by Leigh Witchel
[Author’s note – due to subway mishaps, I missed the short first piece, “Handgame,” in this program, which is why writing this dropped so far down in the pile. But the other two pieces were worth writing on for the record.]
The paint hadn’t quite dried on one of the two new works Black Grace brought from New Zealand to The Joyce Theater. But the other was fully and distinctively drawn. Founded in 1995 by choreographer, Neil Ieremia, Black Grace draws from the mix of cultures – indigenous and immigrant – that are Ieremia’s heritage.
Ieremia is an engaging raconteur. In his talk preceding the new works, he explained that “Fatu,” (“Heart” in Samoan), was inspired by an artwork of Fatu Akelei Feu’u, a preeminent native artist in New Zealand and the dancer in gold, Demi-Jo Manolo, represented one of the high-ranked leaders in Samoan society, the “talking chief.” Rodney Tyrell in red represented another leading figure, the sacred chief, and James Wasmer, in white, Christianity. However, those meanings were reverse engineered. As he joked, he had already finished the piece.
“Fatu” used both recorded music by Te Vaka and live percussion by Isetolo Alesana. The first part was set for three dancers. Manalo, wearing gold as a dress with long flaps, raced about, swiping the air and kicking as if in combat. She tumbled to the ground as the music stopped, then walked off.
Tyrell and Wasmer entered, Wasmer clapping backwards on a diagonal as Tyrell moved forwards. For all three dancers, the movement was energetic and acrobatic. Manalo sprinted in and leapt into the men, then got tossed as if she were in a mosh pit. The three continued their vigorous dancing either in unison or moving a count off one another, still marching as the lights went down.
In the darkness there was a voice: “I’m an artist and that’s my duty, to tell the truth about life.” There was singing in Samoan by a trio and Alesana in beautiful, almost barbershop harmony. The men wore white shirts and gray wraps below knee length, recalling both traditional garments and schoolboys’ uniforms.
The dancers reappeared, having changed to black wrap outfits, mixing their acrobatic moves with the occasional ballet step or assemblé. Ieremia joked in his talk that the piece was only recently finished, and it didn’t look like the final draft. The contemporary vocabulary, much of it rolling and leaping, didn’t yet seem distinctive.
“Fatu” had resonant moments where your mind made connections; during the singing, to the residential schools in both the United States and Canada. But it also looked like how one might stage any indigenous dance through a contemporary lens. The singers and dancers slowly crossed as the lights dimmed.
“O Le Olaga – Life” was also a new work, made by Ieremia in honor of his parents to perhaps the last score you’d expect: Vivaldi’s “Gloria.” Using liturgical music is almost always risky business, but the risks paid off.
The piece began in silhouette and in silence. Aisea Latu is very tall and his shock of curled hair made him even taller. He sang, “Malu A’E le Afiafi,” a love song made a hit by the 1970s Samoan band, The Five Stars. But he kept breaking off in disappointment and restarting, until a segue to the actual recording. Latu exited and in a scene reminiscent of Robbins’ “The Concert,” dragged or carried in the other dancers, in loose silkscreened costumes, one by one and adjusted them into a ridiculously ideal domestic tableau. Pleased with his work, and singing along with the recording, he polished, giving one man a thumbs up, and a woman a bright grin.
The work drifted into a contemporary treatment of the score, with familiar elements used well: lifts, diagonals, entrances and exits, tumbling and falling. Then things went their own way, a way that wasn’t generic. The cast began to stomp and scream, doing a Polynesian ceremonial haka, only to Vivaldi. You could see a dancer mouthing the words as he moved: “Gloria in excelsis Deo.”
A very tall woman, Kura Te Ua, came out with a Polynesian poi ball on a string that she rebounded in a traditional form, but the ball had been dipped in powder so it seemed to smoke like a censer. At the same time someone offstage was shouting in Māori or Samoan. A man came out with a taiaha, the traditional lance, posturing, crouching and shouting. Words were occasionally recognizable: “Gloria” “Manhattan.” Those striking mashups made the piece.
An older man, Tuaine-Nurse Tamarua Robati, came in with a younger man shadowing him, who shimmied his knees to the Vivaldi. It was almost a Charleston. With a quartet of men, Te Uwa did another ceremonial haka while at the sides two women swooped and rolled. Jasmine Leota, whose delicate arm movements contrasted with her majestic figure, marched slowly but joyously across the back.
The Domine Fili turned into hellzapoppin’. Manalo danced with four men in shadow, but soon everyone was onstage as she got chucked around. Ieremia used Manalo like a Paul Taylor “runt,” but even more so: she was getting tossed wildly.
Four men in a crouch sang in unison, then after a dance episode, the Vivaldi started up again with the Agnus Dei, staged for three couples, with the men collapsing, and women righting them. “O Le Olaga” was a long ambitious work, and this was the moment in the middle that sagged, with ideas that were less striking. Right after, the women led the men out, then Latu entered to sing and break off in disappointment as he did at the beginning. Was that a statement that nothing had changed?
The loose spot was brief. Others walked in slowly carrying a tall, thin stick in each hand. They surrounded Latu and used the sticks to create a tent around him. They drew the sticks from overhead down his body, striking the floor with a fierce rumbling as the stage went to blackout.
That looked like the end. It wasn’t.
Another haka to Vivaldi and on to the Miserere Nobis as dancers jumped under themselves with their arms raising and retracting sharply. The final haka, with the men in front and the women behind, was to the Sancto Spiritu. Everyone returned for the final amen and a loud shout.
At times, the Vivaldi slid from congruence with the action to running in parallel. The music became de-individualized and as much as a liturgical score, it functioned as a universal, generic stand-in for “The West.” It was arguably a form of Occidentalism. But turnabout is fair play.
It was also a kind of nationalism. Like translating the Bible into Samoan, using Western liturgical music reasserted identity by turning something foreign into something native. Whether that was assimilation, subjugation or transformation, “O Le Olaga” succeeded by laying claim to both worlds. And with everything living together on the same stage, perhaps we’ll get to where no land acknowledgment is needed.
[Note – thank you to Sarah Catherall and this review for background information, including clues as to what was Samoan and what was Māori.]
copyright ©2023 by Leigh Witchel
“Handgame,” “Fatu,” “O Le Olaga – Life” – Black Grace
The Joyce Theater, New York, NY
August 2, 2022
Cover: Edmund Eramiha, Demi-Jo Manalo and company in “O Le Olaga – Life.” Photo © Steven Pisano.
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