Guest contributor Frances Chapman reviews Kiss & Cry, a live-art performance from the Sydney Festival that pushes the boundaries of staged artistic work.
Kiss & Cry is a sweeping cinematic romance with a twist: its stars are a duo of dexterous, dancing hands, moving with grace and precision onscreen through a series of miniature landscapes. Shot and projected onscreen simultaneously, a sensual small-scale ballet comes to life before your eyes.
From prize-winning filmmaker Jaco Van Dormael and choreographer Michèle Anne De Mey, a founding member of Rosas dance company, this story of forgotten love, told from a beautiful tiny world, has charmed audiences of all ages.
A moving love story – and a showcase for some seriously inspired handiwork – Kiss & Cryis a gorgeous intertwining of film and dance, as nimble of finger as it is nimble of imagination.
– from the Sydney Festival
It is unusual to see a truly original piece of theatre. Live audio visual hook-ups, meta “re-imaginings”, a guy painted red and shouting grandly into the abyss – we’ve seen it all. But Kiss and Cry, the darling of this year’s Sydney Festival, is truly something new.
Part dance piece, part movie, part small-scale puppet show, Belgium’s Charleroi Danses’ Kiss and Cry is hard to categorise. Choreographed by Michele Anne de Mey, of the Rosas dance company, and co-directed by filmmaker Jaco Van Dormael, Kiss and Cry is a simple and meditative love story. Looking back over her life, an old woman waits at a station and remembers her five great loves: the first, so brief, a boy in a train carriage when she was twelve, right up to the humdrum long relationship of her late adulthood.
Carriageworks’ Bay 17 is transformed into a movie studio, complete with miniature sets and an array of cameras capturing a range of creative angles. The story is told through poetic pre-recorded narration from British actor Tony Regbo, whose Jude Law-esque enunciation lends a whimsical tone, and brought to life by two hands (one de May’s, the other of dancer Gregory Grosjean), which dance together and apart, their small intimacies projected onto a large screen. A tiny ballet unfolds, the camerawork seamlessly capturing the precision of the dancers’ hands.
There is plenty to watch: the dancers, the simultaneous film onscreen, and the backstage crew who comprise an ensemble themselves as they go about creating visual effects: blowing cigarette smoke across a dancefloor, moving dolls with great delicacy, working in unison to bring the finished product to the screen above. This is a theatre piece which shows the great beauty in the process of making art, as well as in the art itself.
Kiss and Cry takes our most used appendages, the taken-for-granted, humble hands, and projects them, naked and huge, onto the screen for micro-examination. Its ruminations on lost love are simple and poignant, but the spectacle of the minute is truly extraordinary.