Photos by Francesca Chudnoff and Tom Hsu
Artifice and intimacy are woven together in Sweet Ephemera, an eerily sinister and poignant double bill presented by DanceWorks. The list of content warnings gives you a solid sense of the potential discomfiture in store, depending on your hangups: violence, abuse, bodily fluids, intimacy, scents, loud sounds, bright lights and mature subject matter. The bodily fluids are not as extreme as you might fear, though the incense that wafted through the audience during intermission is certainly a more intense scent than the company has considered. I happen to enjoy incense, but those with respiratory issues or severe sensitivities may have appreciated a more specific warning here.
Photo by Tom Hsu
only child by Calder White has a man, his face entirely obscured in cloth, engage in some preliminary business with a laptop that features analytical graphics of human forms under scrutiny before obsessing over two full-scale humanoid puppets. As White interacts with these “props,” I found myself quickly projecting sentience onto them. Designed by Chris White, they seem very reminiscent of crash test dummies and they just sort of flop about, but as White’s behaviour towards them intensifies—from a gentle caress to manic kissing and on to more involved carnal negotiations—they become very convincing. As White manipulates them, there is a palpable tension between passivity and intention. They began to feel like reluctant, curious, very real lovers.
There is so much loneliness and desperation in these interactions. Steph Cyr’s scenic elements create an ambiance of play and experimentation within what seems like a vaguely institutional environment. It’s eerie and odd and vulnerable. Jeremy O’Neill and Stefan Nazarevich’s music heightens the alienating mechanical vibes, but there is a jarringly sentimental sequence set to Jacques Brel’s affecting “Ne me quitte pas.” Bathed in deep red, it is also features the only instance of colour in Zaya Sawchyn’s lighting design, which favours stark chiaroscuro.
The intimate spectacle escalates as White introduces a device that links them together as a trio. Now a shared burden to each other, their synchronized, spastic ballet is both unnerving and elegant. The finale is a graceful yet distressed tapering that haunted me.
Katie Adams-Gossage and Eleanor van Veen from Sometimes the Sex is so Good | Photo by Francesca Chudnoff
I had difficulty, however, connecting to Tavia Christina’s (Near & Far Projects) Sometimes the Sex is so Good. There are striking aesthetic choices throughout. Angela Cabrera’s costumes, for instance, are rife with playful and intriguing textures that suggest some very different environment and circumstances from our own. The piece is bookended by projection design by KLSR that suggests cosmic phenomena and disaster. There is also some strange and repetitive text, delivered flatly, that implies this is a future where sun, earth and humans are no longer a thing. Intriguing, yes, but nothing here coalesced for me.
There is an surreal quality to the set and prop elements—a wooden desk, a chair and a metal dog bowl—because these mundane objects should not exist in this post-apocalyptic, amorphous space yet here they are. Performers Eleanor van Veen and Katie Adams-Gossage, in their strange and elaborate outfits, negotiate the space in a series of violent and affectionate gestures, but I could never get a read on who they are and what they wanted from each other. There is some sexual tension there, but I did not find it warm or inviting. The bodily fluids we were warned about are saliva; each of them drools copiously onto the floor. Is this intended to be sensual and stimulating? And their dynamic, is it entirely consensual? The signals are hard to decipher. I can tell there is erotic purpose here and a suggestion of affection, but I found it difficult to access.
All elements here betray ample consideration and craft. The gestalt of it, however, left me cold and without any insight into the nature of whatever social, emotional or physical collapse has occurred, how it has affected these two creatures and why I should ultimately care. I imagine there are appreciative beneficiaries for its density and determination, people with whom it resonates; though I, regrettably, am not amongst them.
Sweet Ephemera
running June 24 to 26, 2025
Young People’s Theatre, Studio Theatre (165 Front Street East)
running time: 75 minutes
Moments from Sweet Ephemera | Photos by Kaylee McCullough