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Cinnamon Teshigahara Saburo & Rihoko Sato, Karas


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Cinnamon by Teshigahara Saburo at Theatre X: Appreciating dance/narrative tracks
May 4th 2019 730p.m. show

Teshigara Saburo performed a revival of Cinnamon based on a short story by Bruno Schulz (Street of crocodiles). The story depicts in direct, lyric manner an unusual evening for a young boy, sent home from church by his father. Getting lost when taking a shortcut home in the evening cold, he passes the small shops selling oddities he nicknames “cinnamon shops,” visits his school, where the presence of the principal lurks and strange specimens leap out of the cupboards and exhibits, then takes a horse and carriage galloping in the forest before returning home. There is wonderful mood evocation but little drama in this surreal fantasy, a gloomy, rumination on snow, night, fear, and sacrifice.
What Teshigahara has done is express in dance a parallel story. A female (!) voice reads the tale, significantly edited, pausing from time to time. Two dancers enter from the back wall, playing off each other in parallel but not directing relating. Teshigahara and collaborator Sato Rihoko danced like non-identical twins, displaying the artistry and vocabulary of shared methods. As the story moves from slow evocation of ambience and feelings, the dancers move relatively slow; in scenes of mysterious shadows darting out of cupboards, two young dancers flit about the back of the stage. And Teshigahara moves his hands and head nervously and quickly, seemingly a prickly creature suddenly excited by the incomprehensible. Later he plays the buggy-horse, who rushes through the city and into the woods with the small boy, only resting panting and exposing a large, bloody wound. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I did this for you” says the horse. Teshigahara with raised arms as hooves plodded around the stage again and again, X dancing in the center, seeking and shunning.
Both dancers were elegant, cool, and always graceful, tracing lines with their feet and fluid bodies that could have been brushstrokes from a master painter. Teshigahara in particular filled the space with grace and longing, each step, twist, and folding in a pleasure to behold. Sato was also exquisite, more feminine and nuanced, with elements of ballet and modern dance.
These parallel narratives—the spoken word and silent dance—and parallel dancers—two or four dancers, synchronized but separate “tracks”—made for a complex artistic work. One could enjoy the lyric expression of tale and movement, occasionally coming together in realistic depiction—the horse clopping—but more often an abstract description. Or you could let the classical and electronic throbbing music, the sudden and surprising dancer movements, wash over you, a stimulating mood evoked, without the need for the story to make sense or to end. This quality of dreamscape was captured beautifully.
Even in their bows—there were four curtain calls and an enthusiastic response—were professional and grace personified. While I stayed afterwards to pick up various leaflets, Teshigahara came out of the backstage to greet friends; I was surprised at how small he is in person. On stage, he is gigantic.

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