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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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