TUnder the direction of Deborah Warner, the tiny Ustinov Studio at Bath’s Theatre Royal has become a melting pot of intimate and diverse theatrical experiences, including a commission from choreographer Kim Brandstrup for a trilogy of dance pieces inspired by Greek mythology. The final part, Echo and Narcissus, is a short, beautifully written and acted piece preceded by a re-screening of Brandstrup’s 2014 dance film. Leda and the Swan and a live rendition of Britten’s Six Metamorphoses for oboe, performed by Judy Proctor. Each serves to set the stage for the main piece, the solitary voice of the oboe that wanders in timing and tonality, and the disconnect between desire, a film built on dysfunction, indeed.
In Echo and Narcissus, this disconnect is not only narrative (Echo desires an indifferent Narcissus, while Narcissus yearns for an emotionless version of himself) but also sensory: throughout, sight and touch are juxtaposed, one suggesting distance and perception, the other connection and physicality.
As the blind oracle Tiresias, Jonathan Goddard wanders around the edges of the piece like a picture frame, groping around the walls. In contrast, Echo (Laurel Daly-Smith) sets her sights on Narcissus (Saylene Griffiths), leaning ever closer to touch him. But he is oblivious to her interest, even when he is sleeping (a beautiful, flowing sequence suggests both unconsciousness and a deep restlessness) or in one of his more unsettling duets, partnering her more by touch than sight.
But the most striking episode is between Narcissus and his mirror image (Archie White): the two perform little miracles of mirror-image, flipping, rippling, swirling and flowing, synchronized by sensation rather than by sight. Each time Narcissus breaches the invisible barrier between them, White disappears in an instant like a statue in rippling water, a feat made possible by a portal set amid sparse décor and suggestive lighting with diagonal shadows and subtle reflections.
Despite the piece’s poetry and flawless dancing, there’s one element that’s frustratingly missing: Echo’s curse, which means she can only speak what someone else has just spoken. This is her most distinctive feature, and fits the dual theme perfectly, yet it’s almost choreographically or dramatically absent. Instead, the piece is all about Narcissus. Well, that may be appropriate. Indeed, like the figure of Narcissus himself, it is a potent blend of dark depth and enchanting beauty.
