Content Warning: mentions of sexual violence
THEM, Body Politic’s show at The Pegasus last Thursday, tenderly explores the effects of sexual harassment and assault on three young women, through the framing device of a support group. This is preceded by a curtain raiser choreographed by two of THEM’s performers, Viki Cercek and Christina Dionysopoulou, and featuring twelve local young people. The opener was created over three days and does a wonderful job of setting the stage - both in terms of giving us a more abstract exploration of the themes, and of making more of a connection with the teenage audience that one of the three main stories represents (the performers in the main piece - Cercek, Dionysopoulou and Emily Jordan - are all adults).
THEM is aimed at audiences 14+, and clearly takes particular care to look its teenage audience in the eye. The curtain raiser itself starts with a mesmerising union of movement from its dozen dancers, before breaking apart into smaller pieces, the highlight of which involves a loop of ribbon, held in a square by two dancers, while a third bobs up and down inside it, as if fighting a powerful current. It’s a clever illustration of internal struggle and the overwhelming force of trauma.
I should mention as well, the second the lights dropped and the theatre door shut, the thick, heady smell of incense gripped the room. By about half an hour in, the scent was overpowering, my eyes pricked and my lungs felt heavy with it. While it’s possible, this was a logistical overcompensation, as THEM is currently touring the UK, and will be adjusting its set design for each theatre accordingly, I like to think it was an artistic choice. The intoxicating, all-consuming scent played beautifully with the material at hand, the way some experiences permeate your blood and bones and lay like sediment there. The costuming, however, confused me slightly and did little to enhance my experience - bright colourful fabric wrapped into intricate jumpsuits. It felt slightly otherworldly in a way that clashed with this very down-to-earth production, and logistically it obscured the dancers’ movements at times.
Our three nameless main characters meet at a support group, creating a bubble of understanding and quiet for one another to open up. Their stories are shared over spare, straightforward voiceovers, as we watch the accompanying emotions play out on their faces. One speaks of being harassed at school and in public from the age of twelve onwards, another speaks of landing her dream job only to be assaulted by the boss she’s been desperate to earn the respect of. Finally, in the most in-depth sequence of the show, we watch one girl’s experience of giddily getting ready for a party with her friends, tearing up the pink-lit dance floor over one drink, two, and then more. And as the night goes on, the quality of light deepens and darkens into more shadowy, encasing jewel tones. And we see her experience diverge from her fellow partygoers into pain and confusion. The voiceover tells us how, upstairs at the party, she is pressured into sex with her boyfriend even after she withdraws consent. Later her friends express scepticism, asking ‘is it even rape if its your boyfriend?’ furthering her isolation.
Each woman has a solo which captures the roiling, insidious effects of trauma. The dancers writhe from within like possessed by an internal storm. One uses her own hands as foreign objects groping insistently despite repeated removals. These scenes linger and feel cathartic. There is no rush and no punches pulled. Eventually, in the solidarity of the support group, a new strength and community is formed, and the characters begin moving towards hope. As Body Politic’s artistic director, Emma-Jane Greig has crafted a show that fits perfectly within the company’s heartfelt, bold and dynamic ethos, and will no doubt continue hitting home across the UK.