Rhythm & Ruse is a real good time. That's what it sets out to be, and it delivers: good music, good magic, good drinks, good company. No pretensions, just excellent entertainment.
Familiar faces, and new ones too - equally charming. Wonderful talents. A couple hours shutting the real world outside.
(and I suspect there may be some real Aleister Crowley shit underlying it all, but I've yet to be invited behind those locked doors to find out)
I absolutely recommend experiencing it. Just around the corner from Waterloo station in London. Currently running through November 17 - See it before it disappears.
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i honestly have no idea how i'm going to carry out conversations when i can no longer fall back on "who are you following tonight?" to keep things moving, but i have enjoyed this week's conversational variant, "will you be joining the scrum or are you going anywhere but?"
At the end of loop 2, approximately halfway through Persephoneās storyline, she knocks into a old-fashioned radio in Hadesā office. It starts up the song Will Soon be a Woman. Persephone asks āHave we danced to this before?ā to which Hades replies āonce or twiceā and Persephone offers her hand: āletās make it a third.ā
There is the undercurrent of amusement in the audience, who know that āonce or twiceā is a gross understatement. But itās a very sweet response from Hades, who knows by now not to overwhelm Persephone by letting on how often they repeat the same ritual.
The two begin a slow dance in the office, which, as the music increases in tempo and complexity, moves out into the Troy town square, and an intricate tango.
Now, unlike some, I am not a regular follower of Hades or Persephone. I love their stories, but the crowds sometimes get a bit much for me. Last night, I was intent on following Mallory Graceninās portrayal of Persephone while we are lucky enough to have her back in the show for a couple of months. Coupled with Sam Booth as Hades, this really is a powerhouse of performance, with heart-rending emotion and side-splitting comedic moments. (Hades saying into Persephoneās mouth āitās fakeā, referring to the flower he had given her, was particularly amusing.)
Long story short, I donāt follow Persephone or Hades all that often, and therefore usually miss this tango as I am somewhere else in the show. Due to this, I havenāt before noticed the synchronicities between this dance, and dances that happen elsewhere and between other characters.
At one point during the dance, Persephone and Hades separate, connected only by grasped hands, as Persephone circles Hades. In that moment, I couldnāt help but be reminded of Neoptolomus and Patroclus, perhaps dancing the similar movements almost at the same time in Mycenae as Hades and Persephone tango in Troy.
Patroclus has been mortally wounded, and found by Neoptolomus, the two begin an intricate and devastating dance as Neoptolomus tries to, and ultimately fails to, save him. He is propped up by Neoptolomus, the two embrace frequently, and as they separate, Patroclus circles Neoptolomus connected only by grasped hands, before collapsing, rolling across the floor still connected to Neoptolomus.
It is a dance of overwhelming desperation on both sides of the coin. Neoptolomusā desperate attempt to save Patroclus, and Hadesā desperate attempt to remind Persephone of who she is, and the connection between them. Patroclus and Persephone circle their loved ones, touchable but not reachable.
I started wondering, how many other dances happening throughout the show are reflected in Persephone and Hadesā tango? Iphigenia being carried through the streets by Patroclus. Apollo clutching at Cassandra as he opens her eyes to prophecy. Persephoneās confident steps as she approaches Hades mirrored in Hecubaās bravado to stand off against the Greek Army. Persephone driving Hades back towards the office in the same way Polymestor drives Polydorus back to the wall after drugging him.
This story, this labyrinth of emotion, was all created for Persephone. And as she reaches the half-way point of her own journey and itās starting to come back, the mirror held up to her actions, reflecting the movements of others around Troy and Mycenae, are all the more poignant. Ā
Distill'd by magic sleights: SNM Shanghai, show no. 5
**(Spoilers for Nurse loop again - and, again, not for 1:1s. Brief spoilers for Taxi and Lady Macduff, but nothing of substance. Details have been obscured or altered, as usual. A very long post here, IāmĀ so sorry.)**
Itās over two weeks since my final Shanghai SNM. For some reason Iāve been reluctant to write this recap of my last show, as if perhaps putting the words onto paper (or screen) would erase the memories from my mind. With any luck, the opposite will be the case; because the last show not only produced some of the most magical moments of my time with Punchdrunk, but also delivered an emotional punch to the gut which caught me utterly by surprise. More on that, later.
My reluctance has also been spurred by the realisation that this will be yet another Miranda-heavy write-up. Itās only on reviewing my recaps (and those of other people) that I realise just how much I monopolised her on my visit, and how shamefully I overlooked Ben, Jude, Daniel and others, with whom I would like to have spent more time (including several of the Chinese cast). Another five visits would perhaps have sufficed for me to get as much appreciation for the show as, say,Ā @whenwillweawake, whose summaryĀ I commend to you (itās more objective and less self-focused than mine).
But I didnāt have five more shows. And, in any case, Miranda was the main reason I came all this way. She rewarded my loyalty handsomely, but I canāt help feeling a little guilty. Not that I begrudge a second I spent with her; nor should anyone consider a second watching this supremely talented artist wasted. If you would prefer to watch her than read about her, I sympathise, but thatās all I have to offer.
Itās Sunday. The weather is hot, but not as roasting and steamy as Shanghai sometimes gets (so Iām informed). My regret at seeing the McKinnon for the last time is immediately exacerbated when, on entry, I get a Deuce. My first Deuce ever. Even in New York I was able to swap it out, but here the rest of my party have Aces and they are all people whose last show it is too, so I donāt really have a case. A bad omen?
Another bad omen - Iāve forgotten to check my phone into the cloakroom; obviously my mind is somewhere else. I have to endure the indignity of carrying my phone around in a little velvet bag strung over my shoulder. Throughout the show my bag slips, and I have to keep hiking it up over my back to get it out of the way. Seriously, folks - check your phone in. Itāll be quite safe and youāll be spared a lot of annoyance.
My mask is tighter than previous nights and, despite its extra cord, I canāt get it to loosen enough to suit my stupidly big head. My perpetual problem. I briefly wonder if this is how the cast always pick me out -Ā āah, big head, must be @thefoolsloop.ā
My Deuce, worthless in comparison to an Ace, sits in my pocket. My velvet bag is already irritating. My mask pushes my glasses into my eyes, uncomfortably. Is this going to be my first bad show here? Thankfully the magic of Punchdrunk is awaiting me. So - spoiler - no, itās going to be magnificent.
Since Sam was Duncan last night I figure (correctly) that heās going to be Taxi tonight. Upon exiting the lift, I search for him, then realise he must be in the new scene which I eulogised about in a previous write-up. Sure enough, I catch him there - he is barely recognisable, but heās participating with more gusto than Iāve seen Sam display before, and his pairing with Olly again awakens TDM memories. But suddenly he disappears (I later learn how), and Iām left in front of an excellent scene which I enjoy very much, but donāt want to watch just now.
I hurry to his shop - yes, there he is. Heās removing a sock from his head (itās not a sock, but if I tell you what it is itāll destroy the impact of the scene). Weāre alone in the room, and I wonder if he recognises me. He fiddles with a few items, then extends his hand. This is my first 1:1 with Sam since he thrust an orange into my face, but my hopes for something as violently compelling are dashed. Instead, Samās 1:1 is whimsical, lugubrious - at times he pauses with such melancholy that I almost corpse. This Taxi is not the ambiguous agent of evil found in the McKittrick, but a weary man accepting that he is controlled by fate and inevitability. When Iām confronted with a choice, I find the McKittrickās rather delightful option has been replaced by a strictly Chinese alternative which isnāt nearly as palatable. Oh, well.
Sam concludes the 1:1 by guiding me out into the rep bar through a passage I donāt recognise, and this is where things start to go wrong. The rave is gearing up: the thumping has started. I literally cannot stay in this room. As I emerge, I bolt for the door. Sam, the spirit of Stanford alive in him still, seizes me by the shoulders and forces me into the room, further away from the door (itās a great spot to watch proceedings - if only I could). Just as I was complicit in Frankieās initiation in Temple Studios, so I am to be complicit in the witchesā sabbath in the McKinnon.
Except I canāt. I wonder how Sam will deal with a seizure? Maybe heāll make notes, so as to incorporate it into his Duncan loop? But I canāt indulge him -Ā my only thought is, I have to get out of here NOW. Sam will pick up that something is wrong, surely?
Starting to panic, I bang on the hand gripping my shoulder. I shake my head furiously. Iām about to break both character and the rules by shouting at him,Ā āSam, I canāt stay here!ā when he twigs. He releases me, and I shoot for the door, just in time before Macbeth arrives and the strobes start.
(I donāt know how Punchdrunk can accommodate people with photosensitive epilepsy without spoiling the experience for everyone else; itās something I want to discuss with them.)
Recovering from my near-miss, I brush myself down in the corridor and take some deep breaths. Iād like to continue with Taxiās loop, but Sam isnāt in the shop. At this point, I remember I need to be somewhere else.
Flashback to the previous evening. As I recounted in my last recap, I spent a wonderful few hours with the cast post-show, in which I discussed all kinds of things with all kinds of people. Miranda and I enjoyed a lengthy chat covering performance, politics, film, injuries, vegetarianism, the Chinese concept of personal space, and I donāt remember what else. In the course of talking to her I mentioned something that had always bothered me about 1:1s - performers, unknowingly, have always spoken their script into my deaf ear. As a result Iām lucky if I catch the text, let alone remember it.
I also remarked that I believed I now had a full house of interactions with her characters - all the Sexy Witch and Nurse 1:1s, dances, bed-making, kisses, whatever. She grinned, blew cigarette smoke out sideways, and said,Ā āno, youāve missed one.ā Disbelieving, I asked her for details; all she revealed was that as the Nurse sheād been waiting to give me another 1:1, only to see me run off and follow another character. I put two and two together and realised the moment she must have meant.
The trouble is Iām now at the point where I know I can catch Mirandaās Nurse alone, if I hurry upstairs; and I canāt remember how long it is until the moment in question. Sorry, Sam, but thereās only one thing I can do now. I head for the fifth floor.
Sure enough, right when I expect, she emerges from a side room. Once again, just as she did on a previous night, she fixes me with the sarcastic stare and hands me the folded sheets sheās carrying. I follow her to the hospital ward, anticipating that the missed 1:1 will come presently.
(I found this image online, when googlingĀ āstage bloodā - it seems to unite many of the themes in the Nurseās loop.)
**(SPOILERS FOR NURSEāS LOOP - NOT 1:1s, BUT CERTAIN INTERACTIONS)**
It doesnāt. Iāve misremembered the sequence of events in the loop. The result is that I go through almost an entire loop with her, just as I did on Thursday - making beds, opening bags, hanging up gowns. Only this time two things are different. First, I donāt mess anything up. Second, the tone of the interactions has changed. Now Iām no longer her unpaid slave (hold on, all slaves are unpaid, no?). Now weāre collaborators, co-conspirators. I have more of her trust than I had before. In the first 1:1, where before I was meekly committing my service, I now do so with confidence; in the second, I feel less like a subject and more like a... I want to say lover because of the nature of the 1:1, but that's not quite it... sadly, I canāt really explain without gross spoilers.
In the open, too, weāre more like partners in crime. I carry out instructions before she gives them to me. She directs me more with her eyes now, less with her hands.Ā I feel that we are walking together, rather than me following her. This time - is it my imagination? - thereās a conspiratorial smile just lingering behind that severe look.Ā At one point weāre in the hospital, where on Thursday she dipped her finger in a spread of blood and tasted it. This time, she takes my hand and dips my finger in the blood; then she does the same with her own. We look into each otherās eyes and, in perfect time with one another, taste it.
Iāve followed her for almost a full loop now, and nothing new has happened (in terms of scenes); Iāve got the timing completely wrong. However we finally find ourselves at the very moving scene I described in my second recap and, this time, I donāt get distracted. I wait for her, she appears - again, thereās that tiniest hint of a smile, as if to say,Ā āshall we, then?ā I take her hand and she leads me off.
Of what follows, I cannot give the merest hint. It is comfortably the most complete Punchdrunk experience of my life. By turns scary, intriguing and beautiful it wraps me in darkness, brings me out into the light of a new world, turns the theatrical into the cinematic, dazzles me with its virtuosity and the sheer imagination and execution it displays. Even if I wanted to describe it, words would be inadequate. I almost canāt believe it happened, as if it was a snatch of a half-remembered dream. What it took TDM three hours to achieve on a cool October night in 2013, this 1:1 achieves in minutes. To have seen it is a privilege; to have had Miranda share it with me is doubly so.
At the end, when sheās returning my mask, she leans over to whisper a parting shot. She breathes in - then pauses. I wonder whatās gone wrong. She moves her head to the other side of my head, then delivers the text into my good ear. She remembered.
How many performers would have recalled that tiny piece of information, relayed almost in passing the night before? How many performers would have cared enough to make a change to their usual delivery? How many performers would have remembered which ear it was?
When I first saw Miranda as Romola, all those years ago, sitting in the Seamstressās office with the makeup smeared on her face, I thought: I donāt know what it is yet, butĀ there is something very special about this artist. If you wonder why I devote so many words to her, well, this should exemplify it.
**(SPOILERS END)**
She bundles me out, and doesnāt reappear. I have one more moment with her to tick off - the walk-out - but still a bit of time to kill before the time comes for that. So I hurry down to the ballroom to catch what I know will be my last ever ballroom party scene.
Itās getting started as I arrive, and I position myself in the McKinnonās equivalent of the mezzanine, right in the centre, the best view of all the action. The guests assemble, chat, pair off, dance, interact. And something comes over me. Perhaps itās just the lingering effect of the 1:1, but suddenly I feel an emotional surge, much stronger than I felt the previous night. This scene is so beautiful, I love it so much. Every time I see it, I grow in admiration and love for it. What started out two years ago in New York as a useful point to decide who to follow, has turned into one of my touchstones of the entire production.
The emotion heaves, a wave coming straight from my heart. Standing in the midst of a crowd of strangers, watching this wonderful, magical scene, I can bear it no longer. The dam breaks. Tears form in my eyes, as they did the night before, but now the emotion punches through my defences. I start to sob, my body shakes. Iām in love with this scene. Iām in love with this whole show. What was an entertaining and marvellous experience in New York, has been transformed in Shanghai into a moving, overwhelming, glorious world of feeling. The McKittrick delighted my mind; the McKinnon has captured my heart.
Iām not a crier. Things rarely push me over the edge. I can count on the fingers of two hands things which make me cry in private, and on the fingers of one things which have made me cry in public. What is it that has happened here, in this dark basement, with jaunty trad jazz music playing, that is so compelling, so touching, that it bypassed my everyday reticence and evoked a response that would mortify me elsewhere? I donāt know. All I know is, this is what Punchdrunk try to do. They've done it to me now.
I have to look away from the scene, as the tears have blurred my vision. That seems to break the spell. I gradually recover my composure. What shall I do with the rest of my limited time here? I recall that Lady Macduff was one of my favourite moments in the McKinnon. Perhaps it would be a good idea to see if I can recapture some of the feeling I developed for her. In New York I had a touching 1:1 with Annie Rigney. I wonder if Ingrid can pull off the character with the same vulnerability and innocence displayed by Annie.
I follow her to her chamber, one of my favourite scenes in the McKittrick, where her battle with her addiction is played out against the nightmarish, repetitive soundtrack of her music box, a light, trite tune (āWedding of the Painted Dollā)Ā turned sinister, the tiny walls of her suite hemming her in. But here, in the McKinnon, the space is more open and her torment seems somehow dissipated. Also, the soundtrack has changed - still a music box, but a different tune, less threatening somehow. This is one of the areas where the new show has fallen short of its predecessor.
Itās not Ingridās fault; she puts the same passion, desperation and guilelessness into her performance that Annie had (and my glimpses of Xu Huiting on other nights suggest she is also superb in the role). I find myself accidentally (honest!) standing in the right spot for the 1:1, and when it comes Ingrid is tender and eloquent, just as Annie was.
I donāt likeĀ āGoodnight Children Everywhereā, even though the scene it accompanies is genuinely moving, so I pass through the cemetery where Fred is awakening, spend a little time watching Daniel make a boat, then drift until itās time to pick up Miranda again. I follow her and Tang Tingting as they once again, like evil twins, pass in lockstep through the rooms and corridors until they find themselves in the master bedroom, where itās their job to set everything up for the next round of this perpetual tragedy.
Except something is wrong. Thereās a man lying on the bed. Heās got a white mask on. The Nurse-Matron duo pause for a split second to absorb this, and give him time to move. He doesnāt. He may actually be asleep. They seem to shrug with their eyes, and carry on making the bed as if he wasnāt there. They tuck him in nicely, as he twigs whatās going on and collapses into giggles. I canāt see if heās Chinese or Western, or if heās one of the cast conducting a prank. I never do find out who he is.
Business concluded, Miranda turns and offers me her hand. We walk down together, our complicity renewed. When I trip on the stairs she reaches out to catch me, but weāre so synchronised now that a slight gesture is enough to assure her that Iām OK. She and Tang, again in perfect step with each other, lead me and another white mask out to the Manderley. Unsmiling, she unmasks and kisses me. I respond with nothing but a wink. Not breaking character, she stares at me for a beat, then walks off. I have not seen her since.
This has been my longest recap, and I must thank anyone whoās made it this far for indulging me. The McKinnon got such a grip on my emotions that I cannot simply recount a few observations about the show and pass an objective critical comment or two. Like a clumsy teenage poet, I must splurge.
Just as TDM did - though to a lesser degree, inevitably - SNM Shanghai worked its way under my skin, and woke emotions long dormant. And, just as at Temple Studios, at the centre of this awakening was a performer of breathtaking commitment and raw talent. Iāve said it before, and Iāll say it again. Thank you, Miranda. Thank you, Punchdrunk.
Words are never really adequate, are they? For conveying all of the... the specificity. The individual specificity you find everywhere you look. Every thing in its time and its place, unique. Unlike any other.
Hades is telling me that my work is futile.
He's right, of course. Words can never capture the whole of what I'm experiencing. They never could.
But I've got to try. All I can do is fail as little as possible. If I can preserve one fraction of one moment, if I can bottle up my memory and share it with someone else, even if imperfectly... It's worth doing.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
ā Live Streamingā Interactive Chatā Private Showsā HD Qualityā Free Actions
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i've been giving it some serious consideration, and i have come to the inarguable conclusion that these two have somehow figured out a way to read each other's minds. there's simply no other rational explanation for any of it. there's no way two performers are just naturally that in sync with each other, no matter how brilliant they are or how many times they've performed together, there can only possibly be a supernatural explanation for it.
SPECTACULAR new pictorial content courtesy of Facebook ads, A+++, please do this for every character (except Laocoƶn because I just think he works better as a sort of ancient Greek urban cryptid)!
Some of the captions definitely need a little work, mind...
