To me, Christmas is a time of family traditions. Every household has their own way of marking the festive period with an annual routine of parties, food and celebratory habits. For longer than I can remember, The Snowman has been a pivotal part of our family’s Christmas. It’s almost obligatory for us to watch it, and although my parents no longer have to rewind the tape after the boy’s beloved frosty friend melts, (and as a result, breaks his and my sister’s hearts), I had to see the theatre interpretation of this Raymond Briggs classic. And seeing as this year marks 14 consecutive winter seasons of The Birmingham Repertory Theatre production at the Peacock Theatre, how had I not been before?

Although this version stays fairly true to the original, a few additions have found their way into the plot. The Snowman is still given a grand tour of James’ house with many humorous results; a melting hand and cross-dressing snowman raised more than a few laughs from the children (and big kids) in the audience. The movement for the first half was largely mimetic and despite being a great build up to the famous first flight (and accompanying theme tune), it was definitely slightly longer than necessary.

The biggest twist in the tale comes in the second half of the show. It’s clear from the onset that this snowman has far more attitude and is a bit more refined than in the film, but this becomes even more apparent in the party scene with other hugely characterised snowmen and of course, Father Christmas. Folk-inspired social dances and ballet are used as a backdrop to flirtations with an Ice Princess and a battle to keep ‘baddie’ Jack Frost at bay. All members of the cast shone in this section, exaggerating their characters and slapstick routines to great comedic avail, before reaching the sad realisation that no frozen companion can last forever…… or at least until the next snowfall.

This show absolutely epitomises festive cheer. From the cartoonised set to prancing reindeers and fake snow, any child will be in awe of the spectacle of it all. And maybe for anyone wishing to alter their Christmas traditions, The Snowman could make for a great panto alternative.
 

If Heston Blumenthal made theatrical work, it probably wouldn’t be too different to UNDANCE (although probably lacking in the same skill and detail that this programme exhibited.) In this brand new collaboration between Mark-Anthony Turnage, Wayne McGregor and Mark Wallinger, technology and the arts were combined in a dance/music experiment that provided some stunning results.


For the first half of this programme, audience members donned 3D glasses for the operatic Twice Through the Heart which used text by Jackie Kay and was composed by Mark-Anthony Turnage. This piece follows the story of a woman who kills her husband with a kitchen knife whilst defending herself against his physical and mental abuse. However, she fails to say this in court, so is given a very long prison sentence. Mezzo-soprano Sarah Connolly tells of her very bleak future in everyday language whilst 3D projections float around her. They differ between clear images of her previous life and blurring, illegible shapes as if to suggest that any hope of reclaiming her former existence is slowly turning to dust and then clinging residually to her cell walls. These holograms completely put a barrier between her and the audience, making this solitary figure look even more trapped and helpless. Directed by McGregor, this performance was beautifully executed and not over-dramatised.


Tracing back the line of inspiration for UNDANCE, a shiny new multimedia-full collaboration, we’re brought to Mark Wallinger who produced text based on sculptor Richard Serra’s Verb List and the work of photographer Eadweard J. Muybridge. These were given to Mark-Anthony Turnage to create the score, which in turn, provided a scenario for Wayne McGregor to choreograph from. Phew!


The piece starts with the dancers lined up across the stage (and a screen showing a Muybridge-inspired grid which has been known to aid artists’ desire for verisimilitude). Pre-recorded versions of them either pre-empt the section of movement we’re about to see or join in shortly after the live onstage dancers.


The dancers use deliberate and considered movement, placing a partner or a limb nearer or further away, winding towards or away from someone or something. Accumulated duets and trios performed at the same time that reflected short variants of each other’s material made the ensemble look like a large organism of bodies. Although this huge array of movement was performed twice (including the screen version) at different times, you never felt as if it was too much to watch, and was actually completely coherent; you could either take everything in at once or naturally fix your gaze on a specific area.


This collaboration clearly influenced the choreographic results. There were still hints of McGregor’s trademark, what I believe to be, hyper-extended and slightly birdlike movement, yet with a different, more pedestrian quality. Happily, you’re still given a chance to see the type of movement that you want to watch dancers of this calibre perform. I’d gladly watch Random dancers tackle the simplest of movement, just to see how they did it. Luckily for us (and them), McGregor is still throwing exciting material at his company.

 

Religion is a subject that many choreographers and artists might choose to stay away from. However, in reference to Tabernacle which explores authority and control through the Irish Catholic Church, Fearghus O’Conchuir states that he does not wish to speak for others, or draw on experiences that are not his. Using his own knowledge of the Catholic Church as well as ideas exchanged through open rehearsals across Ireland, O’Conchuir tries to question issues surrounding the church, whilst recognising that his physicality is not just a product of the dance studio, but imprints from his cultural background also.


Using a completely stripped-back, blank canvas of a stage (and some wooden crate-like benches), the dancers dissolved any notion that the audience were a separate entity to them; whether that was through sitting amongst us or talking directly to us. They dipped in and out of free-flowing , upward-focussed movement or jolty and erratic phrases and combined them with unmistakable religious references made throughout the piece; it was often quite clear that the dancers were recreating ancient paintings of biblical stories. Various choreographic additions which probably wouldn’t shock a seasoned contemporary dance viewer also featured in this work, including nudity and spitting on the set, which I’m not entirely convinced were necessary. The most engaging parts of this piece for me were the times the dancers weaved and clung their way around each other and the benches, yet managed to still travel without us really noticing until they’d reached their destination. It was during these moments that I felt the dancers looked like marooned ship wrecks. This was set off by Irish music which was equally as haunting as it was pretty.


You could not describe Tabernacle as entertainment, which I’m sure is entirely what it was not supposed to be. Although there are dark undercurrents to this piece, I found it left me feeling quite uplifted as the dancers resembled a network of support to one another, as well as a means of survival. Although some sections of the movement vocabulary far outshone others, this piece definitely caused the audience to think about its intention without being too explicit about what it was trying to say or what we should be left thinking.
 

As I watched Shaun Parker’s dancers bounce, gyrate, swing and skate around a stage set with a giant, revolving chalk board and balloon arch, my mind strayed to a little quirk of mine which has stayed with me since childhood. When I’m stressed, excited, or just need warming up, I rub my hands together really quickly. It’s a little habit that has often been met with confusion, but it feels good. Although the dancers did not literally take on my bizarre trait, they too seemed to perform outlandish movement, just because they liked it. Throw in some hip hop, contemporary and ballet, and there you have Happy as Larry, a choreographic exploration of the nature of happiness.

This piece drew inspiration from the Enneagram, with characters developed from this psychological system which maps nine personality types. I spent a large proportion of the performance trying to determine which of the dancers were supposed to portray which type (and judging by the flurries of whispers from surrounding seats, so were fellow audience members). Reflecting this range of personalities with an assortment of styles made perfect sense and worked well within the piece. Parker put his own twist on each genre, putting an emotion and scenario behind each one and thus, seamlessly avoiding any disjointed transitions.

Phrases of stilted, gestural movement were also scattered amongst numerous solos and duets. At various points in this piece I started to feel that I’d seen this material too much, until the dancers took an unexpected turn out of it: the giant chalk board did well to maintain the pace of this piece, whether a head was emerging from it, or it was being rotated to unveil a new section.

All in all, Happy as Larry was absolutely not as I expected. Despite the dancers’ excellent comedic timing and outbursts of mock disco dancing, this piece was, above all, thought-provoking and at times, sombre. I’m still undecided as to whether this was a stroke of genius, or if I would have preferred this piece about happiness to be a tad more uplifting.