CPH STAGE Copenhagen is a default stand-in for Denmark's yearly festival of theatre. With a partly-curated and partly-open program, the festival sees a month of performance, discussions, and events surrounding Danish and international stage art, with the part curated by Festival Director Morten Krogh happening mostly around the Royal Playhouse ("Skuespilhuset"), luxuriously-set against Copenhagen's lavish waterfront.
The 2026 festival opens with MÁM, a now-7-year old show from noted Irish choreographer Michael Keegan-Dolan. Or, more accurately, it began with the choreographer himself making an exuberant welcome announcement, and leading the standing audience in a couple of meditation-inspired breathing exercises. As well as grooming audience receptiveness to the show, the welcome address serves to introduce the audience to Keegan-Dolan's delightful ego, and he makes sure to point out that "there's a post-show discussion with The Artist... ME!" It's a curious beginning to a curious opening show, one that ticked the boxes in terms of slick international aesthetics, prestige, and crowd-pleasing spectacle, even if leaving little traces of groundedness.
For MÁM is a strange devil. It's originally produced in 2019 by Teaċ Daṁsa with Dublin Theatre Festival; Sadler’s Wells London and New Zealand Festival, making its premiere in Dublin before gallivanting around on a global tour for the last few years, with the Berlin-based ensemble s t a r g a z e and lead accordionist Cormac Begley (who anchors the thing with a deadly barrage of accordion) trailing along. They perform together with an ensemble of dancers, and a local child actor (in the CPH performance, Liva Eurasia Simonsen-Køllgaard Mochia) who moves with some trepidation through the various staged realities as the dancers and musicians whirl around her. But what exactly is the thing? How to decode the bizarre and fervent mysticism of light, sound, and movement that swirls around us, even as it swirls around our would-be-protagonist? Should we even be enacting such a sacrilegious gesture towards a work that, for all accounts, presents itself as an untouchable beam of memory, inspiration, and brilliance?
Images - Ros Kavanagh
MÁM opens with the young girl dressed in white, a defined top-light pinning her from above. Behind, an animal-masked figure massages an accordion in and out wheezingly as the young girl unboxes a package and the house-lights slowly fade. A row of animal-masked, tuxedoed figures gradually appears behind her, a white backdrop and top lighting (Adam Silverman) offering a crisp, pagan-inspired silhouetted dreamscape that primes set designer Sabine Dargent's visual smorgasbord, offering a constant flip-flop of symmetry and asymmetry denoted in the playful variations of the dancers' costumes (Hyemi Shin), and mirrored in the choreography as they move through a series of unreliable formations (with one occasionally breaking the mould with a grunt or flourish, to the occasional shock of the others). Are they reaching out to our protagonist? Protecting her? Attempting and failing at their own internal systemic unity? Or simply creating a surreal, somewhat threatening realm for her to try and navigate?
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