Within the orderly opening of Cruel, Colker hints at something darker to come, putting us on edge from the onset. What appears initially as a cliched party sequence of swirls and sidesteps, is momentarily shocked out of the mundane as the dancers break out in frenzied fits, their bodies fidgeting as though dangling from a hangman’s noose. These moments speak of tensions spitting beneath the surface, yet we are made to wait for this murmur of chaos to satisfactorily explode.
The central sequence, based around a moveable banqueting table, appears frustratingly underdeveloped - plates are handed around, yet nobody seems to know what to do with them, knives are thrust into the table with anger that springs from an uncertain narrative - yet there are snatches of mesmerising choreography, not least for the two young men clad in tiny black boxers.
Four large, rotating mirrors take over the stage in the second half, punctuated by central portholes through which the dancers slip in and out. Although overused, the mirrors add an interesting extra dimension to the stage - appearing at once as doors to push through, walls to mask domestic disputes (of which we catch glimpses as the mirrors spin round), dividers of time and sometimes as simply what they are - reflectors of a harsh reality stripped bare.
As a physical exploration of the familial tension, Cruel succeeds haphazardly - aided vastly by Berna Ceppas’ pulse-wrenching sound design. Colker tosses a vast number of fascinating concepts into the air, yet never lets them land long enough for us to fully comprehend them.
Production information can change over the run of the show.
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