The Little Company that Could

　　A tiny, under-funded Guangzhou company is leading China into Modern Dance history

　　By Richard Baimbridge

　　It's late afternoon at Xinghai Concert Hall, home of the Guangzhou Symphony Orchestra. Though the quiet darkness and soft spotlights are a familiar environment for the dancers, the massive stage and balcony seats are a far cry from their usual performance space - a small experimental theater scantly bigger than a studio apartment living room.

　　Sitting in the third row, 33-year-old choreographer Yunna Long is tugging at her already frazzled hair in exasperation. The show - the first inter-arts performance ever for a symphony that's hosted the likes of Itzhak Perlman and Yo Yo Ma - is an important one, introducing Modern Dance to a new local audience, and testing the limits of dance choreography by using the whole auditorium as a stage designed to bring classical music joltingly to life.

　　"Sometimes I worry more about a performance like this in our hometown than one in Europe," says Long. "Foreign audiences are more open-minded. Even if they don't understand what you're doing, they'll still watch. In China, if they don't like you the first time, they'll never come again." Long had less than a week to choreograph the entire score, and the dancers only get two rehearsals. Yet if they share in her apprehension, it doesn't show.

　　Outside in the sunlit lobby, dancers are jumping around like grade school children on recess. They might easily be mistaken for a pop band goofing off during sound check. Particularly Ou Yang Wen Ling, with his short mohawk and mischievous smile, hanging upside down from a sofa.

　　Modern Dance has always been a rebellious art form; its origins are like a sort of early twentieth-century punk rock. About a hundred years ago, an American expat in Europe named Isadora Duncan drew inspiration from Greek drama and freed herself from the shackles of the dance establishment. In an age of rigid and pompous ballet, the "Mother of Modern Dance" ditched her tutu for a tunic and danced barefoot to experimental music, freaking out traditionalist audiences and forever changing the course of ballet.

　　But a century later, Modern Dance became part of the same establishment that it had been born in reaction to. Viewed as an esoteric and snobbish minion of a small, leftist cultural elite, it was an easy target for conservative governments looking to cut subsidies. Yet Modern Dance's art snob reputation was often unwarranted - and in the case of the Guangdong Company, it couldn't be more wrong.

　　At a recent local show, audiences were literally perched on the edges of their seats, mouths agape, as mohawked Ou Yang Wen Ling flawlessly pulled off a dance performance so daring it could have been in a Jackie Chan film.

　　The ten-minute sketch consisted of nothing but Ou, partner Liang Yu, and a table. At first the two men reach out to each other from opposite sides, cautiously extending a distrustful hand, sealing a deal in full business attire. The handshake goes awry, contorting into grips that suddenly blast into lightning fast choreography that draws as much from gong fu as it does existentialism, and climaxes with the most hellacious game of "rock-paper-scissors" ever seen. When it's over, the audience bursts into cheers more appropriate to a rock concert than a dance performance. And that's pretty much been the case wherever this company has performed, from New York to Berlin.

　　"People can't imagine such a thing like this exists in China," Ou says of the reaction from overseas audiences, who expect a Chinese Modern Dance company to be derivative of American and European troupes, at best. What they find, however, is a group of dancers who are redefining those standards, and taking them to new heights.