For those coming to Kneehigh’s work late in the day and left, like me, wondering what all the fuss is about, The Red Shoes is a chance to change all that. It is the Kneehigh that you’d always imagined existed and hoped one day to see. This is Kneehigh before big budgets and West End residencies, before scale and spectacle, tricks and high-kicks. This is the Kneehigh that actually adheres to its own buzzwords, embracing chaos, generosity and naughtiness. Put simply, this is Kneehigh pure, playful and painful.
First seen in 2001, The Red Shoes takes Hans Christian Anderson’s fable for a high-speed spin. A careful-what-you-wish-for story about a girl (Patrycja Kujawska, impeccable) cursed to dance forever after wearing inappropriate footwear to church, The Red Shoes is laced with the harshness of reality. Exhausted and exasperated, she’s finally forced to cut off her feet. In the final image, as the company falls into line and sways in time, you realise where Kneehigh’s sensibilities lie. Without exception, their eyes are moist. “If only,” they seem to silently scream, “If only it were possible to dance forever.”
What makes The Red Shoes so delightful is its willingness to reach beyond its own charming aesthetic. It’s battered suitcases and peeling doors have since become old tropes of a poor travelling theatre rife with rustic charm. If we’ve come to expect only whimsy and melancholy of this aesthetic, Kneehigh refuse to be confined to the slightness and sepia-tinted nostalgia. They manage sex and coldness, ferocity and punch. At one point, the stage bursts with light and noise like an enflamed nerve. It’s built for purpose rather than mere aesthetic; rough and ready as opposed to poised. Kneehigh are prepared to get nasty: The Red Shoes can snarl as well as smile.
The five-strong ensemble wear white underwear. Their heads are shaved; their eyes are smoky. They look like cygnets passed over by Matthew Bourne. Each puts on a pair of clogs. Even the titular red shoes are clumpy and unclassy – a long way from Jimmy Choos. When they dance, they do so loudly and rapturously, losing themselves in the rhythm they create.
It’s folksy, but also rather modern. There’s an edge of punk about it. But there’s also delicacy. Individual moments and objects are handled with enormous care. There’s a sense of preparing for surgery or stripping an antique rifle. It’s a pleasure to see material handled with such reverence. That goes for Bill Mitchell’s design as well. His ‘chocolate and cream’ colour scheme is sumptuous but simple. The stage is a series of squares and frames that allow Emma Rice to handle certain moments almost like film. Peeping out of the church doors, half of the girl’s face is obscured. Other moments are framed by panels. At times, it has the same lingering serenity as Amelie.
That contrasts beautifully with its boisterous side. Mike Shepherd, in particular, launches into various absurd caricatures with gusto and aplomb. His stern vicar – all tweed and specs – is a particularly bombastic treat, but it’s as Justine, the shoddy sideshow performer that provides light relief, that he has us doubled up. He’s at his best when trapped in a sack, wriggling like a larva, in a failed escapology act.
It’s also worth saying how well The Red Shoes sits in the BAC’s main hall. When not serving as a black box, there’s a distressed music hall feel to the room that perfectly compliments Kneehigh’s style. Moreover, it’s a pleasure to have the arch windows behind the stage, increasingly glowing with streetlamps and buzzing with life. You can look across the road and see neighbours fiddling in their kitchens, oblivious to the madness to which we’re privy.
It’s a madness that I’ve not seen of Kneehigh before, though I’d heard tell, and it’s wickedly contagious. It’s almost enough to make you advocate their return to a shoestring.
Photograph: Steve Tanner
0 comments:
Post a Comment