Dance should never become a form of doomscrolling.
But on Sunday night, at the much-celebrated 10th Umtiza Arts Festival, in the Guild Theatre, this is what happened.
I was chaperoning an 86-year-old to the Festival of Dance at 3pm. That should be visual fun, not too taxing, we thought.
Now I love dance, as a rugga-bugger lefty, I am unable to perform in the arts — but I sure do get into it.
And I have seen some truly whacky pieces, more in the performance art style, and some unbelievable work at the National Arts Festival.
I am delighted that Umtiza is getting the feel of NAF when it was pumping.
Arts people running an arts festival and politicians getting the stage to speak about our taxes they are spending on our behalf.
We arrived early, piled into the coffee, some feisty samosas, and then, of course, the obligatory Maynards original wine gums, oh and some chips and … you know how it goes.
No we didn’t.
We found our seats in B row — gosh we are so close I pray a dancer does not fall off the stage and crush my date.
The show would be seen close up.
And the curtain went up. The acts got going. Great sound, lovely use of colourful backdrops and the dancers — wow, what a lineup.
The children were among the first — absolutely cute poppets in princess dresses and tiaras, led by their teachers, not in tutus and tiaras.
Suddenly names were called out — Abie, Reeny — and I realised these were parents on the sidelines shouting out their support. Auwwww!
One child was tasting her lipstick, another had to be gently pressed to the floor into position.
Overall it was cool.
And now as the acts came, the dancers are getting slightly older and less princessy and there are even a few boys.
But just like that there was a solo by a very little girl with incredibly adult modern dance moves.
She even did a hands-free somersault and I thought, I hope there are medics on the sideline if that goes wrong, but she was perfectly in control.
I was still in my critical mode — they could smile a bit more, or, well hell, they are out here in front of their peers stop being such a misery.
On it went, so many dancers, so many styles, so many body shapes and emotions, so many fab costumes.
My favourite was the Turkish belly dancer who was mesmerising with huge movements and such obvious pleasure, but also among her troupe as they sashayed and jiggled.
Form is merely an aesthetic introduction to the inner self where real interest lies, but here form is everything.
Yuu, I was starting to feel we were close to the end when a compere walked on and said this was half time.
We had 15 minutes to refresh and then the whistle for the second half would blow.
We promptly visited the kiosk again — this was not good, in fact, it was a wicked problem. Snacks just keep on appearing.
Now what would we see I pondered, and one of the first pieces involved women of all ages, from a pre-teen to some awesome matriarchs. Now it was getting interesting.
Then they came back and did a sort of feminist piece where the matriarchs landed up bringing a young outsider back into the group and this teen was held aloft while raising a defiant fist.
It was great, but I still harboured the natural male instinct to fear the widow spider because you know what happens to the oke afterwards … he becomes post-coital toasted muesli crunch.
But hey, what a kief theme. And now we had seen it all, traditional, modern, jazz, and we started getting into the big modern statement pieces, hip-hop with older guys and gals doing stunning pumpy stuff, looking incredible in black lycra and baggie brooks.
And then there was a moving physical theatre-type serious piece, gorgeous, and then back to the sporty bouncy young crew, and then a fantastic piece stating, “What if AI ruled the world“.
Then another and another.
By now, the auditorium is showing empty seats and has lost about 30% of the crowd.
I have given up my pompous “arts critic” mindset and realise that I was in danger of having a doze.
I perked up and looked at the clock — we are in for over two hours.
And nobody ever said we would be going into extra time.
Next, and next and next.
Got to hand it to the sound team, they only botched one song.
I see my date is looking blank, as are the rest of the crowd; just the die-hards screaming for the friend, and the occasional parent’s hoarse croak, I imagined.
So much stupendous dance, so much innovation, so much local diversity, so much to feel proud of.
But how much of this can we take?
Apparently a lot more. Eventually the curtain caved in and dropped to the stage without a word. No thanks, no well done, no come to the next show.
Just a sudden collapse and the sound of heavy panting. We have been at it for three hours.
We lean forward and slowly ease our aching bones up into standing position.
“I have no fat and a thin bum. If I’d known it was going to be this long I would have brought a cushion,” I hear.
The patrons looked beaten, absolutely pummelled into submission.
And who should be standing at my exit, but the delightful Guild Theatre manager Zane Flanagan.
He looks at me and knows what’s coming.
Bruuuuuu!
He says helplessly this was what the dancers wanted.
How many pieces have we seen?
Forty-seven.
This was not a “dance festival” it was a dance marathon more in keeping with the 1930s where the last couple standing in a Chicago marathon made it to 2,780 hours — 115 days.
But it’s all good really. Our city has incredible dance, but it needs some curation, asseblief.
The festival carries on until Sunday, May 31. Visit the “Umtiza Arts Festival” on Facebook for programme details.
