Kris Eitland

San Diego Arts

Compagnie Ea Sola at Mandeville

"Drought and Rain Vol. 2"
By Kris Eitland
Posted on Jan 24 2008
Last updated Jan 25 2008

Eight young men and women flail and fall to the ground as if overwhelmed by a plague. The women struggle to stand and convulse wildly, their faces obscured by their loose, black hair. The men stomp, tremble and finally stare into the darkness, their eyes fearfully wide and wet. As the group approaches the edge of the darkened stage their hands and the ground beneath their feet turn blood red.

In "Drought and Rain Vol. 2.," Compagnie Ea Sola's visceral reflection on the Vietnam War, the dancers explore what young people feel about a war they did not experience, except for images on television. Further, they ask if a virtual memory can result in non-violence.

For many in the audience at Mandeville on Wednesday night, "Drought and Rain Vol. 2" was an frightening flashback. For the younger crowd, it was a shocking primer on the Vietnam War. The antithesis of dance as feel-good entertainment, this physical exploration packed a wallop far beyond any textbook or lecture on the topic.

"Drought" is the lifework of Ea Sola, the company's director/choreographer. She grew up in the South of Vietnam during the war and left in 1974. She danced in Paris, created edgy theater, and returned to Vietnam 15 years later, eager to study traditional Vietnamese dance and music. Her research has resulted in the creation of five works that have challenged an international audience to rethink the Vietnam War and ongoing tragedies around the world.

This dance conjures images, both abstract and explicit, of isolation, explosions, dead bodies in rigor, and ghosts. The 70-minute program is presented without breaks or intermissions, so neither the dancers nor the audience can escape the tension.

The dancers, members of the Vietnam National Opera Ballet, appeared as modern, self-absorbed adults. For nearly half an hour, they skittered in grid patterns without any interaction or touch. Barbie doll style, they stood on the balls of their feet like nervous birds in a deadly mine field. They tried to appear content, but underneath they were haunted by the war. Gradually the stress spilled out and they broke into fits.

Most segments were achingly slow, almost Butoh in style, and done in silence. Others had dancers moving forward and back, their limbs bursting out and contracting inward as if taking a bullet in the gut. Having eight bodies move independently or in unison without music or sound cues was no small feat; how they were able to count the walks, wild gestures and stillness is a mystery.

And while the movement was in many ways pedestrian, it became intensely demanding both physically and emotionally. For both men and women, there were strong martial arts influences with knife-like arms, kicks, and breaths as well as classical ballet training seen in their tight turns and solid extensions.

A highlight of the show was the percussion section. The dynamic score by Nguyen Xuan Son thundered and scraped to create heart-racing suspense and spooky sound effects. Recorded music with guitar and voice was merely an irritant in comparison. The drummers were understated, yet unabashedly contemporary, donning dark sunglasses instead of predictable headbands. Lighting was over the top with copious cues for brilliant colors, fade-outs, and flashes to indicate gunfire and bombs falling from the sky.

Recent figures put the total number of Vietnamese killed in the war at about five million. About one in five Vietnamese were killed or wounded. About 60,000 names are etched on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C.

The numbers are staggering, but they don't fully convey the long-term tragedy of the war. This compelling dance did just that, and moreover, transcends time to address current conflicts in the world. In the end, the dancers called out familiar names in English, Arabic and African languages. Simultaneously, names printed in yellow appeared on the back wall until the entire wall was yellow. It was a wakeup call not lost in translation.

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About the author: Kris Eitland's critiques and features have appeared in Dance Magazine, Dance San Diego Magazine, San Diego CityBeat, sandiegotheaterscene.com, and sandiego.com since 2006. Her writing career includes stints in both commercial and public radio news. She studied dance extensively at the University of Minnesota-Duluth and SDSU and holds a journalism degree
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