“Yeah…I really like that it’s boring.”

It was the interval of Young People, Old Voices and I had just asked a friend what she thought. Now, at times she can be a little deadpan in her delivery, so I turned to look directly at her, to gauge just how serious she was.

Oh. She was serious. Perfectly serious. Huh.

Okay, I admit – when she said it, I was utterly incredulous. I mean, who on earth likes anything boring? But the more I think about it, the more I feel her response expresses a perennial truth about audiences. And that truth is, almost every single person who has bought a ticket, has bought into ‘it’ – the journey, the concept, the conceit: the why of the work. On some level, and to some extent, whether conscious or no, everyone in that auditorium wants it to succeed. We want to get it. We want the performer – or the choreographer, or playwright, or director, or artist – to  triumph, magnificently. We want the win-win. And as a result, we will surrender ourselves to almost any demand an artist makes of us.

Well, for a time at least. For as we all know, our surrender is only ever conditional.

Sometimes its revocation is abrupt, with people tramping out mid-performance, as happened last night. And disruptive too, like the one lady who offered a mocking curtsy to the performers as she left. (I know…real classy, right?)

Naturally, I’d prefer if a little self-control had been exercised and they’d all slipped away quietly during the interval. But their decision to leave is one I understand and sympathise with, to a certain extent. Because this show was boring.

Now don’t get me wrong – I’m well aware of how useful boredom can be. Just like any other intense psychic state – such as desire, confusion, or fear – boredom can be elicited and utilised to make individuals highly suggestible and receptive to direction and communication. That is, if it’s used effectively and knowingly. And I’m not at all sure its elicitation in Young People, Old Voices qualifies in either respect.

In what the programme notes describe as an ‘increasingly poignant’ contrast between Raimund Hoghe and 12 young cast members, an ‘accumulation’ of ‘ritualized movement sequences’,  juxtaposed with the voices of singers like Etta James and Billie Holiday, is punctuated by Hoghe’s interventions. Indeed, were there a ritualized quality to detect, you might even characterize his role as that of psychopomp.

However, though intended to convey the boisterousness and playfulness of youth, the movement tasks entrusted to these young men and women at best seem static and banal, at worst, condescending and tedious. The progression from sequence to sequence is – particularly at the beginning – ponderous to an extreme. Furthermore, impassivity of expression does not suffice – quite simply, the execution of these tasks lacks the precision and presence that might impart to them a truly ritualistic nature.

In contrast to this are the duets Hoghe and Lorenzo De Brabandere share. At those moments, the theatre is filled with an almost tangible force of presence. Between them there exists…well, to call it a love affair is perhaps to go too far. But their locked gaze possesses a quality of fascination and enthrallment that simply captivates. It’s then, in those all too rare instances, that this work comes anywhere close to drawing a ‘poignant contrast’ between youth and age.

Clearly, I was disappointed…all the more so, I suspect, for having enjoyed last year’s screening of Carte Postales as much as I did. But of course, your impression might contrast starkly, so please – feel free to book here.