William Kentridge Takes New York

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A scene from Berg’s Lulu. Photo by Ken Howard/Metropolitan Opera.

William Kentridge Takes New York by Ann McCoy

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illiam Kentridge and his South African collaborative team have landed in New York City and New Haven this fall, leaving us with remarkable opportunities to see their work. Performances of Refuse the Hour were a highlight of BAM’s 2015 Next Wave Festival and thrilled audiences at Yale Repertory Theater; Kentridge’s version of Alban Berg’s Lulu runs at the Metropolitan Opera through December 3. Kentridge—a rare combination of theater innovator, director, installation artist, draftsman, animator, and actor/ narrator—is an artist with a range and energy that rivals Picasso’s, and his Harvard Norton Lectures (2012) established him as an educator and philosopher. An exhibition of his drawings for Lulu can be viewed at the Marian Goodman Gallery through December 19 Refuse the Hour is based on Kentridge’s recent installation, The Refusal of Time at the Metropolitan Museum (October – May 2014). Both the installation and the multimedia opera are the result of a collaboration between Kentridge and Peter Galison, a Harvard-based historian of science. Together, they explore post-Albert Einstein concepts of time drawn from modern quantum physics, contrasted against older measuring devices like the metronome. In the opera, an amusing slapstick film projection sequence (based on an actual historical event) shows a group of “terrorists” dynamiting the Greenwich Meridian to stop the new system of internationally standardized time. Those of us who are slaves to the digital clock can sympathize with Dada Masilo as she lights the fuse of the cartoon dynamite sticks and the ensuing bang fills the theater. Masilo, the production’s South African choreographer, also represents those who refuse the colonizers’ standardized concept of time; her lament, “Give us back our sun,” rises above the strife as she tries to reclaim her world’s previous gage of time, by the sun in the mid sky at noon. It is this movement back and forth between his “stone age technology” and the insanity of modern times that gives Kentridge’s Refuse the Hour its charm. Watching it, I was reminded of Jacques Tati’s Mon Oncle (1958), which shows

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a similar struggle with mechanical efficiency. Working with some inventors / machinists, Kentridge has created an odd variety of sculptures that function as performers onstage. Christoff Wolmarans, Jonas Lundquist, and Louis Olivier have helped the artist build this accumulation of Rube Goldberg devices—megaphones on poles, worn by actors; choreography on a turntable—suggesting an older model of circular time; strange contraptions with bicycle wheels that move on and off stage like odd bit players; and, at the production’s center, is a semaphore, an early signaling device with arms. The opera’s opening projections show old measuring devices—a metronome and the bellows from a Pianoella, a player piano precursor. Time as breath is a theme that appears in multiple forms—bellows, accordions, wind instruments, and tales of Paris’s pneumatic clock (1880 – 1927) in which a burst of air through a system of tubes beneath the city would synchronize the city’s clocks with one great fart. Breath, as wind, also moves images made of bits of paper that are reconstructed as the film is run backwards. Time breathes in and out, and also moves forwards and backwards in a conceptual sphere of quantum physics, but it is also brought to the viewer through physical acts and images. Joanna Dudley, who also appears in Lulu, is able to sing Berlioz backwards, often through a giant megaphone—another reversal of time, not to mention quite a feat. Running time backwards also becomes a metaphor for regret, part of the human condition. The Kentridge of the Norton Lectures returns in Refuse the Hour as narrator, in his trademark white shirt. The artist is onstage during the entirety of the production, as our science teacher, not unlike Mr. Wizzard. He explains the physics of time to us—all moments, including the moment of Christ’s crucifixion still exist in outer space; we may vanish in a black hole; everything we have ever said is retrievable; etc. Kentridge studied mime and theater in Paris at the L’École Internationale de Théâtre Jacques Lecoq, hoping to become an actor, and now this early dream is being realized. The film

sequences of Kentride stepping over chairs and in dialogue with his double have their origins in the Norton Lectures. The artist is charming as a performer. I am again reminded of Jacques Tati; Kentridge has a sympathetic manner not unlike Tati’s Monsieur Hulot. The film sequences with Masilo and Kentridge throwing books at each other (which fly back again, through film reversal) and dragging each other across the stage are memorably funny. The observatory scene quotes Georges Méliès’s The Astronomer’s Dream (1898); Melies was a man who also gesticulated to his film double. Shadow projections are used in both Refuse the Hour and The Refusal of Time. In the Norton Lectures, Kentridge defends the shadows on the wall of Plato’s cave and describes what they can teach us about enlightenment. Andreas Huyssen, in his book William Kentridge & Nalini Malani, The Shadow Play as Medium of Memory, explores the use of shadow play in the work in depth. Shadows stimulate the viewer’s imagination, and teach us to navigate the blind areas in both our vision and knowledge. In Refuse the Hour, silhouette processions of black workers walk across the stage in projections; their movements are mime-like and mysterious; we have no idea where they are going. They inhabit a shadow realm, yet emerge in the panorama of post-Apartheid South Africa. The shadows form a collective drama, combined with the sounds of the street musicians and a chorus of “What a friend we have in Jesus.” Yet, a departure occurs in the role of the black Africans in Refuse the Hour. Here we see black Africans as full collaborators, not simply silhouettes. Masilo holds her own as an equal partner to Kentridge on stage, physically encircling him, like a dance partner. Some of her movements have a wonderful “in your face” gesture, and her vitality carries the production. Watching, I am reminded how the emergence of black playwrights like John Kani, Gibson Kente, and Gcina Mhlope have changed the face of South African theater forever. The vocalist Anna Masina is another force in the production, as are Thato Motlhaolwa and Tlale Makhene. The two men open the show with a bang—literally, on a


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