Troop at the Purcell Room, Queen Elizabeth Hall, London
December 6, 2007
Katie Gregory

The debate surrounding the suggested objectification of the showgirl is particularly relevant today amidst a boom in the art of burlesque, which traditionally features dancing girls and striptease, and is a popular feature of the international nightlife scene. Choreographer Jane Turner, who first worked as a showgirl at the Scala Ballet in Barcelona, offers a glimpse into the dynamics of the dancing line via contemporary dance theatre in Troop, which closed a short UK-based tour at London’s Purcell Room in December.
Turner’s cast is fronted by seven dancing girls, each distinguished by a personalised costume – Sam Dightham’s deliciously modern combination of frills and flesh – which befits their sexualised caricature. Think Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs: X-rated. Bashful bats her eyelids and giggles in the manner of a sexy schoolgirl; grumpy stalks around the stage in S&M-style stockings, brandishing a scowl that’s as frightening as any whip.
Turner’s movement material is inspired by “showy” steps and kicks, and the bare-footed dancers overlay a more organic, earthy element until the addition of character shoes transforms them into leggy stereotypes. It also provides the basis for a sequence where each dancer chatters away on a mobile phone (it’s actually a discarded shoe, although it’s so well-acted it may as well be a phone). They gossip and natter while moving around the space – snatches of speech rising up from the hum of voices – seemingly unaware of the audience, who have become voyeuristic witnesses of these private conversations.
Highlights like these are plenty, although further along the action becomes more confusing. There’s a general sense of unravelling as each dancer becomes more and more independent of the group, breaking away amid thumping break beats and a buzz of action on stage. The energy is palpable, the choreography continues to please, but the motivation for what’s actually happening is not entirely clear. The dancing line becomes a mass of ill-timed kicks, giggles and gasps – presumably as a demonstration of decline, or an assertion of individuality, or independence from the movement and the group. Maybe it was all of the above. The symbolism makes sense, but unfortunately dancers dancing badly – whether intentionally or not – never makes for enjoyable viewing.
In hindsight, perhaps the preconceived ideas that come hand in hand with the word “showgirl” didn’t help Turner’s message. On leaving the theatre I overheard one male whisper disappointingly, “I thought it was supposed to be erotic?”. I think somewhere in between the flowery programme notes and the final third of the show, the “point” was lost in translation. Nevertheless, Turner’s material is often fresh, her cast of leading ladies well chosen (I didn’t warm to the two additional male characters, although I’m not sure I was meant to), and the addition of Nick Rothwell’s edgy audio-visuals provided an extra layer to what was a convincing performance.