Local Gestures
because the personal is cultural
Une lumière stroboscopique si brève qu’elle pourrait être un éclair. Vacarme entre quatre murs de béton. Les ombres nous entourent. Une femme vêtue d’un col roulé et d’une jupe étroite se lève et ramasse des câbles. Elle s’assoit dans une chaise de bois et se bande les yeux. Nous sommes plongés dans le noir. Elle utilise les câbles pour se ligoter. Clouée à la chaise, elle est victime et bourreau. Elle se débat. Le bois craque. Il craque si fort qu’il cesse d’être un craquement. Il devient fracture du crâne. Le chandail blanc de la femme est à peine visible dans la noirceur. Ses bras semblent bouger. Est-elle encore ligotée ou a-t-elle réussi à s’échapper? Une lame de couteau fend le grain du bois. Notre chair sera beaucoup plus silencieuse. La lumière frappe la lame et nous transperce les yeux. Malheureusement, l’effet sensoriel jusque là si bien orchestré se dissout lorsque des mots parviennent à nos oreilles. La femme (Anne Thériault) chuchote une histoire. Bien que les chuchotements font partie de bon nombre de films d’horreur, je l’ai déjà dit et je le redis : ils ne fonctionnent pas dans un espace théâtral. La disjonction entre le désir de parler tout bas et celui de se faire entendre (théâtre oblige) les vole de leurs qualités sur lesquelles on tente spécifiquement de capitaliser. L’ambiguïté du chuchotement (Est-ce que j’entends des voix? Ai-je bien entendu?) est perdue. Les mots eux-mêmes défont l’expérience sensorielle. Thériault fait toujours dans la cinématique, mais cette fois plus dans la trame narrative que dans l’image. C’est pour cette raison que je me dois de citer le court mais brillant essai de Virginia Woolf sur le cinéma : « For a moment it seemed as if thought could be conveyed by shape more effectively than by words. The monstrous quivering tadpole seemed to be fear itself, and not the statement 'I am afraid'. In fact, the shadow was accidental and the effect unintentional. But if a shadow at a certain moment can suggest so much more than the actual gestures and words of men and women in a state of fear, it seems plain that the cinema has within its grasp innumerable symbols for emotions that have so far failed to find expression. […] The likeness of the thought is for some reason more beautiful, more comprehensible, more available, than the thought itself. » Il faut dire qu’il s’agit aussi du spectacle du compositeur et performeur Martin Messier, qui fait un excellent travail de créer un environnement sonore inquiétant. Le son fait vibrer les chaises et résonne à travers nos corps. Malgré les mots, Derrière le rideau demeure une expérience intrigante. Derrière le rideau, il fait peut-être nuit 27 mai à 19h; 28 mai à 18h et 19h Société des Arts Technologiques [SAT] www.fta.qc.ca 514.844.3822 Billets : 15$ / 30 ans et moins, 65 ans et plus : 13$
0 Comments
Stéphane Guignard's Songs, photo by Frédéric Desmesure Three women. A koto player, a singer, a dancer. East meets West. Music meets dance. Voice meets bodies. At the back of the stage, a single passage of light. The dancer travels through the light; the light travels through the dancer. The voice: a woman from another time, from another planet. A woman from another world. The otherworldliness of her appearance: crimson red hair, a futuristic high-collared burgundy dress made from a quilted material akin to that of a bed cover, blue eye shadow popping out. The otherworldliness of her voice: sometimes manipulated digitally, echoed, reverberated, amplified. Static noise for applause. The koto player: comically intense, as she violently shakes her head from side to side while playing her instrument. Hard to resist Songs’ charm, at first. Unfortunately, it loses much of its magic as it progresses. It would help if the entrances and exits were better dissimulated, by shifting our attention from performer to performer and by dimming the lights. The latter technique is better carried out in the second half of the show. And what of the dancer? Let’s speak of the dance itself: anaemic. One could say that that’s okay given that Songs is more a concert than a dance show, but the truth is that even the musical element suffers from the same problem. Not the music itself, nor the talent of the three performers, which remains undeniable. However, none of them are used to their full capacity. Director Stéphane Guignard claims to be inspired by John Cage, but even after reading all the material in the press package, how exactly that is remains obscure. With the American artist’s philosophy, using him as an inspiration is not unlike using life itself. As all the elements are only partially made use of, questions begin to emerge. What justifies the form of the show? What is its guiding principle? What is at its core? These questions remain unanswered. The show ends with the nine tubes of coloured light at the back of the stage. As their colours change, they begin to flash on and off alternately, one light going off each time until we are down to none. The effect is hypnotic. It is the most compelling part of the show. A solution emerges: cut all the performers, turn Songs into a light show. Songs February 25 & 26 at 7pm Agora de la danse www.agoradanse.com 514.525.1500 Tickets: 20$ / Students and those under 30: 14$ |
Sylvain Verstricht
has an MA in Film Studies and works in contemporary dance. His fiction has appeared in Headlight Anthology, Cactus Heart, and Birkensnake. s.verstricht [at] gmail [dot] com Categories
All
|