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Al-Ahram Weekly 31 August - 6 September 2000 Issue No. 497 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 31 August - 6 September 2000 Issue No. 497
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Travel Living Sports Profile People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters Caverns of night
By David Blake
Indian Bhangra Folk Dance Team, Cairo Opera House open-air theatre, 26 and 27 August
No need to worry about disagreeable spirits. There were none about as the deadly deep blue of the humid night sky parted to admit the cool, silvery inspiration of the Bhangra team. These are dancers from the Punjab, and this revelation of their beauty is the lifework of Atamji Singh, their manager.
Feast and revelation, it proved a trip through the Punjabi pleasure gardens. This and what follows were proof that the Cairo Opera can still offer hospitality. India, Mexico and Greece brought to the small, unasuming, swimming-pool-like area more than a mere breath a world theatre. They brought eloquence.
Costumes from India, costumes and more costumes drifting about in the night wind. Five men in lemon caps and blue trousers begin a dance called the Jhuma.
The women are rainbows, the trousers of the men sing like sapphires. Matisse is here. The Punjabi band is full of fire. They really play to make the dancers go harder and quicker, setting a hard tempo. First there is a small dance, very quick steps about absolutely nothing but a visit by someone to someone else. The little ballet is saved by the perfect execution of its steps and costumes. An important visitor, in a white Jodpur-like uniform with an absolutely blinding Indian pink belt and turban, does a very courtly dance, funny but not ridiculous. Matisse again, for the pink and white. As Diana Vreeland said: "Pink is the navy blue of India."
The centre of the show was Wanjara dance, a Punjabi ballet performed all over the country, popular and very salutary. It is the bangled ballet, the tale of a newly married lady's demented love of bangles -- a pandemic state of affairs in which nice women gladly go into crime to amass the juicy jewel things that jangle on their arms.
The lady in this story has no bangles. She loves her husband, but the pitiful need for the bangles drives her and her husband crazy. She even puts up with her horrible relatives for the sake of bangles. They come not. The woman is about to run away when her husband brings her the necessary showing of bangles. She is joyful and so is he. They dance and sing. Eveyone is happy, the only hole of the joyful embroidery: how did he come by the things? It is an unanswered prayer, so the dance goes on.
The entire thing is a world of colour and clearly narrated drama. The bangle lady is a great dancer. Does one watch her dazzling feet or the endless top-like buzz of her dancing? Or perhaps her beautiful hysterical arms which go around like windmills. She's a mad bird, but husband and family support her delerium. All this is done lightly. Bangles is witty as quicksilver and the entire thing moves at lightening pace. It is a blue wind rising out of orange fire, like one of those cactuses which grow near the port of Kandela. Fire by night, dead by morning.
This wonderful visitation of the Bhangra toupe ends with the wheat festival dance. All the men of the company are gradually brought into its rhythm. These men do things with elan and effortless power whilst retaining a beauty of form which, except for the Kirov Company, seems to have passed out of the dance. Nothing daunted them -- neither humidity nor human frailty. They soared high, bounced and double-turned in the air. They had left the stage of the theatre. Goodbye Bhangra, or so it seemed, because the visitors had already passed into myth.
Preceeding India on 25 August was Mexico. Audiences have come to expect almost anything from Mexico. Their history, art and lifestyle have turned them into legend. They brought a slash of colour. Unlike the Matisse dazzle of India, Mexico suggested the dark glamour of Valesquez. There was no hint of restraint in the use of black, gold or bronze-oriented tones. Only one thing was missing in the colourful outpouring that followed -- music. Mexico, like Hungary, has a unique musical style, but there was no musical Mexico, no stirring love songs or hymns of despair. We had instead percussions, nicely done -- thump thump thump -- which went on forever. But it was not enough. Not a trace of jungle passion flower.
The work began with a wedding, which seemed to have a bride but no groom. The bride looked like a Aztec goddess enveloped in incense clouds. The dancers were large people, very handsome, nothing skinny or lithe. They were bien plante and massive -- no ariel flights for them. The clothes were handsome. Ancient and modern Aztec cubist and mystical. Everything was dignified, no flutters or flights. Their dances were slow, endless, processional, almost liturgic. It became a bit lethargic.
And then onto the scene lept Indians, semi-naked savages, metallic shining and splendid. Added to their bodily height and impressive weight were sweeping blade-like headdresses of the Quetzacoatal bird -- transparent varnished silver. They danced, their plumes flashing like swords. Of course they walked away with the show. Their powerful, weighty, unhurried swoops across the open-air theatre were extremely spooky. They were relaxed and quite without any difinite purpose. They were just goegeous night birds, creatures painted by Frieda Kahlo.
It was very stirring. There was not the slightest effort at charm or participation in the joys of the theatre. Each one was one, and exalted in its own isolation. The creatures were performing for themselves, utterly unaware of an audience. They were birds of destiny and avatars -- but of what? These strange, heraldic processions made no effort at elucidation.
