AK07, SKYCITY Theatre
March 21-25 | Reviewed by Magnolia Wilson

Amata, the new all-female production by Black Grace, is a transfixing piece of dance choreography. Unable to avert my gaze, it evoked everything from a set of dolls with strings felt but unseen; a female beast whose multicoloured body writhed, heaved and sighed on stage; or something akin to a pack of wolverines howling at the moon. It was a veritable whirlwind of colour, movement, rhythm, and music.

Amata exists in many distinctive parts, each segment’s difference marked in aura and theme. To begin with, the stage is pitch black and flecked with what seem like three-dimensional glowing red triangles. Neil Ieremia, the company’s founder, is the first on stage with his back to the audience. He stands in front of an old leather chest from which he pulls a yellow dress, a rubber rabbit’s head, followed by the only other male dancer in the company. Falling like a newborn animal to the floor, he rises, performing with Ieremia, before disappearing once more.

The chest also speaks, and what it has to say adds to a sense that there is more going on in this work than first assumed when affronted by its massive energy and busyness. The chest speaks of men. It says that men must never cry, must never be afraid of anything seen or unseen, must never show emotion or weakness, must never let the world break them down. This is an unusual thematic choice given Black Grace’s employment of a all-Pakeha woman troupe – a departure from the use of Polynesian and Maori men, with a leitmotif of boundaries on and expectations of masculinity.

Clothed in overtly feminine dress – all colour and sparkle, adorned in bright greens and pinks, replete with sequins and detailing – the twelve new members of Black Grace enter the stage. Their doll-like appearance is deceptively artificial; they emerge not as puppets on Ieremia’s strings, but something altogether powerful, independent and raw. These moments allayed any concerns that Ieremia might fail to recognise the markedly different presence of twelve women in lieu of the male-dominated troupe. As a unit, they are an entirely different beast.

No doubt Ieremia’s original conception of Black Grace grew out of an organic collaboration with those he chose to work with. With this all-female cast, we watch with intrigue as Ieremia steps outside of the two things which are inseparable from his own identity and the original Black Grace company: the first his identification as a strong, proud man; the second his identification as Maori/Polynesian.

The elusive element in Amata seems to be the contradiction between the symbolism and tone of various dance segments. For example, one segment is visually impressive with a long line of women slowly emerging from the dark rear stage into the light, all covered in one long wedding vale that shrouds every face. On the floor lies the male dancer who earlier emerged from the leather chest. He mimes shooting at the brides, and they fall when hit by his invisible bullets. The brides form into a diamond shape headed by one bride who holds a bouquet, and as she aims to throw it behind her the group moves to each side in anticipation of the catch. The music is suggestive of 1960's America with the lyrics “where have all the flowers gone” evoking naïve female expectation and idealism.

This segment sits in strong opposition to others, one in particular, which was so wild, so full of energy and strength that I was unable to look away. The dancers used their amazingly strong and agile bodies to create something akin to a flock of birds, imitating beautiful formations in the most natural and unconscious manner. Graceful, yet untamed, they could be seen reaching a level of physical exhaustion, pushing themselves to a place where their bodies emulate animals, out of instinct and necessity. I found myself waiting with bated breath for them to begin yelling, howling and grunting.

This contradiction, if intended, could be a clever commentary on the various faces of women. Another scene depicts three or more dancers moving forwards, pushing other dancers with vehemence to the floor so that they fall hard and tumble away, both perfectly and beautifully in time. It brought to mind the competitive nature that women can have against other women, one which feminists claim is the antithesis to true equality.

Yet, it is also worth noting that Amata means ‘beginning’ in Samoan, that the performance is intended as a celebration of the human spirit, and that its mission statement – if that is what it can be called – is taken from Ecclesiastes 3:4 of the bible, and reads “A time to cry; a time to laugh; a time to grieve; a time to dance.” This production is most certainly a new beginning for Ieremia, and a brave one at that. It is no mean feat to endure harsh public criticism, especially when it concerns the politics of race and gender, and to press forward regardless with even greater conviction.

This work is a myriad of colour, emotion, movement and sound. It feels like a celebration, it encompasses grief, and it most certainly is a time to dance – all of which intriguingly holds the attention. Yet for me the importance of Amata is the fact that its creation and existence as a performance has added fuel to a dialogue in who we are and who we have a right to be. Can twelve Pakeha women be Black Grace? I urge you to find out.