The Bystander review: A blurry dance about staying on the sidelines

Junk Ensemble's brooding production is driven by the shocking murder of Kitty Genovese, out in the open, in 1964 New York. Photo: Marco Novara 

Project Arts Centre, Dublin
Nov 9-10

★ ★ ★ 

Junk Ensemble already made one of the best shows this year with Dolores, so it was surprising to hear they were premiering another dance so soon. Alas, there’s nowhere near the same detail in The Bystander. 

It’s an admirable idea. Choreographer-directors Jessica Kennedy and Megan Kennedy, collaborating with the cast, are driven by the shocking murder of Kitty Genovese, out in the open, in 1964 New York. The tragedy drew attention to how bystanders shirk from intervening in emergencies. 

But the tragedy has been clouded by exaggerated reporting. The New York Times still can't backup that a staggering amount of witnesses ignored the attack. It's no wonder Junk Ensemble steers clear of some recreation of the case. On a stage dominated by a sharp-bladed turbine, the brooding production begins with a murder no less brutal but more recent. From a microphone, Steve Blount mutters a description of passers-by stopping to capture a brutal assault on their phones.

That suggests a dance interested in other instances of the “bystander effect”. Yet, it can’t leave Genovese behind. In one intriguing moment, Stephanie Dufresne speaks as if giving a sermon, honouring a dead woman whose story seems misunderstood. The discrepancy sums up a production with several confusing ambiguities. 

It's clear early on when Tilly Webber falls to the ground that she's become the victim of a horrific attack. Oddly, the dance then relies on her again and again to embody aggression, using intimidating tactics against the others. It’s a strange role torn between victimhood and hostility.

It’s rare for the Kennedys to allow a production to slacken, as though they had taken a bystander’s ambivalence as the dance's structure. Dufresne, battered and crawling towards the end of an abusive relationship, weirdly declares: “I hate him. I think”.  Stephen Moynihan’s slyly threatening performance as an overly helpful man is contradicted by a refusal to overstep his bounds. “There are two signs to every coin,” he says, leaving us none the wiser. 

Despite these blurry scenes, there are some profound ideas here about the violence of staying on the sidelines. When Webber describes the ceaseless traffic of the London underground, it opens up new perspectives on the movement of bodies in society. A pace, incessant like the fast dangerous turbine in Sabine Dargent’s set, seems to have discharged people from their responsibility. In stunning choreography, dancers writhe from fear to antagonism.

A sad and absurd finale comes in a mesmerising solo by Moynihan. Warped by bubble wrap, he’s upholstered to buffer himself against the world. That's a brilliant image for our own ignorance, which makes us unrecognisable, even to ourselves.