Parametres of a good dance
Review of Kumbi Kathawa:
I've always loved dancing. I've spent whole afternoons as a kid
running around the garden in a leotard, hoping this exercise would
magically turn me into a ballerina. I've grown up watching ballets both
on stages around the world and on my parents' beat up VCR. Dance movies
from 'The Dancing Princesses' to 'Dirty Dancing' to 'Step Up' have kept
me enthralled and not just a little green with envy.
Because, when you think about it, what's not to love about dancing?
The bodies are lithe and beautiful but muscles pulse and flex beneath
smooth skin. The movements are so graceful but also so steady and
strong. The expressions speak volumes but no words are uttered.
Involuntary echo
A scene from Kumbi Kathawa. Picture by Alefiya Akbarally |
Admittedly I'm no expert when it comes to dance, least of all Kandyan
dancing. But I am a firm believer that one of the most important
functions of any art is to provoke an immediate reaction. So I don't
need to analyse every step to figure out if it's a good dance or not. My
measures are a little different; a little more visceral. I know it's a
good dance when my own body twists discreetly in my seat, in an
involuntary echo of what's happening onstage. I know it's a good dance
when I am almost afraid to blink for fear of missing a single movement,
a single loaded glance. I know it's a good dance when I am too wrapped
up in the action to even clap when the stage vanishes into inky
darkness. (In fact, I was only shaken out of my reverie when I heard a
little voice behind me indignantly say "Ammi mata mukuth penne ne" (Mum,
I can't see anything!). I had to laugh.)
The story is a simple one - almost infantile in its fable-like moral
of forgiveness and harmonious coexistence - but it was executed in an
hour of such flawless rhythm, such colourful movement and animated
expression, that it did not seem cliché at all.
One thing that really struck me was that from the youngest
participant to the oldest, I didn't see even one out of character, even
for a minute. And this is saying something, because one could tell that
the expressions of each individual were as carefully choreographed as
the dancing itself.
Believable expressions
Every character was perfectly in sync with the other, not only in
terms of choreography but also in terms of how they interacted with each
other in each scene.
And though I used the word 'choreographed' earlier, their expressions
were truly believable. Happiness was unadulterated celebration. Pain was
real, tangible pain.
In spite of an admirable cast of all different ages, the star of the
performance was very clearly the villainous mosquito, played by Thaji.
She had a multi faceted role in the performance, beginning the evening
with an exquisitely graceful solo piece signifying rebirth, but her role
in the narrative was what where she really shone. I have rarely seen
such beautifully dramatic expressions, even in theatre. She danced in
such a way that she very quickly ceased to be human.
She became totally the creature she was meant to play: callous,
selfish, wicked, dystopic, but alluringly beautiful nevertheless.
The choreography also has to be given special mention, especially
with this character: the movements were almost an antithesis to dance:
jerky and contorting, conveying the personality of the creature
perfectly. The costumes transformed the stage into one that was always
splashed with a palette of bright colours. Ants trundled along in
vibrant orange, grasshoppers pranced about in bright green, drummer
beetles thundered past in flamboyant red and butterflies flitted around
silkily in purple and gold. As far as stage costumes went they were
lavish and stylish - my personal favourite was the mosquito's rag-tag
mix of greys and blacks and also the seemingly star-spangled cloaks worn
by the water nymphs.
Suppressed a giggle
Everything about my experience of this performance was immediate: I
took a sharp inward breath as I heard the haunting opening music, I
tapped along to the bouncing rhythm of the ants dance, I jumped when the
mosquito lunged threateningly to chase them away, I smiled at the pint
sized fireflies as they hopped skipped and jumped their way across the
stage, I suppressed a giggle at the massive teapot and tea cups - all
individual characters on their own - and most of all, when the final
curtain swung closed, I felt rather deflated, and quite sorry it was
over.
So in the end, I found that the best measure of the evening - that,
like a child whose favourite bedtime story had come to an end, I wanted
to start over and watch it once again.
Tarika Wickremeratne |