The Wings of Time festival in Oslo is the most comprehensive collection of Czech choreographer Jiří Kylián’s work ever presented. It features two special programmes, covering work old and new as well as installations and films which celebrate his unique talents and creativity. Day Before Tomorrow is the first of two premieres.
Norwegian National Ballet have cultivated a strong relationship with Kylián over nearly 40 years, indeed a programme of his work was chosen to open the newly constructed Opera House in 2008, and his influence is still felt strongly. The last five Artistic Directors have been keen to partner with him including, currently, Ingrid Lorentzen.
What if you’re new to Kylián? I’d argue this programme is viewed better that way. His work explores the universal themes of life, love and death but they are works you should experience rather than analyse. They are, above all, aesthetic and accessible.
Wings of Wax offers a punchy opener, enhanced endlessly by a theatrical score that includes segments of music from Philip Glass, Heinrich von Biber and Johann Sebastian Bach. Eight dancers appear beneath an upside down, uprooted tree, the tree glistens among an otherwise black backdrop. A single spotlight circles tree and stage from above. Wings of Wax is about an eternal desire for freedom. In simple black leotards and t-shirts, there is a subdued mournfulness, tentative partnering; the women’s legs flicker with vulnerability when lifted, quick subconscious movement interspersed with the slow and deliberate. Leyna Magbutay and Martin Dauchez were particularly elegant, the former showing great resistance in the delicate placement of hands and feet in the early moments.
In the third movemet from Glass’ String Quartet no. 5, there is a hectic urgency. The men blitz through the stage, leaping wildly, hips twitching, shifting side to side, like a magnificent herd of deer. This physical freedom is contrasted with the women who can only move laboriously on the spot, as if imprisoned. The later partnering is playful and sensual, but lacks a bit of sharpness, in the more angular Kylián motifs.
If Wings of Wax was a warm up, God and Dogs positively crackles with intensity. Loosely, it seeks to explore the border between normality and abnormality, sanity and insanity, but this won’t be relevant to your enjoyment of it. Framed by a gold threaded curtain that glitters in the light, above which the projection of a dog running forwards fades in and out of vision. Eight dancers melt from balletic to robotic and stunted moves, packed with typical Kylián partnering, with kicks, lifts and explosive male dancing and loaded with angst against a moody backdrop. Beethoven’s melancholy strings are later jarring and uneven. Dark and gripping, it’s potentially the highlight of the evening even if it makes the least sense. Nightmare fuel of the best kind.
In Bella Figura, we see the exploration of something more vulnerable and soft, where personal meets professional. The title translates not only as “beautiful body” but can also mean to “put on a brave face.” Kylián is really asking, “What is a performance? And when does it actually begin?” True enough, as the audience makes its way back to their seats, they are greeted by dancers already on stage, they move in slow motion, consumed by these moments of preparation.
Nae Nishimura Skaar emerges, her body encased by the black curtain of the stage. She is trapped, silently screaming, legs and arms struggling to break free. We then move to a contrasting arrangement of dancers, all displaying the same tension and brittleness we have seen before. Legs splayed, limbs at right angles, poses frozen in time. Joke Visser’s burgundy bodices are eye-catching and more opulent than those typically seen in Kylián’s work.
The group finds freedom in the second section where the bodices are replaced by crimson billowing skirts. They stand together as if in a chorus line, feet shuffling and arms sweeping. The curtains move throughout, as if attempting to entrap them. Skaar and Johanne Wien Pedersen share a wordless conversation, communicated through soft movements of the hands and flicks of the wrist, bare chested and knelt on the ground they are completely vulnerable with each other. It’s just one example of the smaller sub-scenes Kylián creates which is quietly emotional.
Most powerful of all is the conclusion which sees a couple dance in silence. The steps are neat and balletic, before she walks away, her tensed shoulders, then pressed downwards by her partner several times before a blackout. The soundless auditorium might have you momentarily forgetting to breathe.
The chance to compare and contrast these three pieces is certainly a gratifying one. It’s striking how emotive Kylián’s work can be without any fixed narrative. Those unsure of his work most likely won’t find anything new in Norwegian National Ballet’s delivery, which for the most part is slick and dynamic. The festival’s second programme, Day After Yesterday, will see them tackle earlier work in Kylián’s extensive repertoire.
Vikki Jane's press trip was funded by Norwegian National Opera and Ballet
