Quite a few weeks ago, I treated myself to a ticket for a performance at the National Theater here in Taipei. I stuck the ticket to my refrigerator with a magnet and then sort of forgot about it. I knew I had the ticket and I had plans to go, but I didn’t remember much about what had jumped out at me about the performance. Nor did I remember anything about my seat.

It was quite a surprise, therefore, when I showed up at the National Theater and was escorted to my seat in the exact center of the third row on the main floor – right in front of the stage. Then it all came back to me. When I bought the ticket, the ticket-seller showed me the computer screen of all the available seats. I was going to buy a cheap ticket way in the back or high up in one of the balconies. However, I noticed that on the almost completely sold-out main floor, there was one solitary seat still available nearly right at the front. I guessed that a bunch of groups and couples had purchased sets of seats, and somehow this single seat got left. The ticket was relatively pricey at NT$1,200, but I couldn’t resist and I bought it.

The performance was scheduled to start at 7:30, and I took my seat at about 7:15. I had arrived quite a bit earlier, but after locating my seat, I had spent my time wandering around the theater and absorbing the atmosphere. Having been to a couple of performances at the National Theater and the National Concert Hall, I was not surprised to see that the theater was only about a third full. The first time this happened, I thought that the show wasn’t popular and that a lot of tickets were unsold. Now I know that there is something in the air in Taiwan that makes people show up at the very last second for concerts (and movies for that matter). At 7:25, the theater was still around half empty, and then there was a huge rush of people, and at 7:30, nearly every seat was taken. I don’t know how it happens – it feels almost magical – but it happens nearly every time.

I was a bit puzzled when I took my seat – everything around me was kind of fuzzy and vague. I couldn’t seem to focus on anything. I thought perhaps my eyes were tired or that my glasses were dirty. I cleaned my glasses, but it didn’t help. I was looking around the theater and taking in the architecture and design, but I kept squinting and rubbing my eyes. I thought I was imagining things. Then I realized what was going on – fog machines had been at work and fog from the stage had been drifting out into the theater. I could swear there was even a slight flowery smell to the fog – like someone was burning a massive pile of incense in back.

To my amusement, two western women sat down behind me. I noticed them because I heard them speaking English. I did a half-turn to confirm that they were westerners of some variety, and then I overheard them talking. I was amused because they had, just like the Taiwanese, arrived at the last second. By my watch, it was 7:28. One of the women suggested that they walk around and check out the theater. She said it would be okay because the lights would dim and brighten five times to indicate that the show was about to start and they’d be able to get back to their seats. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case, and I never saw them again. Once they’d left the theater, the doors closed and it went completely dark. Atmospheric music began to play. We sat in the total darkness and listened to the music. The show was apparently highly choreographed, and mood and selective lighting and sound were big parts of it, so they could not have the doors opening and closing to let latecomers in. The women had been locked out and were not allowed back in. I assume they missed the show.

The show began with a spotlight on a single figure standing in the middle of the stage. Thick fog filled the air and hid everything but this man. He wore the clothing of an ancient samurai and stood completely still as the music built up. He then drew his sword and with loud screams thrust it through his body, fell, and died. The woman sitting beside me covered her mouth with her hands in horror. The stage went dark and a massive wall of sound – electric guitars and drums – blasted out of the speakers. The lights went up to reveal three dancers facing the audience with their arms stretched out as if they’d been caught and frozen in the act of lunging at us. It was a threatening stance, aggressive and violent and this set the tone for what was to come.

The show was called Political Mother and was choreographed by Israeli-born Hofesh Shechter. I won’t pretend to have heard of him before or to know anything about him other than what was printed in the program. He was born in Israel and studied dance and music  in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. He went on to study in Paris and eventually based himself in the UK, where he formed his own dance company. “Political Mother”, completed in May 2010, was his first full-length piece and has been taken on tour around the world. It is here in Taipei as part of the Taiwan International Festival of Arts 2012.

I don’t know if Shechter intended those opening dancers to have a threatening stance. Perhaps it was only meant to be an active or energetic stance. I saw it as somewhat threatening. I suppose the same could be said for the whole performance. I had many impressions and sensations while watching “Political Mother”, but I imagine those all came from my personal and cultural background. I have no idea if Shechter meant the same thing or if the other audience members had the same impressions.

The dancers were all young, from many different cultural and ethnic backgrounds, and were dressed in loose-fitting casual clothes. If the clothes were more colorful, I might have been reminded of a Benetton ad. As they were – largely grey and beige and drab – I was reminded more of prison camps, labor camps, food lines, factory cafeterias, and post-apocalyptic industrial wastelands. These were just some of the associations that flitted through my mind. I thought of “A Day in the Life of Ivan Desinovich” among other labor camp classics. I thought of breadlines during times of war – tired and sad people waiting and always waiting. The dancing itself supported this impression – it could be jerky at times, as if acting out the end stages of a neurological disease – more “The Walking Dead” than “The Sound of Music.”

There were heavy political overtones as well. After the opening dance routines (performed with great energy but quiet footsteps  in cotton socks), lights suddenly lit up other frightening figures on platforms high above the stage. There was a single man screaming insane gibberish into a microphone. He brought to mind every image I had of dictators ranting and screaming at crowds filling the courtyards below. His face wasn’t clear and at times I though he was wearing a mask. The woman beside me seemed terrified of him and she covered her mouth again in horror. I couldn’t blame her. He was a disturbing figure and my mind wandered to images from the novel “1984” to the leader of the savage gang in the movie “The Road Warrior”.

Other figures on either side were lit up – and these were men playing electric guitars. The central figure was now more like a lead singer in a heavy metal band. Below them was an array of drummers. The music was powerful with a heavy beat and it shook the entire theater. The dancers appeared to me to be slaves or workers, beaten down by an oppressive government – finding solace and happiness in dance in the midst of their dreary lives.

Just as much as I enjoyed the dance and the music, I appreciated the stagecraft of the performance. Rather than curtains and walls and moveable sets, Political Mother relied on the thick fog and a very clever use of spotlights to control what was visible and what was not. With a flick of a switch, the shouting figure and all the musicians would vanish and there would only be the dancers left – the full company or just one or just two or just three. The lights created black shadows in the fog – long and dark triangles that appeared to be solid structures but were just tricks of the light. I longed to see the whole stage revealed in full light, but that never happened, and the screaming figure and the musicians seemed to come out of nowhere and float up there with nothing to support them. Then they would vanish completely.

The performance ended as suddenly as it had begun – the thick red stage curtain came down and the house lights came partially up. I don’t know if that was a deliberate choice, but it had a strong effect on me. I had been so absorbed in the performance, so lost in the world that Schechter had created, that I wasn’t ready to come back to the real world. When that red curtain came down and the lights came up, I didn’t know where to look. I was startled and felt out of place – almost embarrassed. I think the performance had been so powerful and emotional that it was a shock to look around and see a thousand other people who had shared it with me. We had shared this experience and yet I didn’t know any of them at all. It was weird.

The curtain went back up for the curtain calls. The audience had applauded non-stop from the moment the curtain came down until it went back up again and the performers began their series of bows. I applauded along with everyone else, but I started to feel a bit silly after a while and my hands started to hurt. Eventually I had to stop. I only applauded in bursts when, for example, Hofesh Shechter came out for a bow. I wish I had been able to take a photo of the entire company. I felt I had gotten to know all the individual members well. Their faces and bodies were burned into my brain, and I wanted an image to remember them by.

The theater emptied very quickly after the last bow. I stayed inside as long as I could. If this were a movie, one of the dancers would come out on stage to retrieve a lost button or Shechter would come out to look around and relive his triumph. We would fall into a conversation and I’d be invited backstage to meet the dancers. This being real life, an impatient usher came by and told me to get out. Once outside, a traffic cop yelled at me when I tried to walk across the entrance driveway. Apparently, that was forbidden. What I should have done was break into one of the tribal dance routines from the show. Instead, I just shuffled down the sidewalk along with everyone else.

Tags: Hofesh Shechter, music, National Theater, Political Mother, Taipei