Canto Ostinato may sound overplayed to some, but Krisztina de Châtel’s choreography plays beautifully with the skipping and lyrical minimal music of Simeon ten Holt. Typhoon dates back to 1986 and was last performed in the 1990s and early 2000s. Now, revived by Introdans, it creates a true journey through time.
With clenched fists and in slow motion, the five dancers move from left to right across the stage—where three inactive industrial blowers stand ready—and then back again. Moving solely in parallel lines, they form a human machine. Like a flock of migrating birds or a cycling peloton covering long distances, the lead position shifts, and every movement is finely tuned for efficiency.
But there’s no horizon, no grassy tundra ahead. Despite the charming overalls and protective goggles—first resting on their heads, later covering their eyes—the dancers’ effort does not evoke heavy labor or an industrial setting. The beauty of a single phrase and its variations, combined with slow motion and a remarkably gradual (one might say beautifully slow) build-up, creates a strange sense of calm. It’s as if De Châtel resists the spectacle within the music, instead highlighting an underlying silence, concentration, and determination.
The dancers’ measured pace deconstructs the music, allowing its many accents to float free from the base pattern. Arms sweep through the air in controlled arcs, legs rise high and extend far, but nothing ever loses control—everything remains contained. The slow tempo makes it easy to follow the weaving patterns, ensuring that the transitions between the singular phrase and its variations unfold almost imperceptibly. The dancers’ precision and focus are in striking contrast to the looming presence of the machines.
When the blowers finally switch on, the wind gives the dancers a beautiful extra push. It also becomes clear why so much of the movement material unfolds along a single line, as if in a flat plane. The choreography is entirely directed toward the frontal force of the wind. The work of photographer Eadweard Muybridge and his analog motion studies also comes to mind—the extraordinary experience of consciously observing what humans and animals usually do unconsciously.
As the wind gains strength on stage, diagonal movement begins to play a role, and the additional steps dancers must take in their pattern transitions become undeniably spectacular. A sense of swirling motion nearly emerges in Typhoon, but De Châtel never gives in to anything resembling aimless drifting or a leaf in the wind. One of the most striking moments is when the music briefly stops, as if someone turns down the volume, forcing the dancers to rely solely on their own strength and rhythm—no longer propelled by the music.
Angelica Villalon, Gabriel Parra Guisado, Juliette Jean, Mark van Drunick, and Nina Dijkman are never swept off their feet; they constantly find each other in synchronization. Dance could be described as a delayed and rehearsed form of falling—something Typhoon makes beautifully tangible, particularly in its moments of suspension. The wind, as a counterforce, makes the space palpable and the dance possible.
The major absence in this performance is a manifesto, a narrative, a slogan, or an enemy. Given today’s turbulent political climate, one might expect such elements, but Typhoon focuses on the dancers’ stamina and the collaboration of composed workers against a force that is both concrete and abstract. This gives Typhoon an otherworldly quality—like something from another planet, or rather, from another time. Those interested in revisiting past reviews or watching the original version on a grainy video can find them on Krisztina de Châtel’s website.
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