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It might be hard to imagine that a performance piece about a rare 16th century plague could be spontaneous and fun, but Nicholas MacArthur and Robert Vaughan pull it off with gusto.
“In July 1518 a woman named Frau Troffea, began to dance obsessively in a street in Strasbourg. Her relentless dance lasted for six days. Within that time 34 others had joined her and within a month, there were around 400 dancers. Many of these people eventually died from heart attacks, strokes, or exhaustion. It is not known why these people danced to their deaths, nor is it clear that they were dancing wilfully… “[1]
On a December night, in a street outside Primary’s newest event space, Reactor Halls, two men in their 20s, faces and bodies painted with grime, wearing filthy peasant’s clothes, stand facing each other in the middle of the road, amidst a circle of expectant spectators. The audience does not know it, but they are about witness a re-enactment this mysterious aforementioned phenomenon. After a brief wait while they resolve “technical difficulties”, an amp (attached to a child’s buggy with gaffer tape and twigs) bursts into life. At the same time, the pair raise their hands, shouting in unison:
“WE ARE THE DANCING PLAGUE 1508 AND NOW IS THE MOMENT OF OUR SALVATION!”
The next 15 minutes pass in a blur of limbs, laughter, and body paint, as the pair writhe, wriggle and lurch through a variety of pounding music (Techno, Justice, The Human League). The dance itself is preceded by a short introduction, during which the two performers, already in character, explain that the same plague which struck down Frau Troffea has laid dormant inside them for hundreds of years, and invite us to join them. To the plague bearers, it is not their disease but the “routine of our everyday lives” during which they must supress their infections that is the true source of their pain and “debasement”.
Floodlights pouring from the windows of Reactor light the pair, and mark an area of the street as the performance area. The scene is almost apocalyptic: two survivors in deteriorating condition, battling it out on a freezing night under the lamp light. It seems unclear if they have any degree of control over their flailing, stamping, shaking and raving, and as suggested in their introductory speech, we are left questioning whether these characters are really enjoying themselves. Sometimes their movements more closely resemble seizures than choreographed dance. They commit to the dance completely, clinging to one other with an exhaustion which must be genuine, before lashing out again with furious energy. “We’re still alive!” picking themselves up the floor, and yet their tone is hard to pinpoint: are they triumphant, or despairing? Do they wish to be released from the dance? Or perhaps, in their continuing to live, they are failing their beloved Frau Troffea, who the characters have elevated to a near saintly status?
Throughout all this they move with the kind of unselfconscious abandon usually reserved for the privacy of bedroom dancing or drug taking. They’re shameless. It’s great. It lends the whole scene an intimacy which seems out of place in a large group of relative strangers on a street at night. More than twice I find myself looking around to see if anyone else is keen enough to want to join in. Some are rooted to the spot, while others bob up and down enthusiastically. Sadly, despite the crowd’s obvious enjoyment, it seems spontaneous group participation is not an option this evening.
However, the plague bearers seem unafraid of a little audience interaction as they career blindly in and out of the crowd, grabbing at our arms, holding on for support, reaching out desperate grubby hands. Some respond by retreat politely, while others hug them. Cheering and giggling at every opportunity, and there are many, the mood amongst the crowd fluctuates between whole-hearted encouragement and that awkward, shifty amusement typical of an audience who has left the safe confines of a conventional theatrical performance, and are left unsure what to do with themselves.
The hesitant approach of cars, which threaten to rudely interrupt the fantasy being played out, are tackled with perfect comedy timing as the duo step aside to let aside the confused drivers, staring them down with bemused, watchful eyes. There is an equally hilarious and peculiarly intimate moment between the two as they stand toe-to-toe, eyes locked, passionately mouthing along the words to ‘Seconds’ by the Human League. Cleaning products are also incorporated into the chaos – sprayed and smattered in patterns about the street, like some modern re-enactment of a cleansing ritual gone horribly awry. Finally they collapse, and the music dies out. From the ground, one of the performers mumbles “Right. That’s it.”, and with that, the show is over. After much whooping and applause, the crowd huddles inside for hot punch and music.
If you were to happen across this performance in the street, you would seem to be witnessing a raucous medieval dance show-down – and though highly entertaining and frequently funny, you might miss the complex network of associations the piece draws on, as laid out in the introductory speech. The final section of that speech puts the performance in a broader context of capitalism, declaring: “We are products of a world that champions consumption and the fulfilment of individuals desire over human virtue, and so we will end with a testimonial to this ideology… by consuming our self, in the best way we know how, though total complicity to our disease and we invite all of you to get infected. Join us…” In between the giddy glee of the dance, we glimpse a darker side of the dance, noting the overlaps between trance states, ecstatic religious worship, rave culture, losing control, losing inhibitions, and perhaps losing grip on sanity.
As part of the ‘inaugural event’ for Reactors new art space, I think Reactor Halls is off to a bloody good start.
More like this soon, please?
(Documentation can be found at: http://www.nicholasmcarthur.com/)
