Devised in 2017, Autobiography is supposedly based on Wayne McGregor’s genetic code. Divided into 23 segments, each performance unrolls in a different order. But talking about genomes and sequenced chunks makes the project seem oblique, mechanistic. In fact, the work is highly accessible – probably why it’s already enjoying its second revival. Autobiography is not just the story of one man, but a heady digestion of all postwar dance and movement trends, from Jane Fonda gym culture to experimental performance art.
The scenes the 10 dancers act out are universal, even obvious ones about competition and cooperation, trying and failing, accord and conflict. There are lovers’ quarrels, rehearsal-room jockeying, tortured ambitions, even abusive relationships. Different interpretations of similar moves flex through each combination: a stretch turns into an arabesque en attitude, which turns into an extended yoga hold, an acrobatic contortion and a streety, swaggering squat, before loosening off in a quick run. Sports moves are infused with earthy allure, while classical notations blend into clubland shapes and circus finesse. Dancers imitate a Regency assembly room dance, then pile up like the world’s most elegant game of Twister. Sometimes the expression is sincere, at other times – as when a Swan Lake-like swoop turns into a preening display – it is satirical.
The dark classiness of Trinity Laban’s performance venue suits this rigorous work, boosted immeasurably by Lucy Carter’s lighting design, in which a grid of tube lights snaps like a nightclub strobe, glows ochre like urban street lamps at midnight, or l owers into flashing points like an obstacle course from The Crystal Maze, under which dancers scramble and slither. The music, by Jlin, is equally effective, ranging from sexily menacing electronic clunking to hazy summer barbecue vibes to industrial static.
Not that there aren’t down-dips and longueurs. McGregor suits velocity and full-body, overt expression rather than fiddly fussiness or statuesque slow motion. The energy went stone-cold flat when the dancers decelerated. But that was just for a few minutes, and overall this is a riveting, energising work.
Julie Cunningham’s fire bird is a new piece commissioned by the Yard for their month-long Now 20 festival of theatre and performance. Danced to Stravinsky’s classic 1910 score, The Firebird, it is a gem of wit, self-awareness and wonder. Clad in fur epaulettes and fur-trimmed white breeches, with a softly ruffled mohawk, Cunningham appears part matador, part turkey. Navigating a raw performance space strung with red cord, the story is one of twitchy emergence and discovery, in which fine sophistication and self-mockery are in perpetual conversation.
Cunningham is an exceptional performer: angular, expressive, brittle and quick, with sharp elbows. Wonderful hinged, hitching movements are performed with nervy comic intensity on a taped-down plastic dance surface in the Yard’s raw, brick, plywood and concrete space. A projected video interjection by queer music legend JD Samson, burbling along nonsensically to the Stravinsky, is great fun but detracts from Cunningham’s own star turn. Watching fire bird, I felt that a new dance and choreographic star was born. Or rather, hatched.
Star ratings (out of five)
Autobiography ★★★★
fire bird ★★★
