Schönheitsabend, Northern Ballet

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Originally written for Exeunt.

Schönheitsabend roughly translates as “a beautiful evening”. A subtitle might be “make of that what you will”.

Beauty is just one of the ideas that is challenged and subverted and thoroughly pummelled by choreographer-performers Florentina Holzinger and Vincent Riebeek over the course of this show. The pair’s performances have a certain infamy in continental Europe, and it’s easy to see why. The warning note tacked to the door at Northern Ballet is already a catalogue of provocation, promising audiences nudity and scenes of a sexually explicit nature.

And the framing of the piece itself continues this arch dialogue with impropriety and expectation. At the start, Live Art Bistro’s Adam Young steps on stage, clipboard gripped between his hands. He is, he tells us, responsible for the venue this evening, a statement met with a flurry of nervous laughs. Just before walking in, a fellow audience member has joked that he expects the evening to end in some sort of orgy (cue more nervous laughter). This is exactly the kind of anticipation that Holzinger and Riebeek playfully stoke, wrapping their performance in both brash sensationalism and institutional concern. “You are about to see something outrageous,” they implicitly say.

The clipboard-clutching Young introduces each of Schönheitsabend’s three parts, carefully establishing expectations and acknowledging conventions. We are asked, for instance, to respect the artists, and told that what we are about to witness in one segment is an unrepeatable live experiment. The language is distinctly that of live art, the tone firmly tongue-in-cheek. In riffing on art-world discourses of seriousness, Holzinger and Riebeek never take themselves too seriously.

Each of the three parts, labelled as dances of vice, horror and ecstasy, leaps off from avant-garde dance tradition and injects this with some of the recognisable tropes of performance art. In part one, the 1910 ballet Shéhérazade gets added pole-dancing and strap-ons. In part two, hubristic myths of artistic inspiration meet an aesthetic of failure and embarrassment. And in part three, Holzinger and Riebeek fully embrace absurdity and fantasy, completing the performance’s gleeful descent into dreamlike incomprehensibility (complete with antlers, strobe lights and bondage).

The experience as a whole is disorientating and hallucinatory, a collection of images as vivid and strange and disturbing as half-remembered snatches of dreams. Looking back on it from the vantage point of a few days later, it feels like a dream itself. Did I really see that? Surely that didn’t happen on stage?

Reflecting on it now, I wonder how much Holzinger and Riebeek are toying with our fetishizing preconceptions of “European theatre”. I remember my first trip to Berlin, and the friend who nervously asked me if the theatre I was dragging him to was going to be all nudity and animal heads (I’d told him about Three Kingdoms). Schönheitsabend might as well be a caricature of everything that particular friend dreaded – with even more sex and silliness and spectacle.

Expectations, of whatever kind, are definitely important here. I’m no ballet expert, but the first part of the show is definitely the closest to what most people probably think of when they hear the word ‘dance’. Without knowing Shéhérazade, I could guess that Holzinger and Riebeek were to some extent imitating it. I was waiting, then, for these balletic moves to fall away and for something more contemporary and more bonkers to take its place. Knowing this, Holzinger and Riebeek stretch out that tense expectancy, constantly teasing us. This says something, at the same time, about what we expect from art of whatever kind.

The role of expectation is even more prominent in the second part of the evening, which unravels anticipation into an entire act. Primed by Young’s slightly ominous introduction, and by the outrageousness of what we’ve already witnessed, the breath of the audience is collectively held while Riebeek takes up his position on a chair centre stage. What is he going to do? The answer is, well, not a lot. Instead, we’re once again teased, while Holzinger and Riebeek also play around hilariously with their prickly dynamic as a pair – a sharp contrast to the choreographed eroticism of the previous scenes. By the unrestrainedly bizarre third part, then, the frame has shifted.

A further frame for the piece is the festival in which it appears. Transform this year is a teaser or, as it has styled itself, a trailblazer. The work it is showing is intended to offer a flavour of what the festival will be once it has fully expanded into a city-wide, international event next year. And as statements of intent go, Schönheitsabend is pretty fucking audacious.

The impact of that statement, however, is another question. If anyone had asked me, as I stumbled out of Northern Ballet, whether I liked what I had just seen, I’m not sure I could have answered them. As it turned out, everyone else was in their own personal daze, whether of disgust or awe or a bit of both. The show still leaves me in a bit of a daze when I try to think about it now. Giving a simple thumbs up or thumbs down seems both impossible and somehow inappropriate.

A beautiful evening? Perhaps not in any conventional way, but then that’s emphatically not the point.

Wanted, West Yorkshire Playhouse


What do you want to see on stage?

That’s the question that Chris Goode and Company asked the people of Leeds. And it seems like an apt question to kick off a weekend of looking ahead to the new, expanded incarnation of Transform, a reimagined theatre festival for the city. Transform will take its official first steps as an independent, international festival next year; over two days on 22nd-23rd April, it offered a taster of what’s to come. What better way to anticipate and develop a city-wide festival than to ask the people of that city what they actually want to see?

I was, then, immediately on board with the premise and intentions of Wanted. As invitations go, it’s full of possibility. Scrap that: it’s defined by possibility. The only limits, in theory, are the imaginations of participants and the resources of the festival. So I stepped into West Yorkshire Playhouse on the Friday night of Transform expecting to see gloriously wonky, DIY attempts to make people’s wildest dreams come true on stage. I had images in my head of papier-mâché dragons and confetti cannons and a riot of movement and colour. I was expecting, above all, something theatrical.

But what Wanted really seemed to ask (or what its participants seemed to answer) was a different question: what do you want to do/say on stage?

Though the individual three-minute segments were hugely varied, a pattern of statements emerged. Intriguingly – and somewhat surprisingly in the moment, if not so much on reflection – most of the people and organisations with whom Chris Goode and Company made the show treated this opportunity as a platform. The stage became a vehicle for causes, passions and beliefs, from world peace to the Yorkshire dialect. Wanted thus felt, in many ways, like a not-so-distant cousin of Stand, another Chris Goode and Company show about the idea of standing up for what you believe in.

So we in the audience are asked to check our privilege. We are told about the plight of Kurds in the Middle East. We learn about the work of local charities and community groups. We are urged to respect difference. Voices are given to young people with learning disabilities, to the LGBTQ community, to survivors of abuse and oppression. The theatre feels like a political chamber and the stage finally seems to boast that democracy that it so often aspires to.

Except, of course, it’s not entirely democratic. What we see in front of us has still been chosen, curated, squeezed into snug three-minute slots. It makes me want to know more about the process. How did Chris Goode and Company go about extending this invitation? Who else did they speak to? How did they decide who to include and exclude?

Then there’s the limit of those three minutes, another element (if an understandable one) of control on the part of the “professional” theatre-makers. How much can you really say or do or show in three minutes? How do you choose to use that time? And to what extent does that restriction impel or restrain the voices and creativity of those involved?

Before I misrepresent the experience, it’s not all preaching and protesting. There’s also a toddler being swung round in the air (and my God does it look fun) and a rabbit (with a case of stage fright on the night I attend) hopping around to the strains of “Bright Eyes”. There’s a woman gently, humorously remembering her trips with her late mother to the very theatre we’re sat in. There’s a David Bowie impersonator singing “Heroes”. There are kids dancing in superhero costumes. And it’s all as heart-melting and grin-making as it sounds.

But the most interesting thing about Wanted is, ultimately, the invitation issued to its participants and how they have chosen to interpret it. Does that make it any better or worse as theatre than the loveably over-ambitious, confetti-strewn extravaganza I’d constructed in my imagination? I still can’t decide.

I’ll close, instead, with some words from Chris Goode’s new book The Forest and the Field that feel particularly apt when thinking about Wanted. This passage seems, to me, to convey some of the thinking and feeling that feeds into Wanted, if not necessarily (again, for me) reflecting the reality of it as an experience. Maybe Wanted is best thought of as one inevitably flawed articulation of this understanding of theatre – one of the “pieces”, to borrow Goode’s words from elsewhere, that nod towards a whole.

“[…] at its best, you can live inside theatre, in the way that you might feel that you live inside a set of political or religious commitments: the feeling that you don’t contain such commitments – they contain you. Thus theatre becomes a way of looking at the world, a way of forming and deepening relationships, a way of connecting the intellectual and the romantic, the political and the sexual, the individual and the collective, the civic and the visionary, the present and the future. To borrow what the poet Roy Fisher said (of Birmingham): theatre’s what I think with. Seen always as a hybrid art and a social practice, theatre will expand to accommodate whatever you bring to it; everything can be taken to the work, nothing is necessarily excluded.”