Defining the indefinable: So, what is visual theatre? (Rebecca Corbett)

‘Surely all theatre is visual theatre? I mean you watch it don’t you? Or do you sit in the dark?’ 

I tried to think of a clever response, something intelligent and witty to say that would make me sound like I had a clue. Instead dumbfounded, lost for words I slowly said: ‘I honestly don’t know’ and,sadly, I didn’t.

Regardless of understanding what the genre itself means, I watched the ‘Best of the Fest’ that showcased the highlights of the animation films and enjoyed the turbulent change from one short clip to another. Despite trying to forget the term, I was still determined to try and understand what ‘visual theatre’ was. [The curse of the fourth year theatre student – you feel as though you should understand.]

I came up with a definition: visual theatre is theatre that is performed without large amounts of speech and dialogue and instead uses music and movement to tell a narrative or convey emotions to its’ audience. I have done it. I have defined visual theatre. I then realised: I have defined dance.

The first step to understanding ‘visual theatre’ is accepting that you don’t have to understand it. There are no dictionary or encyclopaedia definitions explaining it, instead you go in and watch a series of beautiful art pieces which are all tied together under the umbrella term ‘visual theatre’.

Similar to a cookbook that presents you with a thousand flavours that you could never imagine together and an exotic and alarmingly long list of spices (if you have ever come across Yotam Ottolenghi or Heston Blumenthal  you will understand what I’m referring to) ‘visual theatre’ when you describe it comes out as more of a list of art-forms than a definition. Yet somehow, like a complicated recipe, it is a lot more simplistic and far more pleasing than you first imagined and the result means you try new artforms you hadn’t considered before.

This is what is so fantastic about the Manipulate Festival, it twists and challenges your expectations, it is not a theatre festival, not a dance festival and not a film festival – yet somehow it managed to combine all of them. You cannot accuse it of being a case of too many cooks either, Simon Hart, Jen White and Fay Butler programmed the perfect balance of different art-forms. And the term ‘visual theatre’ is simply there as a heading for their exciting and continuously changing showcase of artwork.

Macbeth without Words

Shakespeare’s splatter fest gets a new make-over/comic bouffons and then moments of anguish pain and darkness and death/he’s a tragic hero, so manly/ an ensemble in white face swapping roles and humours/ the barrage of music, fragments of familiar tracks hacked and scratched/ this Macbeth is violence and power/ substitute the poetry of iambic pentameter for the poetry of gore/

covered in tarpaulins/ battles rage off stage and tumble on/ a large bowl becomes a helmet becomes a witches brew/ Macbeth rattles through time/ a series of snapshots/ Elizabethan paranoia about rebellion/ the aristocratic uprising/ a proto-dada mockery of power/ the way it dresses its trivial obsessions/ with trappings of style/ beneath it all/ just human/ made of blood and lust/

how is history made? is the video reflection a closer analogue to the petty candle of life? how do we flicker and gutter?

Close Up

 

AyseDeniz and Editta Braun (AUS)

images: Andy Catlin

words: Gwyneth Paltrow/Ellen Degeneres

Sequential Dramaturgy: Gareth K Vile

Keep the Cross High

Laura Wooff/UK

images: Andy Catlin

words: Catholic Encyclopaedia

Sequential Dramaturgy: Gareth K Vile

 

 

Finding perfection in the imperfections (Roisin Kelly)

Thomas Hicks: Music and Moving Images: Experiments and Explorations

 

Thomas Hicks is an award-winning animator who has created music videos for the likes of Paul McCartney, Newton Faulkner and Gravenhurst. Perhaps a surprising inclusion on the Manipulate programme was Thomas Hick’s curated presentation of his own work and other short films. The link to visual theatre becomes apparent however, through the lens of his work providing visual accompaniments to theatrical performances and creating music videos. Speaking at length about the relationship between the animator and music he creates a visual accompaniment for, the inspiration that music can provide and the influence on his style when animating becomes very much apparent.

 

This was an opportunity to see some of Hicks’ early work made while he was still studying at Kingston University. Seeing a collection of short animations and music videos that he has created over the past ten years showcases the development of his career and style in the context of his own work. His joy in finding beauty and the perfection in the imperfections or ‘happy accidents’ that occur when drawing and using software lend his work the unpolished edge that defines his signature style.

 

A small selection of short animated films selected by Hicks contrasted quirky vintage style and technical brilliance. Cirrus by Cyriak illustrates the mesmerising manipulation of footage from the fifties. Black Lake by David O’Reilly shows an astounding understanding of the possibilities and techniques available to animation artists. Backbone Tale by Jérémy Clapin is an unconventional love story. The juxtaposition of these varied pieces with Hicks’ own work gave an illuminating display of inspiration and skill.

Music and Moving Images gave an insight to the connection between animated art and the creation of music videos and stand-alone pieces of work. Hicks’ enthusiasm and knowledge of the subject was an informative accompaniment to a less conventional addition to the Manipulate programme.

Dance of the Magnetic Ballerina: Sam Kenyon considers

Magnetism is a phenomenon of invisible forces; of attraction and repulsion, of torque and spin, contraction and expansion – acting through, in, on and around objects and bodies > the measure of this charge, its expression of energy, is known as the magnetic moment.

 

Andrea Miltnerová’s Dance of the Magnetic Ballerina is a series of magnetic moments. She emerges from the darkness on a slim, minimal platform, flanked by naked light bulbs, flexing and dipping her torso, ferociously in time with the thump and grind of industrial techno. She shatters the ornate, sugary serenity of her music-box doppelganger, whilst retaining some of the quietly perverse aesthetic; for much of the performance it seems as if her legs  – in black tights beneath a rigid, spinning-top of a white tutu – are welded to the platform. From my vantage point, high up on the Traverse Theatre’s seating bank, they are scarcely visible. Her arms and upper body move with such force and precision that it’s almost alarming to imagine the strain on her static legs.

It’s a muscular display of tension, and feels explicitly feminist in that she positions her body, from the outset, as an object of resistance and power – asserting her strength because of and in spite of forces that would clamp her in place.

From this point of attack the performance shifts. She begins to work her way out of the mechanical rigidity. Her body shape changes. She appears to become physically smaller. In a strange and sensuous passage of quasi-yogic stretching, she lengthens her muscles and introduces more sinewy, lithe and delicate movements. At one point she pops her shoulder and flutters her tutu against imaginary jets of air, like Marylyn Monroe. Her body slides forwards and she gyrates her hips, her tutu fanning out and shimmering like the plumage of a peacock.

She is exploring her sexuality, but also cultural representations of women’s bodies and gender roles; she both inhabits and critiques them. Moments of coquettish posturing are punctuated by the presence of a visible, persistent vibration resonating through her body, tempering effortless grace with deadly force.

As the dance draws to a close – the rhythmic beats having morphed into ambient soundscapes, her movements and her body becoming more abstract – she arches back, like a cresting wave, and as the bulbs rise to a near blinding brilliance her legs spread wide and she reaches for a moment of sublime energy; a magnetic moment.

Jordan Shaw says ‘That’s It!’

Knock Knock (Katie Shannon Williams)

Knock Knock showcases the working progress from Emma King and Catherine Elliot, with the support from Puppet Animation Scotland and the assistance of Physical Theatre Scotland. They share 4 short pieces which experiment with various puppetry styles and movement.

Opening with an audio of children laughing, an uneasy atmosphere is instantly created.  A young shadow puppet cries in fear as something scuttles behind the door until the performers contort their bodies. They rip the door away from the set which leads to the next piece.

This includes a baby that is dismantled in front of our eyes and as this innocent infant screams, the atmosphere becomes creepy and uncomfortable. This is lightened by two paper puppets. They were given comical personalities by the performers. By not using real words, just sounds, the audience was transported to this new little world.

The feature of the door allows the audience to question “what is behind the door?” It is the unknown that can scare us and it was apparent that this was one of the themes the company held strongly to.

Knock Knock concludes with a talk from King and Elliot. It was revealed that they want to develop it into a show for children. Yet they emphasise a thriller aspect in the project. This raises the question, is the production asking to go in another direction-possibly something too dark for children?

As a working progress, each piece looks promising. The enthusiasm that King and Elliot show proposes that it is going to be a promising time ahead.

Power and Puppets: Small Stories in a Big World – Films and Talk with Claire Lamond (Eric

 

With animator Iain Gardner leading the discussion,  2012 Edinburgh College of Art graduate Claire Lamond presents a collection of short animated films. These include three of Lamond’s own creations and a selection of shorts by other animators. The other shorts deal with various social/mental health issues, such as dealing with grief after losing a loved one and fear of the world.

The presentation begins with Lamond’s debut film All that Glisters (2012, 8’), which follows a girl whose father is suffering from asbestos poisoning. While the dialogue itself is quite subtle, the moments of silent action – for example when the main character decides to smear her clothing with glitter pens to attend a funeral – become incredibly powerful.

Furthermore, the rough texture of the puppets Lamond uses seems fitting, and seems to make them more human, although it’s quite easy to see they are not. This persists across the other two films she brings to manipulate: Seams and Embers (2012, 7’) that sheds light on the UK miners and their lifestyle, and hope-restoring war film Sea Front(2014, 8’).

On the other side of the war-film genre sits Danish Seven Minutes in the Warsaw Ghetto (2012, 7’). Using puppets with human eyes and black-and-white instead of colour, Johan Oettinger sets the scene for the sorry tale of a little boy who goes for a wander in the Warsaw ghetto before dinner.

Meanwhile, Suzie Templeton’s BAFTA-winning Dog (2001, 6’) provides a completely different take on familial grief. A young boy and his father struggle to deal with the death of his mother while the family dog looks like it might follow in her footsteps. Morbid, yes, yet also awkwardly funny as each character deals with the grief differently.

Daisy Jacobs’ The Bigger Picture (2014, 8’) continues the theme of films about a family member dying. Two brothers at constant odds with each other have to negotiate around each other while caring for their aging, dying mother. Funny at times, and at others surprisingly accurate about life and the effect stress and grief can have on the psyche, it’s not hard to relate to the anecdotes, in spite of the elaborate,yet elegant surreal drawn animation. Perhaps that’s why The Bigger Picture received an Oscar nomination for Best Animated Short Film.

The shortest film on the programme is Jerry Hibert’s Unison Bear (1995, 1’), a public ad from the nineties recruiting members for Unison, the public service union. Short, funny, yet effective, it reflects the power of the medium of animation.

 

French animated film Apeuree (Scared, 2012, 5’) by Patricia Sourdes explores the anxious, tentative existence of a girl who is scared of everything. It’s hard to decide if Scared is outright hilarious or tragic, as it seems like a very entertaining situation from the outside, but most likely isn’t for the anxiety-ridden character.

Humorous Argentinian film El Empleo (2008, 7’) by Santiago Bou Grasso presents a universe where the meaning of ‘work’ is driven to a whole new definition. People take the place of ordinary objects to make a living – such as a lamp – and seem to be taken for granted, like cogs of a well-oiled machine. If one part doesn’t function, it would simply be replaced, which seems like a broader commentary on the way work takes over people’s lives due to the fear of losing a job.

With this rich programme, Lamond’s theme of power and puppets seems to be explored quite widely, although at times it seems to lead to more questions than answers.

 

(Eric Karoulla)

Tristissimo by CEC (Review by Elliot Roberts)

BANG

The company of Tristissimo are standing before us.

The company of Tristissimo are standing naked before us.

Their backs are turned, their bodies stretched, like statues.

Their backs are turned, their bodies stretched, like naked statues.

Their heads are covered by a mass of blonde dreadlocks.

Their heads are covered by a mass of mop-like blonde dreadlocks.

And then, suddenly, things are different. They are sensitive about their naked bodies, coquettish even. A walk of shame almost, steps are re-trodden, apparel is re-donned. The performers skate about each other’s bodies, filling the dark and empty space with smatterings of routines, fragments of movements, and dashes of the uncanny.

From tightly woven partner-work intercut with Audrey Hebrun-esque cries of elation, come more abstract touches: a single golden braid of hair stretching beyond the far reaches of the stage sweeps our hero away, and a hair-covered sunglasses-wearing figure edges closer and closer to their own monstrous shadow.

In taking their inspiration from Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde, CEC flicker between the stark materiality of a tracksuit, a smart-casual outfit, and a shimmering white backdrop and the romanticist strains of Wagner’s sumptuous opera as it washes over the bodies of the fallen lovers.

At the halfway point things become a touch more meditative, with spoken dialogue taking a philosophical turn, blending maxims with song lyrics above the sounds of battle. At this point, one particular maxim seems to strike a particularly apt note for the piece: “are we anything or everything in this particular moment?”

There is a porous quality to the meditative and at times distinctly soothing movement of the performers, with the Wagnerian source sitting at more of an undercurrent than a binding narrative it would seem. The reverse side of this same coin however is a possible loss of specificity in favour of universality, in which the seemingly worldliness of the movements negates their grounding in the humanity of its subject.

Tristissimo languishes both in space and time, moving from small-scale partner work to large scale shadow play, at times rushing through, at others grinding to a halt. Somewhere however Tristissimo appears to retreat into its’ worldliness, away from particular and into the universal, with the effect of feeling more and more like an inside joke.