“Bangarra’s dancers weave through this treacherous timescape with impressive athleticism, strength and grace, but also captivating spirituality”
“SandSong is a commanding and confronting piece of dance theatre that is a must-see for anyone grappling with the Australian story.”
Catherine McGraffin
5 stars
Warning: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander readers are advised that the following article contains the name of someone who has passed. The family of Ningali Lawford-Wolf has given the media permission to use her name.
In a hot dry season, the nineteenth century elders of the Kimberley and Sandy Desert regions of Western Australia were talking to Country. The invaders were coming, and the hard-hooved cattle they brought with them created a dust storm that foretold the devastation to come.
Bangarra’s SandSong invites us into the stories and songs, memories and culture of the Traditional Peoples of the Western Desert as the seasons pass. Paying respect to the artist and activist, Wangkatjungka woman, Ningali Lawford-Wolf, it is a journey that fosters deep connection to the land, and survival in the face of exploitation and destruction at the hands of colonial invaders.
It begins with a stark and ominous projection, Poison, which assaults the senses with a discordant soundscape. Images flash at us like a nightmarish newsreel of men chained to each other at the neck, maps that declare ‘Terra Nullius’, industry, politics, and black incarceration.
In Dry we are met with a soothing scene. Jacob Nash’s beautiful set is strong in its simplicity, and rich in colour and texture. Its red and metallic hues create a soothing warmth that takes us immediately to the red pindan dust and metal rich earth of the region. The glossy oval of the floor creates a sense of Jila (the Living Water) of the desert waterholes. In Skin and Junta: Women’s Traditional Bush Onion Dance we are embraced by the gentle stewardship and connection of the women, while in Totem and Marjarrka: Men’s Traditional Dance Story we are introduced to the responsibilities of the men with agile and robust energy. The male and female genders are clearly defined and play specific roles within their society.
Act 3, Kartiya, which translates to ‘White Person’, hurtles towards the brutal content premonished in Poison. The set is darker, with the effective lighting of Nick Schlieper turning from soft, warm and womb-like to dark and narrow. Jennifer Irwin’s costumes, which earlier in the performance had all the movement and texture from nature, now turn to the straight, restrained lines of European attire. There is violence and loss, as people are pushed from their lands and into uncompensated domestic servitude or hard labour on vast cattle stations owned by white men. The voice of Vincent Lingiari reminds the people of their pride and heritage.
Act 4 returns its people to their rightful relationship with the land. In Painting Mob, the dancers smear themselves in metallic dust as an armour of identity and kinship. It is a powerful image of defiant oneness with the land. Homeland leaves us in the gentle arms of continuity, unbroken against the odds.
Bangarra’s dancers weave through this treacherous timescape with impressive athleticism, strength and grace, but also captivating spirituality. Choreography by Stephen Page (who also directs) and Frances Rings is kaleidoscopic and sinuous, embracing both the traditional and the contemporary. It is mesmerising to watch as all the design elements align successfully to bring us into the bosom of the Great Sandy Desert and her people.
The standing ovation at the curtain was well deserved. SandSong is a commanding and confronting piece of dance theatre that is a must-see for anyone grappling with the Australian story.
Catherine McGraffin, Theatre Now
Photography: Daniel Boud
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