The Performance of Counter-Sorcery in Lemi Ponifasio’S Tempest: Without a Body
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The Performance of Counter-Sorcery in Lemi Ponifasio’s Tempest: Without a Body Guy Zimmerman Shakespeare Bulletin, Volume 33, Number 2, Summer 2015, pp. 273-291 (Article) Published by Johns Hopkins University Press For additional information about this article http://muse.jhu.edu/journals/shb/summary/v033/33.2.zimmerman.html Access provided by University of California @ Irvine (13 Oct 2015 04:16 GMT) The Performance of Counter-Sorcery in Lemi Ponifasio’s Tempest: Without a Body GUY ZIMMERMAN University of California at Irvine 1. Theatre and the Lagoon In October of 2009, Maldives president Mohammed Nasheed at- tempted to redraw the boundaries of postcolonial discourse when he convened a cabinet meeting in full SCUBA gear at the bottom of a la- goon (Associated Press). Images from this underwater meeting circulated in the international media and online, underscoring the implications for low-lying Pacific island dwellers of Western habits of consumption fueling global warming. In his theater work, another Pacific Islander, the Samoan choreographer and director Lemi Ponifasio, has helped to clarify the stakes in this ongoing catastrophe, the interwoven cascade of environmental ills already delivering what paleontologists call the “sixth great extinction” (Erwin), while also exacerbating the existing social inequities of the North/South divide. Speaking about the increasingly interconnected nature of things in a world defined by global capital and sea-level rise, Ponifasio says, “what you do here in the US affects the re- ality over there. So I’m here to intervene in your actions” (Sellars). One form this intervention takes is Ponifasio’s majestic riff on Shakespeare, Tempest: Without a Body. In this touring production Ponifasio begins to rework the politics and the poetics of theatrical space, and also those of the medium’s temporal structures in ways that resonate powerfully with various currents of Western thought in the postcolonial era. First created in 2007 and touring globally through 2011, Tempest: Without a Body opens with a deafening wall of sound. At a performance at the Million Dollar Theatre in Los Angeles as part of RedCat’s 2011 Radar LA Festival,1 this heavy industrial drone seemed to exert a kind Shakespeare Bulletin 33.2: 273–291 © 2015 The Johns Hopkins University Press. 274 GUY ZIMMERMAN of aural weight on a tiny winged figure appearing on stage, a stunted angel barely able to stand her ground. Facing upstage, the angel turned and, looking back, emitted a full-throated cry of terror that was itself a tragic act. The image held for a long time, the music rolling on, the angel periodically shifting positions to scream in terror once more. Then the music receded and a troupe of M¯aori dancers wearing monk-like robes swept on. Chanting softly in unison, they glided forwards and back across the stage with a calm, purifying dignity, the precision of their movements seeming reverent and restorative. Next, a man (originally the M¯aori activ- ist Tame Iti, in 2011 this role was played by Charles Koroneho) slowly materialized, broad-shouldered, out of the darkness upstage. Wearing a business suit he strode forward into the light, his feet bare, his face tattooed in looping, Polynesian designs. Koroneho stood and looked out at the audience, and then began to dance, moving his large body in quick, birdlike steps and sudden pivots. He rolled his eyes and, his tongue unfurling in the expressive gestures of ritualized M¯aori warfare, began to deliver a long and passionate lament. In his business suit, this dancing figure made the image of modern Western man strange again, a de-familiarization effect suggesting new capacities hovered nearby. Also on Ponifasio’s stage at various times were a golden figure writhing on his back with a slow majesty and a man moving with uncanny ease in a lumbering, animal gait on hands and feet as the droning industrial score gathered and released sonic energy. Ponifasio is a celebrated presence within the postdramatic theater movement, which began in the late 1960s and gained broad traction in the 1980s with the rise of a new generation of theater and dance artists, such as Robert Wilson and Pina Bausch. The impact of Ponifasio’s work shows the movement’s global scope, and helps illuminate the political implications of its root formal concerns—nonrepresentational staging, deconstructed mise-en-scene, and a distancing from the written text—and how these relate to the increasingly ecological crises of the postcolonial present. Ponifasio’s firm grasp of contemporary Western art and dis- course—the elegant economy with which his tiny bedraggled angel con- nects to Benjamin and Klee as well as to Ariel—makes Without a Body a lens through which we can examine an array of contemporary theoretical frameworks to see how they pertain to the current moment. The specter of epochal climate change currently threatening living systems broadly can make the purely human concerns of twentieth-century progressives seem anthropocentric, even parochial. Yet those issues arise from the same root as the environmental ills now threatening to drown the people of the THE PERFORMANCE OF COUNTER-SORCERY 275 atolls—a specifically Western mode of relating to experience that takes systemic form in the capitalist economy. Given his stated intention to shift the register of postcolonial discourse, it is no accident that Ponifasio is using The Tempest for the foundation of his Without a Body. The choice can be understood as an act of surroga- tion, in which a cultural expression is embraced, in Joseph Roach’s words, as “actual or perceived vacancies occur in the network of relations that constitutes the social fabric” (2). With Tempest: Without a Body, Ponifasio is emphatically not attempting to table a version of Shakespeare’s The Tempest. There is no dialogue, no characters per se; all is image, move- ment, evocation, and postcolonial counter-appropriation, as if Ponifasio has reimagined Shakespeare as a postdramatic, indigenous Fourth World dance-performance artist. Without a Body thus registers as an act of cross- cultural audacity, Ponifasio moving to fill a vacancy in Western culture of which we may only be dimly aware, while also completing the affective transmission of Shakespeare’s play by carrying it down into its own dream of itself, where it manifests as a kind of animist invocation seeking to ward off an approaching endarkenment. 2. History as Storm, Politics as Sorcery From its first image forward, temporal issues dominate Without a Body. The tiny winged figure on stage is based on Paul Klee’s celebrated painting The Angel of History (Angelus Novus), providing a bridge between Ponifasio’s production and Walter Benjamin’s essay Theses on the Philosophy of History. In program notes, Ponifasio quotes directly from Benjamin’s Ninth Thesis on the Angelus Novus, presenting the celebrated indictment of the temporal construct of Western capitalism: The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such violence that the angel can no longer close them. The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This is what we call progress. (258) Ponifasio’s staging of the Angelus Novus illuminates the careful way he in- terweaves thematic ideas from diverse sources, including Shakespeare and Giorgio Agamben and Peter Sloterdijk.2 The storm that opens Shake- speare’s play is happening off-stage here, hidden from the audience but in full view of the angel from her vantage point on stage. This is first of five 276 GUY ZIMMERMAN sections of Without a Body, named State of Emergency in program notes. In these opening moments of Without a Body, the underlying alchemy of Shakespeare’s text is being genetically spliced with elements of indigenous Polynesian dance, and with contemporary theoretical critiques of Western hegemony. The cadre of chanting M¯aori monks who enter stage as the angel hobbles off connect to Miranda’s calming words at the beginning of Scene Two: If by your art, my dearest father, you have put the wild waters in this roar, allay them. Tame Iti’s ritual dance in Without a Body’s second part (Sacred Man) extends this act of cultural bricolage, relating both to Prospero’s sacred magic as a protest against injustice and exile and to Caliban’s assertion of his ancient sovereignty. Translated in program notes from te reo M¯aori, Iti’s speech begins: Your Majesty, Queen of England My mother is the mist; my father is the mountain, Enquire as to where the mountain and the mist come from and I will tell you that is where I come from. Panifasio, who was born into a royal family of neighboring Samoa, com- piled the speech from remarks made by members of the Ngai Tuhoe tribe of New Zealand in 2005 when they appeared before a tribunal established by the Crown in 1975 to adjudicate ongoing violations of the Treaty of Waitangi, first signed in 1840. If Sacred Man looks back to the sources of indigenous Samoan and M¯aori power, Part Three, Prayer of the Angel, and the two remaining sections Transit of Venus and Home, look resolutely forward. In Without a Body, Ponifasio uses the frame of Shakespeare’s play to address the in- traspecies relational drama modern man is creating with the ecosphere, and perhaps suggests ways to steer this drama toward a comedic or melo- dramatic closure rather than an utterly tragic one. “When we understand how to be human,” he says, “we’ll all rise up to the clouds” (Ponifasio).