Igor and Moreno move. They jump. They slide. They jump. They don't technically do much else. The men are in perpetual motion for the entire hour, though I'm not sure if I could actually call it a dance show. Their movements are eccentrically simple, and choose regularity over impressive feats. Whatever they're doing, they're very good at it. They've been collaborating for the past eight years, presenting their work internationally. And despite its slight nature,
The seeming ease of their connection leaves you wondering whether they're flaunting confidence in their choreography or casually improvising as they go along.
Delicate and imprecise in equal measures, Igor and Moreno find a hypnotic rhythm in the timings of their steps in relation to each other, orbiting, opposing, and joining each other as they shuffle across the stage. Their moves are simple, but seamlessly synchronised, to the extent that they start to seem inseparable from each other. It's hard to believe they aren't brothers. They're equally endearing, despite their silence, and full of hospitality (you'll see what I mean). The seeming ease of their connection leaves you wondering whether they're flaunting confidence in their choreography or casually improvising as they go along. The show as a whole is bold, self-assured, and alive.
It starts slow, and may test one's patience too much for everyone's liking. (Several walkouts near the beginning testify to this). But tension builds one beat at a time, culminating with a deafening rumble that creeps up on you over the speakers, as the speed and complexity of their movements increase. And the time taken to get to this point makes the climax all the weightier. It's rare that such a quiet show will leave you this dizzy and pulsing.
The regularity of breath replaces speech, and moments of whispers taunt one's ears, never quite committing to clarity: more focused on 'what happens before the word comes'. Their dynamic positioning keeps them (literally) on their toes, stuck in flux, always changing and never quite becoming something else. Each movement is looking for a resolution that just becomes another turn, another cycle, another repeat, all mirrored in the other dancer. What starts off as a P.E. warm-up becomes a tightly controlled synchronisation.
This is not a show for the impatient. And it probably won't satisfy those looking for thrilling dancing or those after something resembling a narrative. Watching Idiot-Syncrasy comes closer to meditating than anything else. To that end, it may serve well as a mental break between the bustle of other, louder shows.
