Review: relay at the Cultch

By Kristi Alexandra
[culture editor]

Most modern art historians agree: the Dada movement was brilliant. Art for the sake of art. But for the rest of the population? We’re not sure we get it. And such was the case at the Cultch’s indie-dance production, relay.

The show, which ran from Jan. 25-29, started off like a suburban garage sale—used metal trinkets, dirty glasses and transistor radios were sprawled across an elongated table; attendees picking up items, scratching their heads, putting them down. Unbeknownst to the many that encircled the table, the show’s performers and choreographer had disguised themselves among the crowd.

It wasn’t until the key players had closed their eyes and pushed their way into the centre of the room to the table that the audience began to clue-in to the show’s theme: an experiment in sensing each other, working together, moving together. At least that’s what it seemed.

There was a unified sigh of relief when we were allowed to get to our seats in the theatre. Eight key dancers choreographed each other in a fusion of ambient noise and movement, while two characters consistently moved the cups and metal ornaments across the stage. The sonic interference made by the curios seemed to alter how the dancers interpreted their time on stage; when the music became more static, the performers writhed on the stage floor as if they were getting exorcisms and when the static mellowed, the dancers made lithe jumps and distending arm movements.

There was a brief moment mid-show when all eight dancers sat down at the table—previously being used as a jumping prop—which suggested that the show was either wrapping up or just beginning, as each player quizzed another on “what they were remembering when…”.

But alas, this didn’t last long and the performers were soon improvising actions to the ambient sounds of transistor radios. Confused audience members scanned the room for grimaces now and again, probably wondering if it were appropriate to laugh or if the expectation was to look serious and pensive. With another 20 or 30 minutes of this, the performance ended abruptly and the eight dancers snapped out of their hypnosis to bow to the crowd.

We’ve got to hand it to choreographer Ame Henderson on this one, as this interpretive presentation was a risky one—just like when Marcel Duchamp dared to call a urinal his own art. I’ll be the first to willingly admit—I just don’t get it.