The lotus flower is a potent symbol in Asian countries.
It stands for beauty in some cultures and indolence in others. To Buddhists, it represents purity, because the flower rises pristinely above the muddy, murky waters that give it life.
These images and others were touched upon in “Kagemi: Beyond the Metaphors of Mirrors,” the 90-minute dance-theater piece that choreographer Ushio Amagatsu made in 2000 for his company, Sankai Juku. In “Kagemi,” which UCLA Live presented at Royce Hall on the weekend, the seven male dancers (including Amagatsu) performed under a canopy of oversized white lotus flowers. This striking set, which lifted as the dance began and then lowered to signal its conclusion, suggested that humanity, too, lives in the muck, and, unfortunately, wallows in it much of the time.
Amagatsu’s final image, however, was optimistic. The dancers pushed their arms above the blanket of flowers and opened their fingers to create human lotus blossoms.
The word “kagemi” means “to see one’s shadow” in Japanese, and Amagatsu’s principal concern in this work was to explore the duality of human nature. Amagatsu often divided the corps of six dancers – all men – into two equal groups. At one point, dancers faced each other directly and briefly performed identical movement passages.
At a different moment, the dancers gazed into their flat hands as though looking in a mirror and then reeled at the image they saw. The dancers often seemed pulled about the stage by their hands, as though an unseen force had grabbed hold of them.
In the most powerful section of the dance, Amagatsu was surrounded – one could say accosted – by four men in long black dresses, splattered with white and red. They mimed an attack with powerful, digging arm gestures and claw-like fingers; Amagatsu slunk offstage in terror. Composers Takashi Kako and Yoichiro Yoshikawa created an electronic and deafening soundscape for this section, suggesting jets dropping bombs. (The music was recorded.) The dancers spread black and red makeup on their heads, and they distorted their faces in grotesque expressions. War and violence, Amagatsu directly suggested, are the darkest shadows of the self.
These were the high points of “Kagemi.” There were also long, tedious and repetitious passages. Amagatsu was a mesmerizing presence during the company’s last visit to UCLA in 2002; but he was far less compelling here. His solos in “Kagemi” cast him as a kind of silent, omniscient narrator, gesuring smoothly with his hands or twisting his arms in a disjointed manner.
When Sankai Juku thrills, it’s because they’ve created a theater that is far bigger than the sum of its parts. “Kagemi” brought us the Sankai Juku with which we’ve now become familiar – dancers powdered white, moving ghostlike with shuffling gait; a painterly lighting and set design, and musical accompaniments that contributed to the mood. These elements, which must do more than shock to be meaningful, coalesced less frequently than one had hoped.
Contact the writer: 714-796-4976 or lbleiberg@ocregister.com
