Sadler’s Wells, London
November 27, 2024
Based loosely, very loosely, on a William Blake poem, Michael Keegan-Dolan’s NOBODADDY (Tríd an bpoll gan bun) purports to be an examination of death, its Irish subtitle translating as ‘through the bottomless pit.’ Far from being the “moving, multi-disciplinary dance and theatre ritual” promised, a bottomless pit felt just like what one was in after an hour and forty five minutes of frenetic energy, much noise and little substance.
Nobodaddy is the name of a destructive divinity who appears in a number of Blake’s poems, Keegan-Dolan and Teaċ Daṁsa’s work supposedly ode to the peacemakers and the bringers of good things.
A series of vignettes linked by American folk music go nowhere and do little. The final song, a charming multi-versed ditty culminating in the heroine being stabbed, might as well have been Tom Lehrer’s ‘Irisch Ballad,’ all it needed was a bit of ricketty ticketty tin.
Photo Emilija Jefremova
There are two or three sections of well-presented glee singing, although with far too much loud banging on the drum kit. The string players are good, but at times the music seemed like a childish punk rant.
Sam Amidon’s folk music is also well executed. He’s clearly a specialist, but here seems like a fish out of water. A bizarre, breathless rendition of ‘The Minstrel Boy’ is a prime example.
Dance, movement, is in the minority, but is well performed. One has to admire the stamina of the performers, if not the choreography. If as the programme states, NOBODADDY is meant to be an ode to the peacemakers and bringer of good things, it fails.
It’s all a very long way from Keegan-Dolan’s stunning and powerful Swan Lake. As that and other works have shown, he does know how to do narrative. But NOBODADDY is abstract to the point of meaninglessness. Even the theme of death is not a clear thread. The antics of the performers quickly pall.
Does Lüthi’s costumes are unflattering and ill-fitting. The suits look more off the peg than bespoke and red and white is never a good mix. I don’t envy the wardrobe having to deal with the ruffled shirts either. The grey suits with purple lining made the dancers look like gangsters.
It all rather seemed like adults pretending to be stroppy teenagers with the audience pretending to be shocked at the bad language and smoking. Isolated laughs punctuated the air on occasion. At the end, some leapt to their feet shrieking and whooping (not uncommon these days). Maybe I missed something.