Premiered in Vienna in 2019, Florentina Holzinger’s Tanz has gained notoriety (walkouts, fainting) and trailed content warnings (beware of nudity, blood, needles, strobes, graphic violence), as well as garnering lofty commentary in art magazines. Which meant I was entirely unprepared for it to be … funny. Albeit in a gleefully exploitative, gross-out way.
Tanz is the aftermath of an almighty crash between romantic ballet and body horror. Following the two-act structure of ballets such as Giselle and La Sylphide, the piece starts in a social world, then moves into a fantastical one. Holzinger’s first act is set in a ballet studio, where a gracefully aged ballet-mistress (the marvellous Claire Philippart, naked throughout) coaxes four women through the time-honoured exercises of ballet class – strain combined with beauty, poetic aspiration with piano tinkles – as well as into removing their clothes. Surrounding them are the figures of other women, likewise disrobing, notably Annina Machaz as a one-toothed witch, straddling a vacuum cleaner hose by way of a broomstick.
It’s all naked from then on, and it all gets very out of hand. Philippart rhapsodises about her students’ vaginas and guides them in the joys of masturbation. Three women hoick themselves up on pulleys tied to their own hair. Two take to the sky, rodeo-riding motorbikes that swing high above the stage.
Act two goes full horror show, with white-sheeted ghosts, a werewolf, more witchery and much splatter. A camera gives a closeup of Philippart birthing a rat, drenched in the blood that is helpfully being squirted all over the place. Another woman (suspension artist Lucifire) is hoisted into the air by meathooks pierced through the skin of her shoulders. Some of us just leave; many can only peek through fingers; yet many also whoop and cheer at the bloody-minded audacity of the spectacle, as Lucifire beams and spins in gory exultation. And that’s not even the end.
In truth, the end is a while coming, and the whole thing could do with some trims; but perhaps “refinements” are beside the point. Between the sight gags and the stomach gags there is something deeper going on – though more on reflection than during the performance. You have been warned: don’t go for good taste, high culture, a pleasant evening, or if you’re squeamish. Otherwise, do.
At Battersea Arts Centre, London, until 3 November.
