The Australian: Flesh and Bone
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LIKE the angels in John Milton’s epic poem Paradise Lost, the characters played by Kate Denborough and Gerard Van Dyck can choose their sex or be both at once. Their sexual identities are changeable; they merge and morph.
In Flesh and Bone, the changeability of sexual identity is made literal, with Denborough and Van Dyck sporting anatomically correct body suits under their clothes, at least to begin with. Even after they unzip and shed their nude suits, the gender balance persists.
Performing as KAGE, Denborough and Van Dyck are a matched set: lithe, powerful, fair-haired. Of comparable height, weight, ability and physical strength. Since its debut in 1997, KAGE has produced shows in a variety of genres, from acrobatic and gymnastic through more conventional dance theatre to legitimate theatre such as Sundowner, the company’s 2011 play about dementia, which began a four-month national tour this week. KAGE has also brought the cartoons of Michael Leunig to 3D life.
Flesh and Bone is acrobatic, occasionally circus-like, with brief but spectacular eruptions of dance. The gravitational centre of the first two-thirds of the show is the arbitrariness of sexual attraction; how outer bodies don’t necessarily reflect inner selves.
Dressed in matching black shirts and shorts, Denborough picks up Van Dyck in a club with some irresistibly sinewy and dynamic moves. She signals her serious intent by nuzzling under his arm. When Van Dyck goes to caress her breast, Denborough limbo dances under his hand, allowing it to glide neutrally down her front. Her bits, and his, are revealed to be fake. Hers are implants. His is detachable.
Later, they dance a slow, lovely tango tangling their limbs while entangling their destinies. Even the set conspires to blur their identities. The backdrop, a metallic cyclorama, works like a mirror at a sideshow. When they close in on one another, their reflections slurp together. The music too, an oil and vinegar battle between classical oriental and Brazilian dance music starts — improbably — to emulsify.
Flesh and Bone is also about long-haul relationships; about blending identities without diluting them. It’s also about the fine line between acceptance and resignation.
Denborough and Van Dyck literally get tangled up in their own props in the final section, where the work loses some impetus. But unlike many a long-haul relationship, the wonder doesn’t ever fade.