Irish Times writers review the Irish Modern Dance Theatre at the Project Cube, Dublin, Annabelle's Star at The Ark, Dublin, and The Begley family and friends at the Clé Club, Liberty Hall, also in Dublin.
Irish Modern Dance Theatre
Project Cube, Dublin
Christie Taylor
Life is a series of chances, IMDT's RrrrrrrrKILLKILLKILL . . . to infinity (MAKE IT LOOK REAL) says, where some are taken and others missed.
This dance compellingly examines our predicament as if turning the mind inside out until emotions, decisions, ego, id and memory tumble out. Like dancers who step back when they are told to go forward, or a movement executed in darkness, things are rarely perfectly placed. Encounters happen at once, happen when they're not supposed to, and sometimes don't happen at all.
A fascination with randomness and choice seems to drive choreographer Chris Yon forward, and performers Jeanine Durning, Taryn Griggs, John Scott go right along with him.
RrrrrrrrKILLKILLKILL starts with three high-energy performers moving as if in a nightclub, where their actions are purposeful and they're having a good time. The mood turns contemplative when Scott asserts himself, loudly, and is held back by Durning and Griggs. Like an ego without its id, they are not sure quite what to do. Conjecture takes over, and Griggs asks us to imagine the space we're sitting in 60 years into the future. It's a head trip thinking of what might and might not exist then. As if skipping ahead to the future, then diving back to the past, the dancing livens, calms down, then settles into uncertainty. In RrrrrrrrKILLKILLKILL, the only constant is change.
The actual movement matters less than the dance's concept and narrative, which is augmented by performer Sebastiao M Kamalandua, who sits in a corner putting pieces of bread into a toaster, stacking them like a tower. Kamalandua handles the toast as if it were the most important thing in the world, and as the dancers clinch their fists, struggle, leave the stage and dance again, Kamalandua continues to stack. Routine and discipline matter, and such predictability gives a welcome sense of order to an otherwise beautiful mess.
Ends Sat
Annabelle's Star
The Ark, Dublin
Gerry Colgan
A packed house awaited the opening performance of Annabelle's Star, no doubt lured by reports of earlier productions. This is written by Mary McNally and Raymond Keane (who directs), with original music by Conor Mitchell and enchanting special effects by Miriam Duffy.
Annabelle is sleeping, and mimes her way via wriggling and bottom-scratching to an awakened state. She sees a large box with a greeting card from her parents. As she lifts the lid, a small puppet flies past her unseen. This is repeated until, with audience help, she spots the wee creature and plays with him.
Soon there are three such puppets cavorting about. Then a princess-dress floats out of the box and envelops her. Wings follow, but though she dons them, she cannot fly. Other fantasies take shape until a single bright star appears. As the scenario closes, Annabelle is ascending a luminous staircase, following her star until she disappears.
Judith Ryan is delightful as Annabelle, moving delicately into audience territory, mostly to irrepressible giggles from those who have become her collaborators. The black-clad Mike Carbery and Sarah Bacon, invisible of course, create wonderful illusions. The magic is probably most potent for younger children of four-plus, who easily enter the make-believe world; but adults can enjoy the mute simplicity and skills, free of the burden of analysis.
Until Jan 6
The Begley family and friends
Clé Club, Liberty Hall, Dublin
Siobhán Long
The Clé Club thrives on its Wednesday sessions. Stories are bartered, melodies traded and the occasional tune tiptoes in, just for the fun of it. The penultimate gathering of the year was a chance for club faithful to air their latest tales of love lost, of the perils (and joys) of going on the batter, and of doomed parental interference in matters of matrimony.
The Clé Club plants its collective tongue in its cheek with greater gusto than Hall's Pictorial Weekly.
Club regulars including Jerry O'Reilly and the Sunshine Boys (aka Jimmy Kelly and Tom Crean) warmed the stalls with muscular renditions of The Holland Handkerchief and The Jug Of Punch.
Four of the nine west Kerry Begley clan took to the stage: Eileen, Seosaimhín, Michael and Seamus. Eileen was the bean an tí for the evening, directing and cajoling a sweeping collection of songs from her siblings, their harmonies conjuring images of a collective childhood in which music flourished above all else.
Michael Begley is a rare participant in his family gatherings, but his reading of Táimse im' Chodladh was ample evidence of his shareholding in that trademark genteel Begley voice (entirely at odds with the strength of their personalities).
Seosaimhín ventured a Scots Gaelic version of An Giolla Dubh Ciardubh and stilled the room with her vulnerability, and the foursome gathered round for an impish take on Bó Na Leath Adhairce. Seamus lent his usual share of puckish tales, including his now-trademark Mo Giolla Meár. In between lurked slow airs, and a set of polkas, but this was a night for songs and stories. And the Begleys told their share, with their customary wicked sense of the absurd.
