Love Songs
The current craze to create multimedia work usually results in ambitious jumblings of art forms onstage. That “anything goes” aesthetic used to be the bailiwick of performance art, but dance-theater is perhaps the most inclusive genre these days. It’s not uncommon to find video, sculpture, opera, storytelling, tableaux vivants, and plain old acted scenes tossed in with pure dance in unusual, often arresting combinations. In the hands of a genius like Pina Bausch, the “bastardization” of dance can bring about aesthetic revelations bordering on the sublime. With a lesser artist like Bill T. Jones, you get a lot of flash but not much substance.
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A stunning five-minute duet near the end of the first act shows just how powerful Rousseve’s work can be when he forgoes embellishment and strips the work down to its physical essence. The duet begins as a woman (Julie Tolentino Wood) coos tenderly to her supine, immobile lover (Ilaan Egeland), asking for a cuddle, a kiss, a glance, anything. It seems that she’s asleep, so Wood tries to rouse her by offering a present–a red, fringed “dancing dress.” Egeland doesn’t so much as twitch, so Wood stuffs her into the dress. Still she lies inert, so Wood manipulates her mouth like a ventriloquist’s dummy, making her express her undying love. Growing more desperate, Wood leaps to her feet and begins tearing through a series of wild dances, which she insists are Egeland’s favorites. As she spins, leaps, and gyrates, she repeatedly invites Egeland to join her, but finally she has to haul her up off the floor herself. Wood tries to dance with her, but she’s as unwieldy as a sack of rocks. Quickly overwhelmed by fatigue and frustration, Wood allows Egeland’s body to slide down her own and land on the floor in a vulgar pile. It’s all she can do to drag Egeland offstage–and keep herself from bursting into sobs.
Spelling everything out, Rousseve rarely gives his audience a chance to wonder, puzzle, or ponder. But then he’s not particularly interested in ambiguity. His aim is simpler: to tell tragicomic love stories in a grandly naive style. In truth, however, he tells only one complete story–that of slaves Sarah and John living under a brutal master who prohibits love among his chattel. The couple do their best to hide their affair, but the master discovers Sarah’s pregnancy, then rapes her and disfigures her face with a hunting knife. Sarah and John try to escape, ending up atop a high cliff as the master’s hounds–two enormous, grotesque puppets–bear down on them. And that’s just act one.
Conceivably this approach might have worked, but the story of Sarah and John would still be mired in stereotypes. The slaves are icons of valor and pity while the master is evil incarnate–it’s not enough that he rape and disfigure Sarah, he has to smile diabolically when he’s finished. Like most of the scenes in Love Songs, this one makes it obvious where our sympathies should lie. No matter how many aesthetic surprises Rousseve throws at us, he leaves our moral expectations largely unchallenged. If only love were so simple.
