This show marked Michael Keegan-Dolan’s fourth appearance at the Festival over the years, and came highly recommended.
But while it was certainly full of striking moments, I wasn’t convinced by the overall construction.
MAM opens with a stark, unsettling image: a young girl, dressed all in white and lying on a table, wakes up to see a man
wearing an enormous goat’s head mask, complete with horns, and playing a concertina. Then a curtain behind the man comes
down and we discover a troupe of dancers who, also sporting masks, point at the girl while stamping their feet.
What follows might be the girl’s nightmares, or dreams, or fantasies. In a loose, episodic series of vignettes, the
dancers, clad in suits and black dresses, enact scenarios that seem to play with ideas of consent, of adolescence, of
desire and rejection. A dancer kisses nearly all his colleagues, sending to sleep – or killing – each of them in turn.
Two dancers walk along the laps of the seated others, reach the centre of the line, embrace, and fall down. Pairs of
dancers perform their own sad tangos. Behind them a band, revealed by yet another curtain drop, play Irish-inspired
Much of the work has an improvised feel, or might have come from one of those games in which dancers are given an
initial situation, a set of variations, and are asked to play with them as they will. This impression is reinforced by
Keegan-Dolan’s programme notes, which talk of developing the piece through “a process entirely based on agreement” with
This lends the piece an immense variety. It is also visually striking, a series of images sketched out in sharp tones of
black and white. The dancers’ controlled energy is impressive, and many of the scenes have an almost hypnotic quality,
conjuring up images of whirling dervishes as the performers carve out repeated gestures in a trance-like manner.
What the piece lacks, though, is a strong overall sense of structure. The opening, focused on the young girl in white,
is highly effective as an introduction to a dreamscape, and the closing scenes have almost equal force. But throughout
the young girl is essentially a bystander, taking almost no part in the action. It is hard to see how the performance
would have been materially different if the opening and closing scenes were stripped out, a sign that they failed to
effectively engage with the rest of the show.
There is also little sense of progression or narrative. And this is mirrored in the music. The playing is admittedly
excellent, especially that of the virtuoso concertina player Cormac Begley. But musically it is all very one-note, or
indeed one-chord. At no point does the music develop, progress or even modulate.
That’s no great matter if one values highly the more trance-like, repetitive, ostinato forms of movement and music. But
it left this viewer at least with a sense of disappointment, a feeling that interesting and creative ideas had been left
crying out for some more definite shape.