It's wonderful, it's wonderful, it's wonderful, I dream of you
Watching Slava's Snowshow with a friend this evening, I realized more than ever how badly I want to return to Russia.
The show was conceived (and is sometimes performed) by the Russian clown, Slava. Trapped behind the iron curtain, Slava truly pioneered mime and clowning as an art form in eastern Europe. Though perestroika has since wiped away those once all-too-tangible differences between soviet and western cultures, there remains a distinct Russianness about everything that this troupe brings to the stage.
Perhaps it's the splashes of red in his costume.
Perhaps it's the glaring red wash that glows through a stage-full of roiling fog, hissing and swirling.
Perhaps it's the sound of the train that greets you when you enter the theatre and pops up again throughout the show, bringing to mind a transient existence and a willfull escapism.
Perhaps it's the sight of Yellow saying an intimite goodbye to a coat and a hat hanging from a coat rack - a sort of makeshift lover animated by his own arm in the most touching and heartbreaking way.
Perhaps it's the note left by Yellow's coat lover which he reads and then tears up, ripping into shreads that which he believed in so strongly only a moment before until it resembles nothing more than the snow that surrounds him and us.
Perhaps it's the long periods of inaction and limited movement.
V: Well? Shall we go?
E: Yes, let's go.
They do not move.
Almost certainly, it's the finale, a full theatre snow storm that quite literally blinds you with powerful lights and gale force winds carrying imitation snow that flies from all directions into your eyes, ears, shirt, pants, and shoes, all set to the last minute or so of "O Fortuna." It's an experience that takes your breath away and could never be adequately described.
Yes, there was humor. Yes, it was child-appropriate and even cute at times. Most of all, to me it reeked of Russia. It spoke of waiting, of long lines and unanswered questions, of finding color and imagination within the bleak, of hope confused and deferred, but never wholly extinguished, of disillusionment, resentment, and finally, a cathartic redemption of sorts as the snowstorm Yellow anticipated finally came to pass. It made me think, this show, really think - which is unfortunately something I haven't done in entirely too long.
The show was conceived (and is sometimes performed) by the Russian clown, Slava. Trapped behind the iron curtain, Slava truly pioneered mime and clowning as an art form in eastern Europe. Though perestroika has since wiped away those once all-too-tangible differences between soviet and western cultures, there remains a distinct Russianness about everything that this troupe brings to the stage.
Perhaps it's the splashes of red in his costume.
Perhaps it's the glaring red wash that glows through a stage-full of roiling fog, hissing and swirling.
Perhaps it's the sound of the train that greets you when you enter the theatre and pops up again throughout the show, bringing to mind a transient existence and a willfull escapism.
Perhaps it's the sight of Yellow saying an intimite goodbye to a coat and a hat hanging from a coat rack - a sort of makeshift lover animated by his own arm in the most touching and heartbreaking way.
Perhaps it's the note left by Yellow's coat lover which he reads and then tears up, ripping into shreads that which he believed in so strongly only a moment before until it resembles nothing more than the snow that surrounds him and us.
Perhaps it's the long periods of inaction and limited movement.
V: Well? Shall we go?
E: Yes, let's go.
They do not move.
Almost certainly, it's the finale, a full theatre snow storm that quite literally blinds you with powerful lights and gale force winds carrying imitation snow that flies from all directions into your eyes, ears, shirt, pants, and shoes, all set to the last minute or so of "O Fortuna." It's an experience that takes your breath away and could never be adequately described.
Yes, there was humor. Yes, it was child-appropriate and even cute at times. Most of all, to me it reeked of Russia. It spoke of waiting, of long lines and unanswered questions, of finding color and imagination within the bleak, of hope confused and deferred, but never wholly extinguished, of disillusionment, resentment, and finally, a cathartic redemption of sorts as the snowstorm Yellow anticipated finally came to pass. It made me think, this show, really think - which is unfortunately something I haven't done in entirely too long.
posted by Liz at 11:58 PM
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