Pina Bausch was of the “hell is other people” school of thought. In her work, anyway. Specifically, she was interested in the miseries visited upon each other by men and women. Her dancers are frequently locked in unwinnable partnerships and her 1977 take on the Bluebeard myth – finally getting its London premiere – was an early exploration of this theme. It has traces of the sweeping, surging dance of her earliest work but it’s a clear move into the more fractured, discomforting Tanztheater she became famed for.
The controlling Bluebeard (Christopher Tandy) is at the centre, playing Bartók’s powerful opera on an old tape recorder, starting and stopping the music, replaying phrases like obsessive thoughts. The original folktale is a deeply disturbing story of the secrets – and the ex-wives – Bluebeard has locked up in his castle. In Bartók’s version the young wife, Judith, believes she can raise Bluebeard to the light, but instead he drags her to darkness.
In non-fairytale terms, the story is about abuses of power and our desire to change, save or possess other people. What Bausch shows so well are the small cycles of suffering couples put themselves through, having the same argument again and again. In your life, that might be sniping over wet towels left on the floor. In Bausch’s world, it’s a man pushing a woman’s head repeatedly into his crotch. Surrounding Bluebeard and Judith (Silvia Farias Heredia) the ensemble dancers amplify the rituals and agonies, running hysterically through the leaves carpeting the stage or whipping Bluebeard with their long flowing hair (a very Bauschian punishment).
Bausch flips images, so something disturbing can suddenly become benign, and vice versa. Bluebeard chases flighty women, catches them playfully in a sheet, then dumps them in a pile – only for the women to get up and start giggling, as if comparing gossip from the night before. We can never wholly judge what we’re seeing.
Whereas the original Bluebeard story is a horribly compelling crescendo of revelation, Bausch’s version is more about a wearying relentlessness. It lacks the comical eccentricities of her later work – and that can be punishing – but it uniquely, unequivocally makes its point.
At Sadler’s Wells, London, until 15 February.
