My Sister, The Serial Killer. Isn’t that the best title? The curtain hasn’t even gone up on Ballet Black's new show, part of a double bill called Shadows, and I’m already reaching for the popcorn.
The novel by Oyinkan Braithwaite, a slice of Lagos noir, is adapted for dance by the company’s artistic director (and unabashed horror fan) Cassa Pancho. It begins by disposing of a corpse, which isn’t something you can say about Swan Lake. Korede gets a call from sister Ayoola, whose date nights tend to end up stabby. The way Korede pulls marigolds and bleach from her bag suggest this isn’t her first clean-up.
Korede helps with that corpse, and the next. But then Ayoola sets her sights on the hot doctor Korede has a crush on – will she let him join the death toll?
My Sister… is less deliciously pulpy than it sounds. Pancho doesn’t quite commit to either the story’s nasty comedy or its psychodrama. Instead, the over-stuffed ballet is, like Ayoola’s dates, a bit messy. There’s a party and a hospital sequence (more bodily fluids that need mopping), plus a symbolic river. The vigorous choreography sometimes feels like a decorative add-on rather than an organic medium of storytelling.
Nothing wrong with the performances. Isabela Coracy’s Korede is burdened by complicity – spinning in torment, assailed by shadowy figures. She has real gravity (and an impressive eyeroll as her sister hogs the oxygen). All the movement for Helga Paris-Morales’ kittenish Ayoola is light, because nothing touches her – in her floaty frocks, she’s oblivious to remorse – while Ebony Thomas’ doctor has a cute wiggle and curative smile. I love a ballet story that doesn’t piggyback on obvious titles, but though diverting, this needs an editor’s cold eye to be truly killer.
Opening the evening is a coup – the first British commission for notable US choreographer Chanel DaSilva. A Shadow Work is inspired by therapy’s demand to dig into repression, to drag it out from the psyche’s shadows.
Taraja Hudson’s protagonist literally has a lot going on. Tight pointy footsteps become a poetic swoop and then a juddering rut. Her hand quavers at her throat, its agitation amplified by dancers crowding in like a swarm of anxious thoughts. In David Plater’s smoky light, it’s like seeing a busy mind spill over the stage.
A slithering, quicksilver figure (Acaoã de Castro) prods her into facing her stuff (made palpable in a squat document box). DaSilva builds her movement on restless, staccato phrases, which only later find a stability as Hudson realises she can’t outrun her demons. The ballet resists a neat conclusion: rather, it suggests a process; work to be done and done again. Own your stuff, people – oh, and try not to murder anyone.
Hackney Empire; hackneyempire.co.uk/events/ballet-black-shadows
