Assessing the mood of the times is simpler with hindsight but we look to artists to have the foresight to enlighten us in the moment. Jo Strømgren, a choreographer with an acute perspective on humanity, has done this with Stigma, together with the dancers of the Norwegian National Ballet. The title, Stigma, is derived from Strømgren’s reading of how the thoughts and actions of the past have stigmatised us, giving us a kind of inheritance that has nothing to do with us, but is something that has happened before. It is something we carry with us. A kind of original sin.
Act 1 does not reflect a comfortable place and the dancers in it are uncertain, untrusting and desperately trying to belong. The setting is bleak, cavernous granite-like cliffs with little relief are predominantly lit in monochrome. A naked body lies on stage in front of the curtains. As the curtains open the man, Silas Henriksen, gets to his feet and walks upstage soon surrounded by others. One brings him a set of clothes, a uniform of beige trousers and smock, which he climbs into to join the group.
The dancers endlessly traverse the stage. They look for comfort by walking purposefully in lines but are really going nowhere. Chance meetings lead to duets and trios, a relief in the loneliness and a chance to find humanity however short lived.
The music by György Ligeti and Alfred Schnittke is perfect for the time and the mood. Ligeti’s Cello Concerto no. 1, in particular, with thin shards of brittle sound seem to give a warning of the fragility of our existence. Lanterns, carried by the dancers, provide pinpricks of light in a dark world.
The second act opens again with a naked body downstage but this time we see it carefully manoeuvred into place, and it is Anaïs Touret who stands and dresses herself. The mood is different, not exactly optimistic, but rather the dancers deciding that something needs to be done and grouping into sculptured shapes, at one time forming a giant pivoting cross. The dance is full-bodied, bristling with energy and power as bodies work in harmony lifting, carrying and supporting one another. For this act, Strømgren uses music from longtime collaborator, Bergmund Waal Skaslien, gentler on the ear with sounds of waves it, helps to build a more positive world.
Two giant lizards, visitors from prehistoric times appear briefly in Act 1 and more intrusively in Act 2. They are manipulated with great skill and coordination by Marco Pagetti and Mathias Møller Tannæs. At first, they simply cross the stage, but one creature makes a meaningful final moment as Touret gently cradles his spiky head showing that a repulsive exterior may mask a gentle soul.
Change becomes a physical reality as part of the set is dismantled. Designed by Strømgren, it consists of huge sheets of Tyvek, a manmade fibre that is a gift to designers. Under Oscar Frostad Udbye’s effective lighting it changed its character from forbidding granite to a warm golden glow, fiery red and even achieves a delicate transparency. In the closing scenes, to great effect, the huge sheets are ripped down by the dancers creating a maelstrom of movement and one miraculously becoming a sort of liturgical cape that fans out to almost cover the stage.