The show was still with me when I woke up the next morning. Rarely, if ever, have I been moved as profoundly by any theatrical performance as I have been by Immaculate.
Nymph-like cupids, palely dressed, fairly floated through the house
It was not a theatre, but Number 18, Republic Street, Victoria, a grand old house that Naupaca Dance chose as the venue for its latest magical offering – and nowhere was wasted.
An exhibition of Naupaca’s history graced the lower floor with photography, costume and a screened showing off their last production. This was also effectively projected through the orange trees to the garden wall.
The concept for the whole event may have been arrived at through Naupaca’s committee, but I suspect, the grand architect is Joeline Tabone, who must be recognised as one of the country’s fine artists.
The design is, presumably, to be attributed to Luke Azzo-pardi, whose authority has been stamped on Naupaca productions.
“The house works its own magic on the performance,” said Maria Theuma, the literary brain behind Naupaca, a sentiment echoed by Deborah Agius, its co-choreographer.
It was certainly true that the angelic acolytes ushered the 15-at-a-time audience up the stairs, along the passages and into the various rooms with the concentrated control of a magician.
Nymph-like cupids, palely dressed, fairly floated through the house, occasionally with a cheeky glimpse of their cupidity – a tug at a trouser leg, a gentle nudge in the ribs.
Mary, when we first meet her, almost floats, too. She cannot, of course, walk on water, but she dances in it, with such inhibition that she might as well have been floating. True innocence is uninhibited and, although we’d found her standing in water, when we followed her out of the room, it seemed to me she had emerged from the purity of that pool.
In the next room she came down to earth in the most heavenly manner. That Mary, impregnated by God – however that may have been engineered – is here portrayed in the only way we humans can understand it.
It may be seen as controversial, especially as father then becomes son, whose crucifixion is witnessed by Mary, but it is honest, forthright and very moving. It is also extremely well danced.
Death comes dressed in diaphanous black, swirling around an up-ended bedstead. The effect, enhanced by a fluttering signature, was that of a mighty, magic lantern.
Long white legs of six black-clad dancers flickered hypnotically before us and swished away – my daughter might say: like a Harry Potter, Death Eater.
In fact, they wheeled away through a doorway and when it shut, it was as if the lights had suddenly come on in a cinema.
Mary’s assumption was accompanied, proclaimed by (soundlessly) and initiated by the angel-nymphs. If the power of dramatic intention were infinitesimally greater, Mary might have actually levitated. As it was, the power was great enough to evoke the possibility. Surrounded by her cloud of angels, Mary stood facing us, framed like an old master painting, a soft smile on her lips.
This was the end and the applause rang out. There was no bow, the tableau remained and the soft smile never wavered.
The audience left the room before the scene dissolved, as it surely did, into the ether.