A line of haze murmurs above the choreographer gergö d. farkas, who begins their solo babeson all fours like a morose cat. Thick blue fluid escapes their mouth as the work begins, but this gentle shock of body horror spikes highest on the heart monitor of the entire piece. The spiritual condition of dribble is a theme throughout babes: farkas’ fingers quiver like dying butterflies, and they undulate their spine with a damp enthusiasm. Perhaps the work is an elegy to phlegm – its slow, wet resignation, its lassitude as it tumbles wearily across your upper lip. At times farkas leaves for extended periods, and once ventures offstage towards us, only to slump into a wall. In babes, apathy is a musk you can’t help breathing in. farkas lingers in the doorway of movements and gestures towards meaning, but never fully opens the door.
Locked hips, torso, and shoulders. As gergő d. farkas ascends from the floor – after what feels like a somatic exploration of rigour and rigidity – we enter a contemporary ballet world tinged with the atmosphere of Blade Runner. How can a body find fluidity when technique and emotion stand in the way of instinct?
We feel the tension of 80s dance grappling with its own lineage – straining to break free from ballet while still gesturing toward an emancipatory narrative. And yet, the piece never feels dated. Voguing elements emerge with grace, never pasted on or overstated.
As farkas sweeps the stage clockwise, arms extended overhead – freer than the rest of the body – pas de bourrées, chassés and pirouettes unfold beneath lighting that shifts from natural tones to bold colour blocks. When tension melts, the ‘ghost in the machine’ reappears. A reset. Is this a search for pleasure? And if so, what if pleasure came without cost – or shame?