Landfall is a piece of dance theatre set amid a dystopian post-apocalyptic landscape. Suspended beams of metal and discarded pieces of technology are balanced, hanging and swinging above the stage. Four character inhabit this decayed and decaying space. Here, there seems little room for beauty, with tempers flaring easily. Aggression and anger seem to be overtly powerful, with overriding masculinity taking precedence over the less sure and less capable female characters. Exchange or theft of valuable trinkets spark indiscretions, which is resolved by further exchange and theft.
The actors inhabit a liminal space between beauty and ugly with their manic movements, and within this sci-fi frame there only seems to be minor hope for anything pure or good; pots of smalls flowers are cast down from the suspended settings, presumably to never be seen again. The quick and occasionally savage movements of the actors lends the scene to be reminiscent of seeing wild animals in cages, fighting with each-other sometimes, while at others co-operating. And co-operation is essentially what frees these four characters from their unhappy, trapped state. When a solitary patch of green is revealed it looks as though there is finally hope for an escape.
Landfall seems caught between two worlds, and in the same sense it seems to at times lack clarity of vision, and this is occasionally underscored by a somewhat clumsy sound design. While the performers and nonetheless capable of expressing fraught emotions and, at times, represent moments of beauty and solace, their world is undermined by contradictions in how characters relate to each-other. An undercurrent of unresolved misogyny doesn’t help to lend sympathy to the piece, and while there are undoubted moments of singular and sublime movement, the piece as a whole fails to quite reach the promised patch of green.
