The programme informs me that this piece is a tender foray into human inexperience at reckoning with desire and loss. Whatever that means. Certainly the girls seem to jerk their hips about quite pertly now and again. This must be the desire. Sometimes the music is sad and they rush about a bit less. I suppose this is the loss so make myself feel sombre and sad.
Thirty minutes later - though interestingly it feels much longer - it is all over. We rush to the bar.
Half two commences with a spritely little very beautifully lit piece featuring two. A boy and a girl. Some nice red costumes. This piece pushes the two to their physical limits (so says the programme). Seems quite inconsiderate to me. But then I don't Know Dance. They certainly race around a lot. I find myself mesmerised by the girl's hair as it flows around her face really nicely as she hurls herself around. I wonder where she got it cut. It's a very good cut. I find I am dwelling on the hair and not properly appreciating that sometimes the people we care about the most are the people we hurt the most (cf. the programme). It finishes suddenly.
No
Time
For
The
Bar
Third piece has a complicated set. A mixing desk. Some tables and chairs. Some spindly bits of wood made into sort of tall proppy things. A man comes out dressed not in dyed toned lycra. He speaks a little into a microphone to us about nothing I can remember but he had a nice accent so it sounded very nice.
Two men come on, dance about a bit and put on rabbit ears. Three girls come on wearing strangely unflattering tea dresses. There's my nice haircut girl but - disaster - she's got her hair up in a bun. They dance about a bit. Another man comes on and speaks a bit into the microphone. He has a less nice voice.
The piece is called Pavlova's Dogs and it's clear that it is possibly very funny if you know what the choreographer is trying to do. I'm (simpleton) finding it quite funny and I have no idea what's going on. But the tea dress girls repeat their dislocated moves over and over. The rabbit eared men seem to urge them on. The microphone men dispute and jostle for the attention of the others. I expect it's hilarious if you're An Intellectual. Maybe Siobhan would understand it.
But it was resoundingly more fun than the other two. I hardly thought about haircuts. I didn't think at all about the Pantomime of Life in a dark and humorous (cf. programme) way. Or in any way at all for that matter. But they danced very nicely. The set looked good. Someone had put a lot of thought into it. Ten out of ten for effort.
They all looked very sweaty at the curtain call. I resolved to go to the gym in the morning. Then went home and ate a big fatty curry for my tea.
I was about as unconvinced by this as I was by Beauty and her beast. But B S offered and I thought (middle class idiot) that even if I hated it, at least I was supporting home-grown talent. Although with 2 for 1 tickets, they were getting very half-arsed support from me.
Glass of faithful wine (and yes, this morning's news stories about liver disease are still ringing in my ears) and delicious not at all dry gingerbread (thanks B S) in hand, we settled down to watch.
Curtains drawn. Black stage. Lights flash on. Loud loud "Too Drunk To Fuck" by Nouvelle Vague pours out of the speakers. Some quite young people dash about the stage wearing short smart dress like things (B S did not like this. Boys in dresses are just wrong in his opinion. I thought the 'dresses' afforded a fine view of their legs) in a variety of monochrome colours. I'm liking my Saturday night music (make no comment) being turned into this modern dance soundtrack and lo - because it makes me feel momentarily cool - surprise - I feel I love the dance.
"Too drunk" turns into a succession of other pieces of music. Some exasperatingly I recognise but am not Cool Enough to know. Ross would have known. The quite young run here and there in their dresses, flexing their limbs and waving their arms. It is quite clear to me that I must never endeavour to review dance for any sort of publication.
The programme informs me that this piece is a tender foray into human inexperience at reckoning with desire and loss. Whatever that means. Certainly the girls seem to jerk their hips about quite pertly now and again. This must be the desire. Sometimes the music is sad and they rush about a bit less. I suppose this is the loss so make myself feel sombre and sad.
Thirty minutes later - though interestingly it feels much longer - it is all over. We rush to the bar.
Half two commences with a spritely little very beautifully lit piece featuring two. A boy and a girl. Some nice red costumes. This piece pushes the two to their physical limits (so says the programme). Seems quite inconsiderate to me. But then I don't Know Dance. They certainly race around a lot. I find myself mesmerised by the girl's hair as it flows around her face really nicely as she hurls herself around. I wonder where she got it cut. It's a very good cut. I find I am dwelling on the hair and not properly appreciating that sometimes the people we care about the most are the people we hurt the most (cf. the programme). It finishes suddenly.
No
Time
For
The
Bar
Third piece has a complicated set. A mixing desk. Some tables and chairs. Some spindly bits of wood made into sort of tall proppy things. A man comes out dressed not in dyed toned lycra. He speaks a little into a microphone to us about nothing I can remember but he had a nice accent so it sounded very nice.
Two men come on, dance about a bit and put on rabbit ears. Three girls come on wearing strangely unflattering tea dresses. There's my nice haircut girl but - disaster - she's got her hair up in a bun. They dance about a bit. Another man comes on and speaks a bit into the microphone. He has a less nice voice.
The piece is called Pavlova's Dogs and it's clear that it is possibly very funny if you know what the choreographer is trying to do. I'm (simpleton) finding it quite funny and I have no idea what's going on. But the tea dress girls repeat their dislocated moves over and over. The rabbit eared men seem to urge them on. The microphone men dispute and jostle for the attention of the others. I expect it's hilarious if you're An Intellectual. Maybe Siobhan would understand it.
But it was resoundingly more fun than the other two. I hardly thought about haircuts. I didn't think at all about the Pantomime of Life in a dark and humorous (cf. programme) way. Or in any way at all for that matter. But they danced very nicely. The set looked good. Someone had put a lot of thought into it. Ten out of ten for effort.
They all looked very sweaty at the curtain call. I resolved to go to the gym in the morning. Then went home and ate a big fatty curry for my tea.
posted by Claire at 6:32 pm
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