Chanel: Shade Parade

God, i feel ESTRANGED from this blog. still i hope to change that in the coming months. My distraction, in part, has to do with my new love affair with Pinterest, which is siphoning off my interest in posting all things visual. If you haven't discovered it... Do.   It's a series of online pinboards where you can pin things you like the look of. Genius.

Anyway, I digress. this advert is quite simply, amazing. and quite the way to make a re-entrance into the world of my blog after a summer break. think of my fingers prancing about like this as a warm up before they type.

I Heart. Big time.

The Most Incredible Thing

The Pet Shop Boys and Javier de Frutos' ballet interpretation of the Hans Christian Andersen story The Most Incredible Thing is indeed just that; The Most Incredible Thing. or at least i thought so as i sat there grinning manically and thoroughly caught up in the gloriously dynamic innovation of this magical story. The tale itself is a simple one - a king promises  his daughter's hand in marriage to the person who presents him with the most incredible thing. and that incredible thing (made by the simple carpenter you are rooting for who just happens to be in love with the princess, and she him) proves to be a truly knock-your-socks off clock which draws you inside, to its inner workings which are a multifaceted, kaleidoscopic world of pure wonder. there's some too-ings and fro-ings as sinister elements collude to overturn harmony, but it all ends well - with a marriage and the jolly pronouncement that 'no one was jealous'.

This production was conceived by The Pet Shop Boys, and there's a definite pop music cut and thrust to the ballet - it's upbeat and pacey from the get-go and there's no pretentious messing about when it comes to emotional impact - love, anger, danger and innovation are boldly articulated through both the music and movement. It works perfectly on stage; intensely dramatic, moving and punchy. I'm no expert when it comes to things like choreography, but all i can say is this - you feel every twinge of emotion in every sinuous flex as the bodies dance about - the angry tension, the fluidity of love, the resistance, compliance, nerves, joy and fear. It's magical.

The ballet opens with the pulsating ferocity of a video projection - numbers flash, followed by the laborious and intricate cutting of  paper into pretty shapes. when the curtain rises there's a paper castle suspended above the stage. it's double sided as if reflected in a mirror. this idea of two sides of one whole, opposites inextricably linked and reflections is one that recurs throughout the ballet, via the use of mirrors and monochromatic visuals. This theme culminates with the destruction of the clock; which is seen as being incredible as its creation. White goodness is set against the shadowy greys of evil. The stage floor is reflective, a melting pot for the two. This floor later proves the perfect foundation for a hall of mirrors which prevents the hero and heroine from meeting. They are both there, but they see only themselves. Creation is destruction, evil is the other side of good. it's a concept that's arresting, powerful, disturbing and fascinating.

The story is set in a communist-esque Russia... there's Soviet lettering and typeface, the corps de ballet are drone-like workers, moving about with mechanical grace - robotic movements, angular limbs - while the evil henchmen have a Ruski vibe with their collarless shirts and baggy trousers tucked into boots. The feel of the piece reminded me of the Futurists, or Vorticists... the sharp edges and breaks in the dancing and the music like the angularity of their paintings.

But for me, the performance truly took flight when the story was swallowed by the clock. the whole stage becomes the mechanical turning parts of the clock at the centre of which is the clock face - pared down to an inter play of black and white - a sort of 1960s/70s op art play of monochromatic light. the series of worlds within this clock, rather than being biblical as in the original story, are like artistic movements - surrealist, expressionist etc realisations of worlds - you get a dance routine on a lips sofa while noses and ears wander about. one dancers routine is enturely inside the framework of a piano, in another internal world it's all splishes of colour.

I just didn't expect to be as bowled over as i was. but i left buoyed by the imaginative journey and the brilliant marriage of dance and music and was still completely entranced by the time i arrived home.

The most Incredible Thing is on until March 26th at Sadler's Wells.

Kneehigh's The Red Shoes

Kneehigh's darkly unnerving subversion of the fairy tale The Red Shoes by Hans Christian Andersen was one of their first productions, and given how much of a fan of theirs i've become over the years, it was interesting to see a revival of play (at the BAC) that 10 years ago catapulted them from bucolic creative exile in Cornwall into the mainstream cultural throng of the capital - this year sees their latest production, The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, open in the heart of the west end.

The Red Shoes as presented by Kneehigh takes the Christian moral of the original story, which condemns vanity, moral turpitude and self interest and praises religious subservience,  and tweaks it slightly but significantly. In the original the heroine is a vain girl besotted with her red shoes; she wears them continually, shamelessly flouting social and religious convention; she becomes demonically possessed by the shoes, which cause her to dance all the time, never giving her pause for breath so she is forced to have her feet amputated - only in death does she find religious salvation and relief. In this production the heroine is a much more sympathetic figure, a rescued waif who once possessed by her scarlet demon dancing clogs is categorically rejected by the church when she asks for help - the prospect of death after her physical mutilation is less a relief than the ultimate punishment for her sins. God (in a flying cap) seems to drag her kicking and screming into the afterlife. there's no sense this is a good outcome and so she flees - it's an escape that seems to suggest that being different and doing your own thing should not be condemned.

What initially rocks the moral boat is the cast of outcasts who tell the story. The tale is narrated by a flamboyant tranny standing on high - prancing about on a platform above the stage. He's confident, wry, cocky - no morelising authority in the traditional sense. Down below the 'puppet' actors who act out the tranny's words are dressed like members of the lunatic asylum in grubby underwear and with shaved heads - they silently act out the story, accompanied by stirring music, and sporadically don accessories which give a hint of a costume - a pair of glasses and a cape, or a floral headpiece and and an apron. you're never allowed to forget that these characters are really madmen - lost, confused and controlled by a puppet master. Their mime-style performances contribute to a haunting, eerie and unsettlingly dark message, but flashes of humour  light up the stage like strobe lights - it's mesmerising, sinister, disturbing.

The tricks of performance are what maks it so special though - the fishing rod which whips the amputated red shoes about the herione's head, the dances and songs which are links in the chapters of the story, the sound effects which inject the fairy story with real horror (the sawing and crunching of bone as the butcher amputates the feet set your teeth on edge). It's magically sewn together - stitched with invisible thread, you easily follow the episodes of story, but they only really come together towards the end, when forgotten elements suddenly glow with relevance. It's no surprise it's been such a hit.

Beautiful Burnout

When i was about 18 or so I went to a dinner party and found myself sitting next to a guy (a bit older, quite hot), who worked for Shell Oil (the bureaucratic side of things). I literally had to clasp my mouth shut to stifle the groan that rumbled from the depths of my consciousness, and pretty much wanted to gauge my eyes out of my head, but resigned myself to enduring what i thought would be a long, tedious night. Strangely though, it was anything but, as this boy was so enthusiastic, excited and eloquent when talking about what he did. Major lesson learned... even things which can seem interminably dull can become vividly entertaining and fascinating if in the hands of someone interesting.

And so we come to boxing. A play about boxing to be exact, which i saw on Sunday night at the end of a very long weekend, and which, despite my misgivings,  pumped me full of energy, excitement, tremulous emotion, wonder, amazement and heartbreak. Beautiful Burnout was the toast of this year's Edinburgh Festival, a play that seemingly got everyone talking excitedly; in the papers, on television, by word of mouth. And the talk wasn't just talk, it materialised into action too, and  its follow up national tour began last week at York Hall, in Bethnal Green - a beautifully restored 1920s gymnasium (that now plays host to bona fide boxing matches), how apt.  the stage that had been set up for this play was a rotating boxing ring round which the audience sat, and which was the scene for five young wannabe boxers who were each propelled into boxing for different reasons - fame, money, glory, revenge, status, acknowledgement, anger - and who wanted to make their name with their fists, but who each travelled down different paths on their individual quests. It's also about motherhood - and the animal protectiveness that is challenged so sharply when boxing comes into play. It's also about nurture in a broader sense of the word, and fairness (or unfairness) of fate, sex, rules and chance, and lastly it's about love. It's a complex mix of issues explored with a deft lightness of touch and that feels anything but confusing - it's funny, above all, even though the sucker punch hits you square on with shocking, and unexpected seriousness.

It's incredibly intense a theatrical experience; yes, it's crammed into 90 mins but it's not only that. there's a frenetic, jagged edge to the dialogue - a sort of jilted flow to the language, like boxing jabs coming thick and fast. It's also very physical, as you'd expect, but this is translated into a theatre friendly form by creating intricately choreographed dance routines from the boxing moves and training exercises, which are set to music by dance legends Underworld. Strobe lights and flashing scenes projected from TV screens add to the hot, sweaty, frantic, heady nightclub-cum-fight atmosphere. It's truly intoxicating. and thought provoking, and moving - it knocks you out as you could only hope for. if you can, you must see it.

Here's where it on in the coming weeks...

York Hall Leisure Centre, London

16/09/2010 - 02/10/2010

Rothes Halls, Glenrothes

13/10/2010 - 16/10/2010

Crucible, Sheffield

03/11/2010 - 13/11/2010

Minerva Theatre, Chichester

16/11/2010 - 27/11/2010

St Ann's Warehouse, New York

25/02/2011 - 27/03/2011

Lido Love [plus Ed Ruscha + Norman Parkinson]

Norman Parkinson: A Very British Glamour

(above and below) Ed Ruscha: 50 years of Painting

I rounded off a nicely bumper day of culcha on Saturday (11th hour viewing of Ed Ruscha [underwhelmed but generally mixed reactions: loving some plays on words - and LOATHING others - i could drone on about this but won't since the exhibition finished yesterday] and Norman Parkinson pics at Somerset House [high glam and gorgeous]) with a slightly bonkers night at, of all places on a sub-arctic night, London Fields Lido (which i insist on pronouncing leedo, rather than in a way that rhymes with fido, much to the consternation of many. fuck them, i say).

The night was Lido Love - an evening celebrating the history of London Fields Lido with film, magic, burlesque, music and poetry. at one point i found myself jumping up and down to 90s beats in the male changing rooms (see the very below) clutching nothing but a cup of hot chocolate (the night rather extraordinarily proved to be alcohol free). this seemed possibly even more strange at the time than it does now, from the comforting warmth of my bed. I also huddled round the pool to watch swimming-costume clad girls dancing barefoot in the snow (where else?). La Horrox did a burlesque fire dance (below) and H Plewis did an act that involved her dancing to a soundtrack which skipped through the decades - as each snippet of music was played, she'd nip into a changing booth beside the pool and emerge with a different swimming cap which matched the music (the one for punk was a swimming cap with a Mohican for eg). Hilariously daring given the temperatures. There was also a short film by Tracey Emin "why i never became a dancer" and socialist magic (the 'democratic' approach where the trick was followed by a demonstration of how to do it). Sadly the novelty of this last act was not sufficient to keep my interest above agitatedly mounting concern for my freezing toes - i eventually had to make a dash to the loos and remove my shoes and hold my feel under the hand dryer for about 10 mins - yeah, SUPER GLAM). to be honest it was a completely bizarre night but rather brilliant in its own way: so very British. who else would hang out on a saturday night in the freezing cold and dark by a pool, and without alcohol? mad people i tell you. but curiously cool ones, i thought.