Punchdrunk’s The Burnt City

by SOPHIA APPL SCORZA

Our immersion into a world of gods and mortals starts in a dimly lit bar, wrapped in red velvet. Lamps drench the space in hypnotising blue as wobbly wine glasses surprisingly bounce back when toasting. From the very beginning, we are lulled into the comfortable confusion of a dream, following strange creatures into the maze of The Burnt City.

Expectations were high when it came to the new production of Punchdrunk, which is viewed by many as the best immersive theatre company in the world. Drawing on two ancient Greek plays, Euripides’ Hecuba and Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, the production sets out to explore the topoi of the Iliad. From the sacrifice of Agamemnon’s daughter Iphigenia to her revenge, we are taken on a journey through a dark wonderland that is best described as a ballet performance within a massive art installation.

It would take more than one visit to uncover the treasures hidden in the vast exhibit at One Cartridge Place, Woolwich, where every corner from Clytemnestra’s royal dormitory to the precarious flats of the Trojans is designed with full commitment to detail. The manifold spaces composing the exhibition are undeniably the protagonists of the production. Most remarkably, echoing the “Walled City” of Kowloon, Hongkong, once the most densely populated place on earth, Troy comes to life as a gigantic beehive of narrow streets, stairs and Chinese lamps.

Among the dance performers inhabiting this cabinet of curiosities, the women set the pace. Even as simultaneous scenes are occurring, it is hard to look away from Omagbitse Omagbemi (Clytemnestra), an incarnation of a cunning, archaic female strength. Omagbemi’s dance following Iphigenia’s murder is dripping with palpable pain, desperation and desire for revenge. This exquisitely contrasts with the transparent weightlessness of Yilin Kong’s (Kassandra) absent gaze and light movements, which create a figure seamlessly transcending between material reality and a silent world behind objects and bodies.

While our senses are continuously absorbed by the magnetic swirl of dancers, scenes and objects vying for our attention with ever more astonishing choreography and detail, at the exit excitement drops and gives way to a sense of incomplete satisfaction.

It seems like depth of meaning has been traded off for the sake of spectacle. The over-the-top live interpretation of the Eurythmics song Sweet Dreams at the bar adds to this feeling.

Key questions remain unanswered. Is that all there is to the epos of Troy, a dream, immersing us in “a mythical world of gods and mortals”? Why had the myth of Troy, dated to the 8th century BC, interested the directors today? How should we interpret the strong images, such as that of a half-naked, bloodstained Polyxena (Chihiro Kawasaki) hanging by her feet? It is difficult to find any clue to these questions in the production. If you are an admirer of Greek mythology and its many contemporary interpretations, The Burnt City may leave you disappointed.

While it lacks a clear, original take on the story, Punchdrunk’s new production remains outstanding. It is the most ambitious and impressive production in terms of its atmospheric scenery, aesthetic, and immersive quality that I have encountered.

Despite the thin storytelling, The Burnt City is among the truly unique and unmissable experiences London has to offer.

Felix Barrett, artistic director and company founder once said Punchdrunk aims to “create work that leaves you spinning and seeing stars.” If this was the mission, it has been more than accomplished.

by K.A.JAMES & illustrated by FAY QIAN

Don’t you remember?

The summer breeze whistled by the both of us. Your hands were clenched to soft wings of straw, woven to the hat that latched onto your head. Around the brim was a congregation of flowers that you picked: jasmine, tulips, lilies, and daffodils. White played with pink and yellow mixed with rose in the summer glaze. Strips of sand bleached hair slipped down your shoulders, beaming its own radiant light. You always said you liked that hat.

You do remember, right?

The jade waves of grass folded and crushed with every step of ours; a ripple first washed through the dense blades, then came the violent crash between skin and earth, crushing the grass from head to toe. The summer breeze was there too, running in its predestined course. The supple leaves above our heads swayed in rhythm with the run of the wind. The wildlife felt it. That bee (I think it was a bee) almost stung my ear! You laughed, surprising yourself, and looked away again. The field ahead stretched out for miles, an endless expanse of emerald. Sure, it was beautiful. It wasn’t enough to rid the hazy look set in your eyes.

You really don’t remember?

In the second that lasted for minutes, raw passion and longing desire fused in an exotic mix, beating down on any remaining sense. I wanted more. More was longing for your clear blue eyes to settle onto mine. More was the soft touch of your hand to brush against mine, skin on skin, finger interlocked with finger. Perhaps, more was just to hear the slightest whisper, a fragment of sound, to leave your locked lips.

Your mouth formed abstract shapes, smiling and frowning, as the words that tumbled out meshed into a shield. A toxic mix of want and need leaked onto the surface. My eyes darting, yours steady. Strands of blonde hair settled softly past your ear, collecting to cast its shadow around your cheeks. The silver-grey clouds dared not appear; the emerald plains below our feet danced to the tune of the breeze; the towering trees standing as guard around the field relaxed. Yet, nature’s religious zeal could not pry open the insurmountable defences that locked away your feelings. We pressed on as the gap grew wider between us. The wind’s whistle spoke but the deafening silence did not break its resolve. It only felt right to break it.

“I look at you and you never seem to be happy. I don’t understand.”

“I’m happy. Who said I wasn’t? You look at me and believe you understand everything there is to see. You want to understand in your own special way,” you said.

“You respond but you never talk. You have this far-away look in your eyes. It’s just me, singing my words to the void. I want to hear about your mornings or the random little things that make your heart flutter. I want to hear about what you draw or the flower that you like the most.”

“None of that concerns you. How I feel isn’t something that you should feel obligated to know. I keep things to myself because I want to. What right do you have to pry into my life and claim it as yours too? You want someone who wants to talk on and on like a broken record,” you replied.

For the first time, songs of the mockingbirds fell to a quiet hush. Overcast clouds hammered down the blue gates, spilling into the plains. You spoke once more.

“You try so hard to bend the world to your will. It won’t begin to rain just because you wish to cast your anger into the world. Flowers will not rise in winter because your happiness wills it so. You look at me as another person to conquer. Being wrong is unthinkable to you. Like a child, you grab and claim everything as yours. What am I to do with you? Should I stand here and submit to you with open arms? Is that what you want? Perhaps it’s better if I slip on the mask of the woman you think I am and play her role like an actor on a stage. You believe that an open sky or the sun burning brightly is a sign of confirmation. Spurred by anger or love, the world around you should know it, right?”

You had spoken from the heart, spitting words of venom to me at the time.

You remember now... Find the endof the shortstory on our website!