MÁM – Cultivated

A scattering of wooden chairs, 10 adults clothed in funereal shades, a young girl in ghostly white: just one of a ‘handful’ of scenes in Michael Keegan-Dolan’s maelstrom of movement that is MÁM.

That wake-like scene features sadness and howling, but it also quickly slips in to lascivious, likely lubricated dance, with the performers falling into and over each other – as well as falling out. This is people at their worst, trying for their best.

The chairs become rearranged into an auditorium line-up and the dancers mirror the audience, reaching for packets of crisps from their pockets – in one of a splattering of gags scattered throughout the piece they snatch them from each other or offer them to the ‘real’ audience.

The production is, for the most part, dominated by a giant curtain that seemingly spans the full height and width of the stage. Occasionally the rail holding it tilts and the backdrop slides dramatically to the floor, revealing a new set of vignettes, a band, or (slightly perplexingly) giant industrial fans.

The band is integral, signifying a tonal shift from the traditional Irish concertina player Cormac Begley’s rhythmic accompaniment and the exuberance of a ceilidh, to a more sensuous urban jazzy sleaze from classical contemporary collective Stargaze. The band occasionally become part of the dance, interacting with the performers.

It is a technical treat, with Keegan-Dolan’s intense choreography matched by the dancers’ impressive prowess, and Sabine Dargent’s set and Adam Silverman’s lighting creating multiple settings in ways that are simultaneously bold but unobtrusive.

For the most part narrative is loosely held. This is more impulsive movement driven by the music, with an extremely skilled ensemble, than a single story. It is a busy stage – perhaps sometimes too much, as solo movements are echoed (predictably) by the group.

For me, the strongest connections come through individual movements: where characters come alive in successful (or failed) seduction, a teasing (lack of a) kiss, or a tornado twirl. That is when we see life at its rawest.