| Kathakali Jan 04 |
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| Written by Administrator | |
| Thursday, 24 July 2008 12:36 | |
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Kathakali In early December 2003 we attended, at the invitation of Ettumanoor Kannan, a talented, skilled, ambitious, and,-- a rarity among classical artists of Asia,--fluently English-speaking dancer, a Kathakali festival in Trivandrum, Kerala, South India. To all casual explorers of Indian art, Kathakali is perhaps the most memorable of all Indian dance forms mainly for its odd costume for some photos): the dancers wear fantastic full body costumes including a huge, stiff skirt which reaches good 2 feet around them, full facial paint (complete with wide paper side-burns), and heavy painted and guilt wooden head-dress (the keeping of which in balance on their heads as they dance, admits Kannan, does take a little practice). The art form dates to 16th century and among its progenitors are counted Kootidyatam, the classical Sanskrit theater (originally of north Indian descent), and Theyyam, an ancient temple-festival theater of Kerala still surviving in a few locations whose ideas of elaborate costume and facial paint appear to have contributed to the Kathakali. Though the art form is usually described in the literature as dance-theater it is perhaps better described as pantomime-dance. In this, Kathakali is quite similar to other Indian dance forms, such as Bharathanatyam, which do relatively little dancing and rather a lot of pantomime. There is an important distinction between the two: pantomime represents in very literal forms the actions and emotions of the heroes sudden impact of blows, say, or the facial expression of pain or surprise (this appears to be called, in Sanskrit, Abhinaya); this can be quite dull: as when the dancer goes through a series of gestures, each of which represents a word in a sentence sung by the accompanist (see --a gesture representing the command to look the peacocks --a gesture representing peacocks-- play --a gesture representing playing); while dance, called Natya, is a more abstract art form. Dance proper does not represent actual actions or use literal facial expressions; rather, it does this very abstractly, --if at all; dance proper is a totally abstract set of movements which may sometimes be decoded as battle or suffering, from the general emotional impression of the whole performance, or the accompanying music, but the precise the import of the dance remains hidden -- and impossible to descry. (More broadly, I suppose, one could say that this is the mystery of what is sometimes called Art: that it means something to us, something beautiful, something important, something urgent, something uplifting and life-transforming, but precisely just what it means -- remains inscrutable, a mystery. In some sense, I suppose, one could say, that, in art, meaning is the concern of the little minds. One doesnt understand Art (there is nothing to get), one consumes it; one lets it wash over him). Balinese dance theater is, in this sense, true dance. Abstraction is taken to its limits: when two 12 year old girls perform a dance with fans and flowers, intended to portray the internal turmoil of a middle aged king setting out for battle; and where a single waive of a fan represents a the firing of a death-dealing arrow from a bow in a combat scene in which there has otherwise been a lot of violent motion, but no crossing of swords and no pantomime of blows either given or received. In this, Kathakali is not like Balinese dance, even if the organization of the art form is. (By which I mean that dancers do not specialize in roles, as they do in Thai khon see http://www.thailandtourismus.de/multimedia/pictures/khon-1024x786.jpg, where some are professional monkeys and others professional princes, but everyone is trained in all dramatic forms; and that all performances are ad hoc that is, just what piece will be performed is decided when the artists have assembled and one sees who has turned up to dance and therefore what play from the repertoire familiar to all can be staged). A Kathakali play consists of a musical performance, usually by two singers (each of whom also plays a small hand-held bronze percussion instrument), accompanied by a percussion section, consisting entirely of drums (of 2 or 3 kinds). (All the musicians are dressed in the "Keralan formal dress" -- of a white loincloth (with a gold border) and bare (and hairy) chocolate-colored chest). The singers perform the libretto while the dancers illustrate it with pantomime. A typical performance may last 2-3 hours; and one can see 3-4 performances in a good overnight performance. To my eyes, this would be all a little dull. (The comment that comes to mind is that which was that made by a Persian prince regarding what he perceived the excruciating boredom of attending horse-races I already know, he said, that one horse runs faster than another: I already know how it feels to be surprised, seeing someone go through the gestures doesnt do anything to spice up my life). It would be dull, I say, if it werent for the magnificent interludes of true dance: such as the peacock dance, where, after pantomiming to his wife see the peacock dance, the hero of the play, a vicious and blood-thirsty demon, performs a lovely, slow, meditative dance in which he appears to be transformed into a peacock himself, fanning out the tail and shaking it proudly for all to see, transfixed by the beauty of the birds, the audience taken with the beauty of the dancer, the dancer taken by the demon, just as the demon appears to be taken, by the spirit of the dancing peacocks; or the breathtaking scene which serves as introduction of a particular character type a demon -- with a gradual lowering of a screen held by half-naked men and the emergence of the boastful, proud demon staring regally at the audience, almost motionless, turning now this way, now that, almost imperceptibly, while the drums crash in a hail of sound. Perhaps the best part of the festival, to us, were the afternoon demonstrations, a brilliant idea introduced by Kannan: dances performed in the Kerala formals (rather than all the costume and paint), in which one can see every movement and every facial expression of the dancer which somehow seem to be obstructed by all the gear in the performance proper. Kannan got this idea from observing how popular with Kathakali fans are the dancers practice sessions (usually held in the monsoon). We thank him for it. The festival attracted considerable audience, though almost entirely male and almost entirely over 40. Kannan, himself in early 30s, is worried about the future of the art form which doesnt seem to attract many fans in the younger generation but for now there are not only enough fans, but also sufficient interest to write new librettos and have them staged. And walking about town in the evening one can, on occasion, catch the sound of the Kathakali horizontal drum, a liquid, glassy, high pitched staccato attacco, being practiced in some of the private houses one passes by. To read more, check out http://www.cyberkerala.com/kathakali/) |