Sara Baras’s Flamenco superstar lights up the night in the shadow … · 2018-07-19 · beard;...
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ARTS THE AUSTRALIAN, THURSDAY, OCTOBER 20, 2016 theaustralian.com.au/arts 15 V1 - AUSE01Z01MA Unsung heroes of the backlot Remember the evening panorama over Central Park in the original Ghostbusters from 1984? And the dramatic Manhattan skyline from the 1949 film of The Fountainhead? In both movies, painted backings often stood in for the city itself. In The Art of the Hollywood Backdrop, to be published next month, the unsung artists who created some of cinema’s most enduring images take a long- overdue bow. Authors Richard M. Isackes and Karen L. Maness introduce the individuals who, with swaths of muslin and pots of paint, conjured up the war-torn South in Gone With the Wind and a menacing desert in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. For The Terminal, the 2004 movie about a man caught in travel limbo, scenic artists re- created John F. Kennedy International Airport on a backdrop that was 198m wide and 14m high. New York poses unique challenges to scenic artists, in part because of the city’s varying elevations and construction, says Michael Denering, who spent three decades painting backings for films such as Ghostbusters, Jurassic Park and Spider-Man. “A building might start in one spot, go down a little hill and then have a subway below it,” Denering says. While New York is a perennial setting for movies, it isn’t the only place captured on backings. North by Northwest used a backdrop of Mount Rushmore. When James Stewart, in Mr Smith Goes to Washington, gestures through a window at the Capitol dome, he is pointing not to the actual building but a backdrop of the Washington skyline. And while much of The Sound of Music was shot in Austria, the Alpine vistas in some scenes are painted backings. Filmmakers didn’t trumpet the backdrops and seldom included their creators in movie credits. The studios “had no particular interest in advertising them because they considered the scenic backdrops or backings … a kind of special-effects secret”, Isackes says. “They didn’t want people to know that when they were looking at love scenes in The Sound of Music, that (the actors) were not standing in front of the actual Alps,” he said. “(Audiences) were looking at a very large painting.” For decades, computer- generated imagery and green screens have been replacing scenic artists and the backdrops they painted. But the backings haven’t entirely vanished. For Hail, Caesar! — a send-up of 1950s-era moviemaking released in February — the Coen brothers enlisted some handpainted backings and borrowed a Roman landscape from MGM’s 1959 epic Ben-Hur. Movie backings, which evolved from handpainted backdrops for the theatre, were used in Hollywood as early as the 1910s and had their heyday in the 30s through the 50s, according to the authors. A number of movies depended solely on backings to create cinematic worlds; most used them to supplement location shots. The craft was passed down among artists, staying within some families for generations. Many practitioners also were gifted landscape painters who could translate a production designer’s sketch into a mammoth tableau that would look persuasive on-screen. At one point during the 40s, MGM was so busy turning out films “they had scenic artists working 24 hours a day, in different shifts,” Maness says. The book credits George Gibson, who supervised MGM’s scenic department from 1938 to 1968, as being a master of imaginary environments such as the Emerald City in The Wizard of Oz — choosing the right shade for the Yellow Brick Road apparently took more than a week — as well as real ones, such as the Vatican. THE WALL STREET JOURNAL On a summer night in La Granja de San Ildefonso, about 80km north of Madrid, a crescent moon hangs above an open-air theatre on whose stage seven musicians have gone quiet. A sold-out crowd sits forward until, on an amplified wooden floor, comes the rat-a-tat of steel-tipped shoes. “Ole!” shouts someone. “Guapa!” yells someone else, and “Andale!” A blur of green tassels, a wind- milling of arms, and there she is: Sara Baras, one of Spain’s biggest flamenco stars. Alone in the spot- light, her dark hair scraped into a bun, giving us the you-got-a-prob- lem glare of the gypsy soul, the sort of look that would stop a bull at 50 paces. Behind her and the seated mu- sicians (a sextet of male and fe- male dancers is offstage) loom six headstone-like panels, each sport- ing a black-and-white portrait of a bygone flamenco legend. Singers Enrique Morente and Camaron de la Isla, the latter with his trademark shaggy hair and beard; guitarists Moraito Chico and Paco de Lucia; dancer Anto- nio Gades — who famously cho- reographed a version of the opera Carmen — and wartime singer and dancer Carmen Amaya, whom Jean Cocteau called “black rain beating against a window”. There are icons who have fed the reputation of flamenco, a tra- ditional art form from the Andalu- sia region of southern Spain that mixes singing, dancing and guitar playing with vocal cries, hand- claps and finger clicks — and is deeper and more complex than its Spanish tourist board cliche. “I wanted to thank these mae- stros for showing flamenco to the world,” Baras, 44, tells me after she has signed autographs for fans and posed for photos with the local mayor and VIPs. “They all made me who I am today.” Voces, Suite Flamenca is the lat- est show to be directed and chore- ographed by Baras, who leads her company of 14 performers includ- ing guest artist (and husband) Jose Serrano, a dancer whose ferocious chest-puffing solos capture the wild furia at the core of flamenco. Having played international ve- nues including Sadler’s Wells in London and the New York City Centre, Voces opens in Melbourne this week — eight years after Bal- let Flamenco de Sara Baras graced the Sydney Opera House with the acclaimed show Sabores. The audience at La Granja seems to be familiar with each idol. Spanish-language recordings of their voices — hence the title — punctuate the performance, like spirits called up by Baras’s per- cussive zapateado stomping. For Baras, her every move radi- ates feeling, from her curving torso and right-angled elbows to hands that circle fluidly from the wrists, her fingers tracing curli- cues. Controlled emotion is her thing, too; her upper body stays erect as she glides across the stage, lifting her skirt while pummelling the floor, as if to reveal the mech- anics of the dance, its force. Or she’ll simply shake her head hard then pause, arms overhead, an eyebrow raised, oozing flamenco aristocracy. “I used to try to impress with greater speed or the most compli- cated turns,” she says. “But now I think you can have the same in- tensity just by standing still and being quiet. The concentration with each show is immense but this is what we live for.” A smile. “To leave our soul on the stage.” It’s nearly 1am when we meet, and Baras is remarkably fresh and animated for one who has just been dancing vigorously through- out a two-hour show. Having changed out of costumes includ- ing abstract florals, tailored trous- Flamenco superstar lights up the night in the shadow of maestros ers and, for a tension-laden duet with Serrano, a sleek maxi dress with polka dots (not for her the long ruffle trains of the flamenco stereotype), she’s wearing a flow- ing orange jersey and let her hair down. “I love performing,” she says. “I could dance and dance. It’s mak- ing a show that’s exhausting. Doing the choreography. Unify- ing the music and the steps. In- volving the set, lighting and costume designers. But we have a good team, very organised,” she continues, lighting up as her tour manager brother brings us a bottle of rum and two glasses. “Most of us have been working together for over 20 years so that makes it possible for me to give time to work and family.” One of four children born to a father who was a colonel in the Spanish military and a mother who ran a dance academy, Baras grew up in the ancient port city of Cadiz, a strip of land on the edge of Andalusia almost entirely sur- rounded by sea. Along with nearby Jerez de la Frontera and the Triana quarter in Seville, flamenco is said to have originated in Cadiz, the genre’s mix of gypsy, Arab, Jewish and Andalusian culture evolving out of persecution and poverty into a vehicle for expressing anger and sorrow and reinforcing cultural identity. Passed down through generations, flamenco has gone in and out of fashion. The six trailblazers represent- ed in Voces brought flamenco into the mainstream: de Lucia revolut- ionised flamenco guitar by intro- ducing the saxophone and the Peruvian cajon, that box-shaped percussion instrument played while sitting astride and slapping the front and back with the hands. The hoarse, emotional voice and intense charisma of Cadiz- born de la Isla had the same im- pact on the world of flamenco in the 1970s as, say, Pele had on foot- ball. Before him, there was Amaya (the only one of the six Baras never met), a Romani born in the Barcelona slums who escaped war-torn 1930s Spain to become an international celebrity, acting in films, dazzling packed houses with her footwork and taboo- breaking penchant for performing in pants. “Flamenco obliges you to be free to express what you feel,” says Baras. “I couldn’t care what the purists think of me. This company respects tradition but we have our own way of doing it.” Baras started learning fla- menco when she was seven in a class at her school for children of military personnel. The teacher was her mother, Concha: “Her achievement was to make sure all us little girls didn’t copy the moves blindly, that we felt them as indi- viduals and let our own person- alities emerge.” Her father, Cayetano, a stern army man, started a scrapbook de- voted to his daughter that very soon bulged with photos, pro- grams and newspaper cuttings. Through the decades he has con- tinued to do so. “He is a bit square and methodical but he’s a softie where his daughters are con- cerned. He keeps my files labelled by year in his study, and brings them out to show his friends.” Sara as a child, perhaps, a member of youth dance group Los Ninos de la Tertulia Flamenco. Sara aged 18, winning a television talent contest. A 20-something Sara performing with big-name flamenco companies — most no- tably guitarist Manuel Morao’s Gitanos de Jerez — and dancing to accompany the great exper- imental cantaor (flamenco singer) Morente. Then there’s Sara win- ning prestigious awards; Sara de- buting her own company in 1998; Sara’s image adorning a set of Spanish postage stamps. Sara as a TV presenter, catwalk model, tourist ambassador (“The Face of Andalusia”), film star (a dance cameo in Mission: Impossible 2) and the model for a Barbie doll, part of a Mattel-inspired initiative for children at risk. “They modelled the Barbie on my figure, on a real woman’s body.” She smiles, jokingly flexes a bicep. “It’s important for young girls to have strong role models. And my art has always let me de- fend women.” Of the 12 shows Baras has cre- ated to date, several have taken women as their theme, from Juana la Loca (the story of the daughter of Spanish monarch Ferdinand II of Aragon) and Mariana Pineda (the protagonist of Federico Gar- cia Lorca’s play of the same name) to Medusa, la guardiana (which gave the mythical priestess a new dimension). She dedicated Sabores to her mother, who came out of retire- ment to dance in the show’s Los Angeles run in 2006. “My mother was my first teacher and my biggest inspi- ration,” says Baras, who recently moved from Barcelona back to Cadiz to be closer to her parents and siblings, who all live within walking distance. “But since I’ve become a mother myself I think I appreciate her even more.” Baras had never taken more than a 10-day break from dancing since she started those classes with her mother: “Everything I do has something to do with dance. Even when I’m at home listening to music, I’m thinking, ‘How can I use this in my work?’ ” But in 2010 she put her career on hold for a 1½ years to have the baby she had been longing for. She says fatherhood has also changed Serrano, her Cordoba- born partner of 15 years: “We’ve lived and danced together for a long time and our connection is incredible” — their duet in Voces is as steamy as an industrial laun- dry — “but now we are even more connected. I see a new maturity in him; onstage he stands like a bull- fighter and you can’t take your eyes off him. We play it up, of course,” she twinkles. “We know with a glance what the other is going to do. “For the Medusa show we re- hearsed blindfolded,” she contin- ues. “Not being able to see each other was extremely hard but we felt it was important to keep a space for improvisation. That’s what keeps us fresh, keeps the tra- dition alive.” To this end, Baras feels that fla- menco and jazz share the same sensibilities: “They both respect the roots, then go off in their own directions.” Baras, after all, is renowned for the sort of volcanic, anything-goes footwork more associated with male flamenco dancers. Through the years her innate sense of rhythm has caught the ears of a wealth of collaborators including Russian cellist and conductor Mstislav Rostropovich. Rolling Stones saxophonist Tim Ries enlisted Baras for his 2013 Rolling Stones Project — jazz renderings of the group’s hits, featuring the likes of Norah Jones singing Wild Horses and Jumping Jack Flash flamenco-fied by Baras: “We were in a studio in New York and the floor wasn’t great so they turned a table upside down and re- corded me dancing a buleria (a fast flamenco rhythm) on top of that.” Even her palindromic name has rhythm. The La Granja crowd thinks so; some people leave their seats to wander down the front and gaze adoringly at Baras. Later, the six panels are turned to reveal mirrors in front of which Baras dances alone, as if all of these legends are present within her. “Art is so important, especially in these crazy days,” she tells me about 2am. “Art reflects your country but also yourself.” She pummels her fists on her thighs, as if they were heels on a wooden floor. “Flamenco,” she says, “reveals your inner truth.” Voces is at the Melbourne Festival from tomorrow until Sunday. Spanish dancer Sara Baras radiates feeling with every move she makes JANE CORNWELL ‘It’s important for young girls to have strong role models. And my art has always let me defend women’ SARA BARAS JULLETE VALTINEDAS Sara Baras’s Voces, Suite Flamenca is a tribute to six legends of the genre, from Paco de Lucia to Camaron de la Isla — all of whom, she says, ‘made me who I am today’ Like content-challenged comedians, Gob Squad performers really fire up only when they have people to riff off. They even lead with the worn- out question of the hack stand- up: “Where are you from?” The Berlin-based collective’s War and Peace is loosely staged as an aristocratic salon. Several audience members are announced as they enter the theatre. Heralded, if you like. This is not, however, an attempt to re-create Anna Pavlovna’s St Petersburg soiree in Tolstoy’s novel. Two hundred and ten years on, this is a time of peace, we’re told. We’ve had 70 years of it. The content of Gob Squad’s War and Peace — its writing, its set pieces — is a sequence of tantalising opportunities missed or, at best, only glancingly hit. Structurally, the piece dissipates into entropic anticlimax. But the way the performers choose their marks, the way they wrangle and involve audience members, and the way they cope with ricocheting contributions is elite (as the sports commentators would say). As good as it gets. Three (willing) audience members end up sitting around a table in this salon. On Tuesday evening, an international relations student named Jeff was so perfect as the audience’s everyman — a modern-day Pierre Bezukhov — that salon host Simon Will admitted Jeff looked like a ring-in. Co-star in that performance was Kerith, who prefaced her answer to a question about the nature of time with a barely audible admonition: “Just be honest.” She then spoke about the lack of fixed milestones in queer time while several hundred people held their breath. Rather than freaking out over losing control of their show, the squad revels in the scintillating haphazardness of proceedings. Personal stories from the squad are also memorable. Bastian Trost (from Dusseldorf) tells us about his grandfather, Paul, who taught him that the only person to shoot in a time of war is yourself. Paul self-inflicted the German equivalent of a blighty wound rather than fight the bad fight. Context lends a fresh poignancy to John Lennon’s Imagine, lackadaisically sung by Northern English nose-picker Sharon Smith. Even Coldplay’s Viva la Vida (with its grandiloquent biblical and Napoleonic references) gains some gravitas in a karaoke performance. Paradoxically (for such a seat- of-the-pants show) the use of multi-screen AV is impressively slick. The live vision and sound mixing is excellent. It’s a shame, then, that dramaturgy wasn’t given as much attention. Tickets: $65. Bookings: (03) 9685 5111 or online. Duration: 1hr 45min, no interval. Until October 30. High jinks with your Tolstoyan musings DAVID BALTZER War and Peace is loosely staged as an aristocratic salon THEATRE War and Peace. Gob Squad. Presented by Malthouse Theatre and Melbourne Festival. Merlyn Theatre, Melbourne, October 18. CHRIS BOYD BRENDA CRONIN
Transcript of Sara Baras’s Flamenco superstar lights up the night in the shadow … · 2018-07-19 · beard;...
ARTS THE AUSTRALIAN,THURSDAY, OCTOBER 20, 2016
theaustralian.com.au/arts 15V1 - AUSE01Z01MA
Unsung heroes of the backlot
Remember the evening panorama over Central Park in the original Ghostbusters from 1984? And the dramatic Manhattan skyline from the 1949 film of The Fountainhead? In both movies, painted backings often stood in for the city itself.
In The Art of the HollywoodBackdrop, to be published next month, the unsung artists who created some of cinema’s most enduring images take a long-overdue bow.
Authors Richard M. Isackesand Karen L. Maness introduce the individuals who, with swaths of muslin and pots of paint, conjured up the war-torn South in Gone With the Wind and a menacing desert in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.
For The Terminal, the 2004movie about a man caught in travel limbo, scenic artists re-created John F. Kennedy International Airport on a backdrop that was 198m wide and 14m high.
New York poses unique challenges to scenic artists, in part because of the city’s varying elevations and construction, says Michael Denering, who spent three decades painting backings for films such as Ghostbusters, Jurassic Park and Spider-Man.
“A building might start in onespot, go down a little hill and then have a subway below it,” Denering says.
While New York is a perennial setting for movies, it isn’t the only place captured on backings.
North by Northwest used a backdrop of Mount Rushmore. When James Stewart, in Mr Smith Goes to Washington, gestures through a window at the Capitol dome, he is pointing not to the actual building but a backdrop of the Washington skyline.
And while much of The Soundof Music was shot in Austria, the Alpine vistas in some scenes are painted backings.
Filmmakers didn’t trumpetthe backdrops and seldom included their creators in movie credits. The studios “had no
particular interest in advertising them because they considered the scenic backdrops or backings … a kind of special-effects secret”, Isackes says.
“They didn’t want people toknow that when they were looking at love scenes in The Sound of Music, that (the actors) were not standing in front of the actual Alps,” he said. “(Audiences) were looking at a very large painting.”
For decades, computer-generated imagery and green screens have been replacing scenic artists and the backdrops they painted.
But the backings haven’t entirely vanished. For Hail, Caesar! — a send-up of 1950s-era moviemaking released in February — the Coen brothers enlisted some handpainted backings and borrowed a Roman landscape from MGM’s 1959 epic Ben-Hur.
Movie backings, which evolved from handpainted backdrops for the theatre, were used in Hollywood as early as the 1910s and had their heyday in the 30s through the 50s, according to the authors. A number of movies depended solely on backings to create cinematic worlds; most used them to supplement location shots.
The craft was passed down among artists, staying within some families for generations. Many practitioners also were gifted landscape painters who could translate a production designer’s sketch into a mammoth tableau that would look persuasive on-screen.
At one point during the 40s,MGM was so busy turning out films “they had scenic artists working 24 hours a day, in different shifts,” Maness says.
The book credits George Gibson, who supervised MGM’s scenic department from 1938 to 1968, as being a master of imaginary environments such as the Emerald City in The Wizard of Oz — choosing the right shade for the Yellow Brick Road apparently took more than a week — as well as real ones, such as the Vatican.
THE WALL STREET JOURNAL
On a summer night in La Granjade San Ildefonso, about 80kmnorth of Madrid, a crescent moonhangs above an open-air theatreon whose stage seven musicianshave gone quiet. A sold-out crowdsits forward until, on an amplifiedwooden floor, comes the rat-a-tatof steel-tipped shoes.
“Ole!” shouts someone.“Guapa!” yells someone else, and“Andale!”
A blur of green tassels, a wind-milling of arms, and there she is:Sara Baras, one of Spain’s biggestflamenco stars. Alone in the spot-light, her dark hair scraped into abun, giving us the you-got-a-prob-lem glare of the gypsy soul, thesort of look that would stop a bullat 50 paces.
Behind her and the seated mu-sicians (a sextet of male and fe-male dancers is offstage) loom sixheadstone-like panels, each sport-ing a black-and-white portrait of abygone flamenco legend.
Singers Enrique Morente andCamaron de la Isla, the latter withhis trademark shaggy hair andbeard; guitarists Moraito Chicoand Paco de Lucia; dancer Anto-nio Gades — who famously cho-reographed a version of the operaCarmen — and wartime singerand dancer Carmen Amaya,whom Jean Cocteau called “blackrain beating against a window”.There are icons who have fed thereputation of flamenco, a tra-ditional art form from the Andalu-sia region of southern Spain thatmixes singing, dancing and guitarplaying with vocal cries, hand-claps and finger clicks — and isdeeper and more complex than itsSpanish tourist board cliche.
“I wanted to thank these mae-stros for showing flamenco to theworld,” Baras, 44, tells me after shehas signed autographs for fans andposed for photos with the localmayor and VIPs. “They all mademe who I am today.”
Voces, Suite Flamenca is the lat-est show to be directed and chore-ographed by Baras, who leads hercompany of 14 performers includ-ing guest artist (and husband) JoseSerrano, a dancer whose ferociouschest-puffing solos capture thewild furia at the core of flamenco.Having played international ve-nues including Sadler’s Wells inLondon and the New York CityCentre, Voces opens in Melbournethis week — eight years after Bal-let Flamenco de Sara Baras gracedthe Sydney Opera House with theacclaimed show Sabores.
The audience at La Granjaseems to be familiar with each idol.Spanish-language recordings oftheir voices — hence the title —punctuate the performance, likespirits called up by Baras’s per-cussive zapateado stomping.
For Baras, her every move radi-ates feeling, from her curvingtorso and right-angled elbows tohands that circle fluidly from thewrists, her fingers tracing curli-cues. Controlled emotion is herthing, too; her upper body stayserect as she glides across the stage,lifting her skirt while pummellingthe floor, as if to reveal the mech-anics of the dance, its force. Orshe’ll simply shake her head hardthen pause, arms overhead, aneyebrow raised, oozing flamencoaristocracy.
“I used to try to impress withgreater speed or the most compli-cated turns,” she says. “But now Ithink you can have the same in-tensity just by standing still andbeing quiet. The concentrationwith each show is immense butthis is what we live for.” A smile.“To leave our soul on the stage.”
It’s nearly 1am when we meet,and Baras is remarkably fresh andanimated for one who has justbeen dancing vigorously through-out a two-hour show. Havingchanged out of costumes includ-ing abstract florals, tailored trous-
Flamenco superstar lights up the night in the shadow of maestros
ers and, for a tension-laden duetwith Serrano, a sleek maxi dresswith polka dots (not for her thelong ruffle trains of the flamencostereotype), she’s wearing a flow-ing orange jersey and let her hairdown.
“I love performing,” she says. “Icould dance and dance. It’s mak-ing a show that’s exhausting.Doing the choreography. Unify-ing the music and the steps. In-volving the set, lighting andcostume designers. But we have agood team, very organised,” shecontinues, lighting up as her tourmanager brother brings us a bottleof rum and two glasses.
“Most of us have been workingtogether for over 20 years so thatmakes it possible for me to givetime to work and family.”
One of four children born to afather who was a colonel in the
Spanish military and a motherwho ran a dance academy, Barasgrew up in the ancient port city ofCadiz, a strip of land on the edge ofAndalusia almost entirely sur-rounded by sea.
Along with nearby Jerez de laFrontera and the Triana quarter inSeville, flamenco is said to haveoriginated in Cadiz, the genre’smix of gypsy, Arab, Jewish andAndalusian culture evolving outof persecution and poverty into avehicle for expressing anger andsorrow and reinforcing culturalidentity. Passed down throughgenerations, flamenco has gone inand out of fashion.
The six trailblazers represent-ed in Voces brought flamenco intothe mainstream: de Lucia revolut-ionised flamenco guitar by intro-ducing the saxophone and thePeruvian cajon, that box-shapedpercussion instrument playedwhile sitting astride and slappingthe front and back with the hands.
The hoarse, emotional voiceand intense charisma of Cadiz-
born de la Isla had the same im-pact on the world of flamenco inthe 1970s as, say, Pele had on foot-ball.
Before him, there was Amaya(the only one of the six Barasnever met), a Romani born in theBarcelona slums who escapedwar-torn 1930s Spain to becomean international celebrity, actingin films, dazzling packed houseswith her footwork and taboo-breaking penchant for performingin pants.
“Flamenco obliges you to befree to express what you feel,” saysBaras. “I couldn’t care what thepurists think of me. This companyrespects tradition but we have ourown way of doing it.”
Baras started learning fla-menco when she was seven in aclass at her school for children ofmilitary personnel. The teacher
was her mother, Concha: “Herachievement was to make sure allus little girls didn’t copy the movesblindly, that we felt them as indi-viduals and let our own person-alities emerge.”
Her father, Cayetano, a sternarmy man, started a scrapbook de-voted to his daughter that verysoon bulged with photos, pro-grams and newspaper cuttings.Through the decades he has con-tinued to do so. “He is a bit squareand methodical but he’s a softiewhere his daughters are con-cerned. He keeps my files labelledby year in his study, and bringsthem out to show his friends.”
Sara as a child, perhaps, amember of youth dance group LosNinos de la Tertulia Flamenco.Sara aged 18, winning a televisiontalent contest. A 20-somethingSara performing with big-nameflamenco companies — most no-tably guitarist Manuel Morao’sGitanos de Jerez — and dancingto accompany the great exper-imental cantaor (flamenco singer)
Morente. Then there’s Sara win-ning prestigious awards; Sara de-buting her own company in 1998;Sara’s image adorning a set ofSpanish postage stamps. Sara as aTV presenter, catwalk model,tourist ambassador (“The Face ofAndalusia”), film star (a dancecameo in Mission: Impossible 2)and the model for a Barbie doll,part of a Mattel-inspired initiativefor children at risk.
“They modelled the Barbie onmy figure, on a real woman’sbody.” She smiles, jokingly flexes abicep. “It’s important for younggirls to have strong role models.And my art has always let me de-fend women.”
Of the 12 shows Baras has cre-ated to date, several have takenwomen as their theme, from Juanala Loca (the story of the daughterof Spanish monarch Ferdinand IIof Aragon) and Mariana Pineda(the protagonist of Federico Gar-cia Lorca’s play of the same name)to Medusa, la guardiana (whichgave the mythical priestess a newdimension).
She dedicated Sabores to hermother, who came out of retire-ment to dance in the show’s LosAngeles run in 2006.
“My mother was my firstteacher and my biggest inspi-ration,” says Baras, who recentlymoved from Barcelona back toCadiz to be closer to her parentsand siblings, who all live withinwalking distance. “But since I’vebecome a mother myself I think Iappreciate her even more.”
Baras had never taken morethan a 10-day break from dancingsince she started those classes withher mother: “Everything I do hassomething to do with dance. Evenwhen I’m at home listening tomusic, I’m thinking, ‘How can Iuse this in my work?’ ” But in 2010she put her career on hold for a 1!years to have the baby she hadbeen longing for.
She says fatherhood has alsochanged Serrano, her Cordoba-born partner of 15 years: “We’velived and danced together for along time and our connection isincredible” — their duet in Vocesis as steamy as an industrial laun-dry — “but now we are even more
connected. I see a new maturity inhim; onstage he stands like a bull-fighter and you can’t take youreyes off him. We play it up, ofcourse,” she twinkles. “We knowwith a glance what the other isgoing to do.
“For the Medusa show we re-hearsed blindfolded,” she contin-ues. “Not being able to see eachother was extremely hard but wefelt it was important to keep aspace for improvisation. That’swhat keeps us fresh, keeps the tra-dition alive.”
To this end, Baras feels that fla-menco and jazz share the samesensibilities: “They both respectthe roots, then go off in their owndirections.”
Baras, after all, is renowned forthe sort of volcanic, anything-goesfootwork more associated withmale flamenco dancers. Throughthe years her innate sense ofrhythm has caught the ears of awealth of collaborators includingRussian cellist and conductorMstislav Rostropovich.
Rolling Stones saxophonistTim Ries enlisted Baras for his2013 Rolling Stones Project — jazzrenderings of the group’s hits,featuring the likes of Norah Jonessinging Wild Horses and JumpingJack Flash flamenco-fied by Baras:“We were in a studio in New Yorkand the floor wasn’t great so theyturned a table upside down and re-corded me dancing a buleria (a fastflamenco rhythm) on top of that.”
Even her palindromic namehas rhythm.
The La Granja crowd thinks so;some people leave their seats towander down the front and gazeadoringly at Baras. Later, the sixpanels are turned to reveal mirrorsin front of which Baras dancesalone, as if all of these legends arepresent within her.
“Art is so important, especiallyin these crazy days,” she tells meabout 2am. “Art reflects yourcountry but also yourself.”
She pummels her fists on herthighs, as if they were heels on awooden floor. “Flamenco,” shesays, “reveals your inner truth.”
Voces is at the Melbourne Festival from tomorrow until Sunday.
Spanish dancer Sara Baras radiates feeling with every move she makes
JANE CORNWELL
‘It’s important for young girls to have strongrole models. And my art has always let me defend women’SARA BARAS
JULLETE VALTINEDAS
Sara Baras’s Voces, Suite Flamenca is a tribute to six legends of the genre, from Paco de Lucia to Camaron de la Isla — all of whom, she says, ‘made me who I am today’
Like content-challenged comedians, Gob Squad performers really fire up only when they have people to riff off. They even lead with the worn-out question of the hack stand-up: “Where are you from?”
The Berlin-based collective’sWar and Peace is loosely staged as an aristocratic salon. Several audience members are announced as they enter the theatre. Heralded, if you like.
This is not, however, an attempt to re-create Anna Pavlovna’s St Petersburg soiree in Tolstoy’s novel. Two hundred and ten years on, this is a time of peace, we’re told. We’ve had 70 years of it.
The content of Gob Squad’sWar and Peace — its writing, its set pieces — is a sequence of tantalising opportunities missed or, at best, only glancingly hit. Structurally, the piece dissipates into entropic anticlimax. But the way the performers choose their marks, the way they wrangle and involve audience members, and the way they cope with ricocheting contributions is elite (as the sports commentators would say). As good as it gets.
Three (willing) audience members end up sitting around a table in this salon. On Tuesday evening, an international relations student named Jeff was
so perfect as the audience’s everyman — a modern-day Pierre Bezukhov — that salon host Simon Will admitted Jeff looked like a ring-in. Co-star in that performance was Kerith, who prefaced her answer to a question about the nature of time with a barely audible admonition: “Just be honest.” She then spoke about the lack of fixed milestones in queer time while several hundred people held their breath.
Rather than freaking out overlosing control of their show, the squad revels in the scintillating haphazardness of proceedings.
Personal stories from the squad are also memorable. Bastian Trost (from Dusseldorf) tells us about his grandfather, Paul, who taught him that the only person to shoot in a time of war is yourself. Paul self-inflicted the German equivalent of a blighty wound rather than fight the bad fight.
Context lends a fresh poignancy to John Lennon’s Imagine, lackadaisically sung by Northern English nose-picker Sharon Smith. Even Coldplay’s Viva la Vida (with its grandiloquent biblical and Napoleonic references) gains some gravitas in a karaoke performance.
Paradoxically (for such a seat-of-the-pants show) the use of multi-screen AV is impressively slick. The live vision and sound mixing is excellent. It’s a shame, then, that dramaturgy wasn’t given as much attention.
Tickets: $65. Bookings: (03) 9685 5111 or online. Duration: 1hr 45min, no interval. Until October 30.
High jinks with your Tolstoyan musings
DAVID BALTZER
War and Peace is loosely staged as an aristocratic salon
THEATREWar and Peace. Gob Squad. Presented by Malthouse Theatre and Melbourne Festival. Merlyn Theatre, Melbourne, October 18.
CHRIS BOYD
BRENDA CRONIN
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