" ... exquisitely crafted"

August 25, 2005 performance, reviewed by Jocelyn McGrath

Standing out from the majority of other performances at Jacobs Pillow, Project Fukurow's basic sensibility is strikingly different. Generally, the focus of a dance performance is the relationship between the dancers, the music, and the physical space. Human skill and artistry are celebrated and this is done with, well, humans.

Not necessarily so in Ozma, the hour-long performance piece conceived and directed by Fukurow Ishikawa. Robots, kinetic props, moving furniture, and, most powerfully, a small mechanized puppet, share the stage with five human dancers, in this piece that explores the nature of the self. Fukurow said in that observing himself he found both human and inhuman aspects, and that robots are the perfect expression of what is inhuman in our humanness.

Western images of robots often embody our fears of technology run amok. Fiction is full of stories in which we create machines that turn on us when they understand the nature of their servitude and the extent of their powers. Or our robot characters feel incomplete; they are made like humans but lack a human soul.

The Japanese relationship to robots is more amicable. As early as the 17th century, mechanical puppets, called 'karakuri ningyo,' were developed for entertainment, their purpose aesthetic and mystical, rather than utilitarian. Japanese culture and religion allows for inanimate matter naturally to be infused with spirit, therefore it is not a huge leap to equalize the power of the animate and the inanimate.

The world then, in Ozma, is fundamentally more alive, as all parts human and inhuman are energized, and relating to each other. The projected visual images, the shadow play, soundscape, lighting, props, and furniture—all express aspects of the self. The dancers represent humanness, but not unequivocally so. In their movement they display the presence of other forces, perhaps multiple aspects in one body. For example, a recurring hand gesture involves a dancer holding her convulsing hand away from her face as if keeping that hand from striking or smothering.

Martial arts, specifically jujitsu, are a strong component of the choreography. Quick aerial spins become fluid floor tumbling immediately followed by complete stillness. The dancers tip into impossible-looking forward rolls down the front of the body and over one shoulder, demonstrating an intense control. This is contrasted by out-of-control convulsive movement, evidence of another cultural influence, Butoh.

The robots are the thing, though. Wrapped in bandages (one of the visual themes of the piece), the little man-puppet lies twitching on the slowly gliding table, or hung below it, incrementally walks the length of the stage. A hand-held propeller about the size of a small ceiling fan becomes the equivalent of a bucking bronco—dangerous to hold onto, dangerous to let go of. My favorite, a trio of robots resembling large flat centipedes, slowly advanced on a dancer writhing on the floor. Each possessed a small headlight, which in the growing darkness, reflected beautifully off of their undulating bladed treads.

Light and darkness, motion and stillness, beauty and repulsiveness are well balanced in this exquisitely crafted and self-consciously metaphorical world. There is also balance between the animate and inanimate performers, a considerable feat with technology this interesting.

My only wish would be for more information about the dancers, none of whom received bios in the program. Perhaps the absence of personal information was part of a plan to maintain the wholeness and power of the illusion, or perhaps it is a Japanese convention. In either case, as a Western viewer, I think that both the dancers and even the robots deserve more individual description. Fukurow's vision would be impossible without their remarkable contributions and presence—both human and inhuman.

Project Fukurow
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