A charming work of ingenuity, exploring queerness and gender through illusions.
As part of their Spring season, The Place presents a new work from choreographers Eli Lewis and Joe Garbett. Plue is a duet, performed by Garbett and Jay Yule, exploring queerness and visibility. Before the show begins we are invited by some friendly folks to play cup shuffling games, or to write down and post on a wall something we are proud of that nobody would know just by looking at us. By the end of the night the wall is full of touching notes and doodles: ‘I delivered lots of babies today’, ‘I’m one year sober’. My prideful exclamation of ‘never under-seasoning my food’ felt a little vapid on reflection.
We enter the theatre to the sound of birdsong and pale pastel lights, it’s the dawn. The set is minimalist and sterile, a collection of stark white squares and blocks. Slowly, hot pink socks and sleeves begin to peek out from behind two white panels. The illusory legs, floating neon limbs, uncannily extend their reach through the clever coordination of the duo — similar to a magician’s assistant being split in two. Soon the pink socks and sleeves are joined by coy blue limbs, knotting and folding, creating new little works of architecture. There is of course a discussion of gender here, a very elementary one at that, but the approach is measured. Rather than portraying some sort of hackneyed gender conflict, the pair simply switch affiliations like chameleons.
Now moving their panels about the space the duo continue their magic show. Sliding the panels, revealing new expressions and poses — there’s a subtle cheekiness to the action. The pair, in their bichromatic velour suits, twitch and shudder like aged animatronics. Stiff and uncertain, they move with a great deal of precision to Edvin Langfield’s nifty flickering score, occasionally staring out into the audience with inviting eyes. The choreography is very simple but possesses real ingenuity, with the coordination of the set pieces being particularly impressive. There are ideas of censorship perhaps, or feeling safe when we’re neatly placed within our box. The abstraction is always human, never obnoxiously telling us what is right or wrong to think.
The pair’s movement becomes more carefree and joyful, Yule strides about, taking in the rays of the sun. As they unite they become a play-doh clump of pink and blue with limbs twitching like a velveteen tarantula. We’re uncertain of where one begins and the other ends. It’s very weird, but charmingly so. Weird in the way that humans are. With Orrow Bell’s intelligent dramaturgy, and a playful approach from Lewis and Garbett, Plue is a clever slice of dance. Bright, funny, and sure to induce a little bit of head-scratching.