Review by Lisa Lanzi
Something I revere in the performing arts is an artist at the top of their craft who then dares to push boundaries and break with tradition. Rocío Molina presents a deconstructed flamenco style which when ‘re-assembled’ still possesses every nuance of passion and superb technique, but extends into theatrical and performance art arenas. Just the kind of production that you want to see at a Festival of Arts.
Molina is hailed as one of the best ‘bailaoras’ (Flamenco dancers) of her time receiving in 2008 the Giraldillo Award for Best Choreography plus Best Dancer Award in the Seville Bienal. In 2010 she was awarded the National Prize for Dance from the Spanish Ministry of Culture for “her contribution to the renovation of Flamenco Art … her versatility and strength as a performer able to handle very differing styles, freely and with courage”. She was also recognised for her contribution to dance with the coveted Silver Lion Award at the Venice Biennale (2022) and received an Olivier Award nomination for Outstanding Achievement in Dance in 2018. Wayne McGregor said of her at the Golden Lion presentation: ““Rocío Molina can’t help but be boundary-less – in ideas, partnerships and impressively in her dancing itself. … Molina is a force to be reckoned with, in art and in life”.
Born in 1984 near Malaga (Andalusia) to a former ballet dancer mother and chef dad, the flamenco prodigy began her dance studies at three years old. At seventeen, she graduated with honours from the Royal Dance Conservatory in Madrid and was taken on by professional companies undertaking international tours. While continuing to perform, choreography and artistic research became a passion and Molina has now appeared at many of the world’s most famous theatres and festivals in her own work. She is associated with the Spanish National Ballet Company and Théâtre National de Chaillot in Paris, and Caída del Cielo was first performed at the latter in November 2016.
Caída del Cielo is just a tad too long at ninety minutes with a number of sections that could be judiciously trimmed, however there is no denying the impact of this work and the depth of talent on stage. Given the title (translated as “fallen from heaven”), biblical references are predictable. Beginning in silence, Molina is clad in a pure white version of the bata de cola with exaggerated ruffle trim, the ‘narrative’ progresses through a defiling of the chaste figure as lighting and costumes shift to darker tones, the star finally dressed in ‘dried-blood’ maroon. However, the complex layering of imagery, dance, witty comedic interactions, and varying emotional tones suggest more profound story-telling than a mere good-versus-evil tale of the ‘fallen’ soul.
An onslaught of live electronic rock music begins as the house lights dim, quite a departure for a flamenco performance. A blackout follows then the initial movement sequence is set in silence with long moments of stillness. Immense white ruffles variously suggest a mermaid tail, cloud the figure may have fallen through, or more symbolically, the strictures of societal expectation around female purity. Molina’s movement quality is spellbinding such that even the circling of a wrist is laden with meaning. The pure white is divested, a naked ‘Venus’ remains but soon transforms into a sleek matador-style dominatrix. Some hilarity/temptation ensues with a packet of crisps Velcro-ed low on a leather fetish harness, suggestive of Eve and her apple. Of course, overlaying all of this visual imagery is the staple fiery and complex fast footwork, passion, proud stance, and piercing gaze of flamenco dance.
In one particularly striking scene Molina removes the lid of a small box, steps into it, then hitches on a skirt soaked with ‘blood’. As she traverses the white floor, video footage projects onto the cyclorama the messy trail left by the skirt’s train as seen from above. The dancer falls with, rolls upon, and drags the burden of the dripping skirt, finally gathering it between her legs like afterbirth. Following soon after, as the lights dim, one of the male musicians proffers a bowl of water and washes Molina’s feet and puts her shoes on in a reverse Mary Magdalene moment. At this point the stage is littered with all manner of clothing and props as only once does the dancer leave the unadorned performance space: most costume changes are methodically undertaken in view of the audience.
The work is paired with live music throughout - original compositions ranging from flamenco to synth-rock - with superb vocals recalling the Moorish and Jewish roots of the style. Oscar Lago is on guitars and Kiko Peña is the otherworldly cantaor picking up bass guitar as well. Hand-clapping and percussion from José Manuel "Oruco" Ramos is astonishing and Pablo Martin Jones leads on percussion and electronics. The four male to one female ratio seems important in the big picture of this work; a mix of familiarity and camaraderie is often evident amongst the group but the journey of the female is a solo one as different aspects of womanhood are explored, tasted, cast off, embraced, or celebrated.
Caída del Cielo is a work of extremes: order conflicts with chaos, silence competes with the roar of flamenco sounds and rhythm, and light and shadow battle for ascendancy. There is a feral, sensuous energy apparent in Molina’s concepts and execution alongside images of violence contrasting with almost painful tenderness. Although women do have an aura of strength and respect in traditional flamenco settings, in Molina’s work female identity takes a huge leap forward. I applaud the nod she gives to cultural convention but appreciate this avant-garde approach that, to my mind, fits better within the more complex world of now.
