Björk Ballet: Of Masks and Multitudes

The way choreographer Arthur Pita imagines it, if Icelandic singer-songwriter Björk’s music took shape, it would be as a world of jewel colours and shining shadows, with an ocean lapping at its shore and goddesses who swoop through the air to fall into the arms of their lovers. Here, gravity is weak and the ground beneath one’s feet is shiny as a mirror. Skin is veined not with blood, but quicksilver. Little is synchronised, but everything is in harmony.

I didn’t know what to expect from Björk Ballet and after watching it the first time, I wasn’t even sure what I’d watched. I just knew it was beautiful and that I wanted to remember every possible detail so that I could retreat to it in my head after San Francisco Ballet takes it offline on Friday. There’s no way words and screengrabs will properly how mesmerising Björk Ballet is, but I live in hope that all the memory really needs is a spark.

There are fragments of story flashing through the performance, which strings together nine pieces of music by Björk and the sound of the sea. The only reason to complain about the video is that it doesn’t let you appreciate the detailing that designer Marco Marante has incorporated into the costumes.

[image error] In the video, this seems like the dancers are wearing black and silver, but when you look closely, there’s so much more going on. The ‘veins’ on one costume seem to branch out onto the other. Plus, in a way, their movements are mirrored by the patterns of curves and intersections on their costume. Also, don’t miss the rose-gold tips of the ballet shoes.

Much like a dream, if I try to organise what I remember from the performance into a neat narrative, Björk Ballet slips through the fingers of my thoughts. But if I stop trying to impose my understanding of order upon it, it has a beginning, middle and end; and it makes complete sense. It begins with melancholy and loneliness, journeys through multitudes, and ends with finding yourself in solitude. In between, there are creatures with tinsel beards, nymphs with personal bouncers and dancing plankton. To be fair, this might not be exactly how Pita sees the characters he’s conceived for Björk Ballet but it’s a postmodern world — the viewer completes the work, amirite?

In the beginning, there’s just darkness and a strange constellation of suspended silver. Through the shadows emerges a chorus of colour and movement. It moves, not in unison, but as one, almost as though it’s blooming to life to the music of “Overture”.

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The chorus melts away to reveal a man wearing a mask with a painted frown. Light ripples across his body and as he moves, his feet are reflected upon the reflective surface of the stage. His movements are big and elongated, like he’s reaching out, like he’s searching… for what?

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[image error]This section is mirrored by the last section of Björk Ballet, but with a significant difference.

Suddenly, there’s a buzz and everything flickers, as though struck by lightning.

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The man melts into the blackness and there appears on stage a shimmering mound of tinsel. The silvery constellation that was fixed now falls apart to land on the stage like rain.

[image error]If a faerie and a shaman had a love child, it would be this creature of fluttering tinsel.



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They land on stage, making the sound of a loud footsteps and stand up, delicate fronds shimmering and catching light. In this phosphorescence, with the mirrored surface on stage and this glow-in-the-dark foliage, suddenly the whole place feels underwater. This sense of fluidity becomes stronger when the lead pair of dancers start moving. They’re wearing body suits in earth tones, with metallic veining all over their bodies, and the background is now glowing amber, but they move like waves. The woman, particularly, seems to float.

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While Björk sings “All is full of love”, the background shifts to blue and silhouettes gather behind the lead pair. They’re all doing the same set of movements, but at different times — and so, the bodies rise and fall like a dandelion clock coming apart. The metallic strips of their costumes glint. The tinsel on the foliage glitters. It’s such a rush of movement and yet this section also feels entirely unfrenetic, like fragments of stillness sliding into place next to one another . Every lift, every slide is so seamlessly smooth. Every angle is so elegantly held.

[image error]This is the first of three (I think) transitions in Björk Ballet, in which one pair of dancers leaves the stage using a set of moves that make it seem like they’re made of wind and silk. While the acrobats make their exit without separate, the lovers kiss and then part ways, exiting the stage in opposite directions. The kisses are very much part of the mystery of this dream — are these two couples or two aspects of one couple? Are they all a dream of the masked man? Are they the Adam and Eve of this underwater world? Your guess is as good as mine.

Briefly, the stage is empty, with just the shimmering foliage on view. Then two faceless men bring in a woman who reminded me of an injured bird to “You’ve Been Flirting Again” (but in Icelandic, I think. Definitely not English). She’s in pink and from her arms hang fuchsia and silver tassels. There’s something delicate about these movements, enhanced by the contrast in the bodies of the two men and the woman.

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Although she was carried in, she leaves the stage on her own, a flurry of pink and silver and teal, doing movements similar to that of the woman during the transition.

There’s a sharp change in tempo, tone and colour. Shadows rush in to push the foliage to one corner, creating a silvery, spiky clump in one corner. Streaks of red spark to life on stage. The lead woman dancer is in a nude body suit veined with glittery red strips and she moves like a flickering flame that’s growing fierier with her perfect extensions. Dancers in red and black hover around her, all of them dancing different choreographies. They almost fly across the stage like crackling embers. Which rather adds up since Bjork is singing “Bachelorette”, which has lyrics line, “I’m a path of cinders, burning under your feet.”

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This is one of the most energetic parts of Björk Ballet and my least favourite movement. It’s not just that it feels a little chaotic, with everyone doing very different moves (the eye and the mind can’t figure out where to look, what to read; and also why on earth is there a dude spinning while the lovers canoodle acrobatic in the clump of silver bushes?). Although the lead woman is magnificent, her partner seems a bit…creaky. By the end of it, he seems exhausted by all the leaping and pirouetting and lifting; and not even a fiery red woman kissing the daylights out of him is enough to revive him.

He pulls away from the kiss and they move apart, their bodies curving and unfolding to repeat the moves made by the first pair of lovers when they separated in the first transition.

As the lovers leave, the man with the sad-faced mask returns with a fishing rod on his shoulder. The music gives way to the sound of crashing waves and the tinsel fronds are once again arranged all over the stage. A masked creature with long tinsel beard flutters in, all shine and fluttering fabric. To the sound of the waves, he dances, restlessness rising from his movements like steam from a thawing ice. As he flutters and swoops and spans the width of the stage effortlessly, it’s as though he’s agonising over something. This is no old man of the sea but rather a prince of tides. Meanwhile, the masked man, sits calmly at the edge of the stage, his fishing line thrown into the dark of the limbo between audience and stage.

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Suddenly, “Vokuro” falls like a blanket over the sound of the sea and there is only the man at the edge of the stage and a solitary nymph-like figure standing on the mirrored ground. Wavy arcs of light glint along her body as though she’s underwater. Some of her movements are reminiscent of the masked man’s own dance from the beginning, when everything was dark. (Now, the background is an inky purple.) But in addition to his gestures, she has her own patterns — strong, decisive movements; feminine and contemporary. Her body is clean lines and ripples of light as it mirrors the swoop and fall of the song’s melody. Sometimes, it feels awkward, like some contemporary choreography has been shoehorned into the practice of a ballet dancer, but mostly, it seems she’s trying to say something to him.

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There is also an odd tension between her and the arc of the fishing line that the masked man holds. There’s a stunning moment when she pirouettes across the width of the stage and for a second, you think the masked man is reeling her in. He isn’t. She isn’t even going towards him, really. She’s just going towards the centre.

She leaves ultimately like the pink-winged bird, reclined with one leg crossed over the other, raised high above by two masked men who come out of the shadows expressly to give her the exit of goddesses.

The stage fills with a group of dancers dressed in black and silver that for some reason remind of plankton while the tinkling music box tune of “Frosti” . This is perhaps the most playful bit in Björk Ballet and as this group scuttles — with grace — the masked man feels a tug on his fishing line.

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It’s another mask. He stares at it. Behind him, everything clears. Against the backdrop are three figures. The one in the middle is doing the movements that the male lead dancers have done in past transitions as they left the stage.

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The other two dancers — in shining black and glittering white — are both women (I think). Their faces are masked and spangled body suits make them look vaguely alien, or like fantastic anime characters come to life. They dance to the intro of “The Gate” and their undulating movements are reminiscent of the choreography for first pair, but while that first couple had a stillness to them, this pair shimmers with constant motion. Their arms intertwine, their bodies sway, their costumes twinkle and at certain moments, they seem fused together (not just when they’re kissing). Unlike the other two couples, this one leaves together, hand in hand, as the masked man comes into the light and puts on the second mask. It’s like the face he has on; only this one is smiling. Something flutters through his body.

And then the drums of “Hyperballad” start beating.

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This might be my favourite part of Björk Ballet even though I have absolutely no idea what’s going on. The reclining nymphs are gone and instead, there stands a warrior goddess who watches the fluttering, flickering movements of those below her; who leaps off and into the arms of her beloveds; who glides over the surface of the stage as though gravity is a joke.

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This section is pure euphoria and somewhere along the way, this sequence coalesces into a ballet rave, with the stage filled with perfectly-held bodies on their tippy-toes, executing neat extensions and precise pirouettes — all while bopping to “Hyperballad”. As the beat grows louder, its thuds stop feeling synthetic and it’s as though we’re hearing the pounding pulse of all those on stage, each of them doing their own thing and yet in moving to the same rhythm.

Is this the happiness of the masked man? Are these the multitudes he contains? As the music builds up to its crescendo, the stage is filled with dancers. The pink-winged creature joins the delighted melee, but this time, she stands on the raised platform and she wears the the tinsel-bearded mask of the prince of tides. A flurry of shining tassels and windmilling arms, she’s now both the restless man and the calm woman. She and the others who are pulsing with movement are all on the fringe. In the centre, surrounded by the rush of dance, is the stillness of the lead pair, grounded by each other and perfectly balanced. They repeat the moves they had during their first sequence together (to “All is Full of Love”). This time, they’re different from the crowd, set apart both spatially and by choreography.

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This last transition is pure magic. When they leave, they don’t kiss. They float across the mirrored surface, somewhat joined at the hip and yet distinct.

From the other end, the man with the smiling mask walks in. As he dances to “Anchor Song”, his movements seem happier — is it just the mask or is there really something lighter to his movements? There’s something strong and playful in his movement that feels like it’s been drawn out of Björk’s lyrics:

I live by the ocean
And during the night
I dive into it
Down to the bottom
Underneath all currents
And drop my anchor
As this is where I’m staying
This is my home…

And while he frolics on his own, the black background that had lifted to about 30 minutes ago to reveal this weird world with its spiky, silvery foliage and fantastical, tinsel-bright creatures, once again comes down. He’s back home.

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In the darkness, you can just about glimpse the silvery fronds that twinkle dully like distant starlight (remember they were up in the sky at the beginning of the ballet). He moves, repeating movements from his first solo. With the smiling face on, they seem much less melancholy.

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As Björk sings “This is my home”, a group of dancers come to stand around him, each of them holding one of the silvery trees/ bushes/ things. They stand around the masked man, a protective circle of warm colours that contrast with the black and white of his person.

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“This is my home,” Björk declares, her voice suddenly plaintive. The stage is emptied of colour. There is only the glow-in-the-dark foliage and the man who wears two masks. He lifts the smiling face and moves it around to the back of his head. Underneath is still the sad face. But when he turns around and walks off into the darkness, all you see is him smiling.

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