Split Sides
Merce Cunningham Company, Barbican, London EC2
The Miraculous Mandarin
Sadler's Wells, London, EC1
'We are here to cast the die,' declares Merce Cunningham at each performance of Split Sides , the hit piece of his company's 50th anniversary celebrations. For the London premiere at the start of this year's Dance Umbrella, the dice were rolled by British luminaries including former arts minister Estelle Morris; Val Bourne, the Umbrella's director; and choreographers Siobhan Davies and Richard Alston.
As the title suggests, Split Sides was made in two halves, each of which can co-exist with one of two scores, backdrops, costumes and lighting plots. The combinations are determined by whether each die lands odd or even. It so happened that on the successive nights I went, Part A - the tough half - was accompanied by a scratchy sampled score from Radiohead; Part B - the easy-on-the-eye one - had luscious music by the Icelandic group Sigur Ros. So both times we came away delighted, especially since the nicest costumes - the black-and-white bodytights - were worn on both occasions for lovely Part B.
Had the order been different, I doubt we would have left half as satisfied. But that's the chance Cunningham takes. He wants audiences to consider how we impose meaning on random coincidences in art, as in life. It doesn't matter to him or the dancers whether a duet takes place to the chimes of a music box (Sigur Ros) or a recording stuck in a groove (Radiohead). Yet our perception of that duet as tense or tender is bound to be affected by its context, which could come in any number of permutations.
My dual experience of Split Sides was further influenced by where I sat, what mood I was in, how the people around me reacted. What I saw in Part A was impersonal choreography, hard to assimilate for dancers and audience alike. What I heard were snatches of a religious broadcast, electronically distorted, so I was tempted to read the unison ensembles as a congregation struggling to co- ordinate their impulses. The soundscape, though not as maddening as some of Cunningham's earlier collaborations, can't, surely, have entranced even Radiohead fans. It's not destined to be a bestselling album.
After 20 minutes came a change of set, costumes and sounds. Some of Sigur Ros's invented instruments were played live by three musicians in the pit, including a marimba made of miked toe shoes. Score and choreography now seemed hand-crafted instead of computer-driven. Part B is basically danced in pairs, playful and intimate. Partnering is solicitous, sometimes comic: a woman upended like a skittle, another hanging on to her foot as she is escorted away.
There's a central duet, as in Part A, but here the couple appear comfortable with each other, their interactions less contrived. And the male solo that mirrors the woman's one in Part A is more arresting, especially as performed by Jonah Bokaer. Fortuitously, the dice decided both times that Part B should end with the dancers in silhouette as the music boxes ran sweetly down - chance was indeed a fine thing.
The company now goes on tour to six cities, performing different choreography in each venue ( Split Side s was unique to London). A new piece, to be called Views On Stage , is being assembled en route, to be given its world premiere in Edinburgh on 29 October. At 85, Cunningham is still adept at surprising himself and amazing us.
As part of the Magyar Magic festival, the Hungarian National Opera and Ballet company brought its vintage staging of Bartók's only opera, Bluebeard's Castle , and his ballet, The Miraculous Mandarin , in the 1945 version by Gyula Harangozó. Bluebeard's last wife believes naively that love conquers all, the ballet declares that lust is the true life force. The Mandarin's obsessive desire overrides murder at the hands of three thugs until the prostitute finally assuages it and lets the monster die.
Harangozó's collaboration with Bartók is strong enough to survive the years, and Katalin Hagai does full justice to the working girl's realisation of what she and the Mandarin must undergo. A strange, intractable story and score, it presents a continuing challenge to its interpreters.
