Tigers

During Barrowland Ballet’s Tiger, there was a moment that expressed the devotion of the parent to the child: as the child danced around the space, the mother and father presented their bodies to her feet, preventing her from ever touching the ground. It recalled the description in The Golden Bough of ancient leaders, who were never allowed to touch the earth. At the same time, it was moving, a symbolic choreography of extreme care and love.

Later on, when the three dancers were seized by wildness – represented by the male dancer dressing in bright orange and teasing the women into abandon, I thought ‘I really must stop hating myself.’ At the risk of turning into a moist-eyed critic, sentimental and trivial, Tiger was a reminder of why I bothered chasing performance a decade ago. For a brief moment, the bullshit of my daily life disappeared. I was confronted, directly, by sincerity. For a brief sliver of time, my ego had a rest from parading itself and I recognised something better than showing off in front of women.

Of course, if I were doing my job, I would be complimenting the set-designer of Tiger: the three dancers are contained within a mesh of rope and metal, sometimes comforting, sometimes caging.  I’d be saying how well Jade Adamson (child), Kai-Wan Chuang (mother) and Vince Verr (father and tiger) danced – and when they kicked, they kicked in time and they kicked together. I might even mention the accessible and clear choreography from Natasha Gilmore, working from Robert Alan Evans’ writing.

And if I were one of those critics who don’t like to judge, I’d probably retell the plot – nuclear family, oppressed by the conformity of their routine, find liberation through a calculated application of wild tiger energy. I certainly saw the beauty in the detail, as the parental relationship decayed whilst trying to provide for their playful daughter.

But here’s the rub: the emotional experience struck me as far more telling. When I am teaching young critics, I insist that a ‘five star’ review can only be justified if the writer had some kind of epiphany during the performance. I tell them that the work has to have changed their life in some way. It is a high standard, but the alternative is that ridiculous star-inflation that happens during the Fringe.

I did have an epiphany during Tiger. I also saw my life reflected in the misery of the parents – I have no children but I do have a routine that crushes me. My personality was stripped away, exposed and revealed as a form of armour that disguises my cynicism – born from my failures – and protects my emotional vulnerability. It might have been the moment when the tiger switches off the lights and spins in the darkness, or the terror of the mother when she is flung outside of the cage. At several points, I observed Tiger without my habitual filters. No long words, no complaints, and no clever analysis: I saw and I felt. The stupidity of the stand-up comedy routine I call my personality was evident.

Fifteen minutes after the production ended, I found an audience and was at it again: ranting about a review that I have decided embodies the intellectual cowardice of the modern critic. A quick amusing anecdote at my own expense – this one about how I was lecturing my fellow students on the subjectivity of critical opinion (‘The interpretation is always about the critic’s obsessions and not the play itself,’ I opined. There was almost no irony in my voice when I added that every male character in the script was a sex-pest).

I wish that Tiger had changed my life, that the thrill of religious conversion did happen during a show – and then encouraged me to change my ways. I have epiphanies with the same regularity that I gorge on chocolate. But they stick about as well as my daily determination to eat more healthily.

Anyway, Tiger is amazing. It is paired with a shorter version, Tiger Tale, which is aimed at younger audiences (but I don’t think that works so well – it feels edited, and not adapted). It’s got a cool soundtrack by Kim Moore – from sinister rock guitar to flowing strings and banging techno – and Fred Pommerehn’s set design is jam-packed with relevant props and scenery.

I know that critics often write praise that ends up on posters. Here’s my contribution. Tiger deconstructed by personality through sheer force of beauty and exact technique: Gilmore is possessed of a choreographic genius that is light in touch but serious in purpose. The occasional flashes of wit are accompanied by a genuine insight into the challenges of relationships: love becomes both admirable and controlling, and deft sequences expose the cost of selfless devotion. Just fucking go and see it.