I would classify myself as somewhat of an introvert when it comes to interacting with the dance world. I’ve never been that dancer who buzzes with endless energy and attends dance events with ‘zest.’ And when it comes to choreography, my preferences all have to do with subtlety, composition and understatement. This is why attending Robyn Orlin’s Confit de Canard last night at the CND was like being forced to participate in cheery, nightmarish activities at Christ Camp.
I should have known better. Though not having had seen her work yet, I knew she routinely provoked audiences with her in-your-face performance art. “Just go,” I told myself, thinking that I might as well see it just to know what it is. To make matters worse, I was in an emotionally sedated mood yesterday, and could have been happy just staying at home relaxing and listening to my new favorite “fuck it”album, In the Red, by Michael Dracula.
Briefly, Robyn Orlin is a South African choreographer who whose first performance took place in Johannesburg in 1980 against Apartheid, and whose studies then led her to the London Contemporary Dance School and the Chicago Institute of Art. Confit de Canard, her closing performance after a year-long residency at the Centre National de Danse, had so much potential, as she had invited a slew of interesting South African artists (including two Zulu dancers and a lyrical opera singer), French dance students who had worked with her during her residency at CND, and even two male dancers from the Ballet de l’Opéra National de Paris. Let’s just say that she hasn’t a shortage of funding… You’d think with this delightful cast of artists, you might create something, well, delightful.
But no. The majority of the performance resembled a messy group improvisation of cokeheads. You dancers can all picture it: an improvisation class where everyone searches for their inner clown, resorts to cracked out, contorted movement, and speaks absurdist nonsense. All at the same time. No direction. Again, for someone who enjoys subtlety, this was excruciating. The performers, who are constantly mingling with (re: harassing) the audience seated on the studio floor, occasionally slammed into me and even threw some sort of styrofoam peanuts into my eyes. Awesome.
The only moments she manages to create anything noteworthy is when she tones it down with two duets between Ann Masina, the robust South African singer, and each Opéra ballet dancer. In these simple, beautiful duets, you are confronted with interesting poetic visuals about her native country. A video image of a shantytown lingers on the back scrim as lion-masked Wilfried Romoli dances a sinewy dance to Masina’s powerfully sweet soprano voice. In the other duet, the scantily-clad Yann Bridard lays draped over Masina’s lap, resembling a fascinating, interracial Pietà. They are dressed in Orlin’s typical colorful, playful costumes, as if a drag queen had stumbled around the stuffed animal section of F.A.O. Schwartz.
Unfortunately for the rest of the performance, you are enthusiastically herded (like Christ Camp) to different studios in the beautiful CND, undergoing constant yelling, blaring soccer fan horns, and a performance artist incessantly yacking into a megaphone. Hell, hell, and hell.
A megaphone is funny only if it’s not used two feet in front of your face.
I recently read a CND interview with Orlin in which she had some interesting things to say. She noted that at a performance she attended at the Théâtre de la Ville in central Paris, there was not one black person in the large audience, despite Paris’s diverse population. Even during Confit de Canard, she attempts interesting discourse (the Zulu dancers try to sell you things before the performance begins; the woman with the megaphone pokes fun at the foremothers of modern dance: St. Denis, Duncan and Graham; etc.), but it is all too frenetic and mismanaged to have any sense of weight.
During the final celebration in the building’s foyer, the audience watches from above as the performers party to generic techno music on the ground floor. As we stared down to the concrete floor three stories below, my friend turned to me and correctly added, “It would be a good moment to commit suicide.” Consider it a participatory gift to your performance, Robyn. And in one last Christ Camp gesture, the dancers gesticulate for you to come down and dance with them! I’m sorry, Robyn, I just can’t do it.
One Parisian revue called Robyn an “eccentric rebel,” while another article summed up her work with the title, “Complete Irritation.” As for me, Ms. Orlin, your performance made me want to shoot heroin. I hope you’re happy. It’s too bad you flew in all those lovely artists only to use them in a poorly directed, psychotic group improvisation. You mean well, but you end up just driving us to drink.
