The word made flesh

Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui turns his dancers' attention to religion at the Brighton Festival.

You can see why the Belgian choreographer Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui was attracted to the idea of "apocrypha" - non-canonical religious texts that are considered peripheral to the main body of authorised scripture. Part Flemish, part Moroccan, Cherkaoui began as a backing dancer on a pop music programme, and did vogueing, hip-hop and jazz dance before studying contemporary dance. Now 35, he's become one of the foremost as well as most idiosyncratic choreographers in the field, also with a number of commissions from ballet companies to his name.

In the mainstream but not of it, a figure of doubtful, hybrid origins - Cherkaoui is himself in a rather apocryphal position.

The 2007 work Apocrifu, seen this year at the Brighton Festival, is one several pieces in which Cherkaoui circles the subject of religion. Here, he's interested in scripture - the word, and the word made flesh. In one telling scene, Cherkaoui relates how the story of Cain and Abel appears in different forms in the Koran, the Bible and the Talmud - in effect, how the story has a history, of borrowings, additions and rewritings.

Cherkaoui deftly gives his tale a choreographic form: he and his two dancers Dimitri Jourde and Yasuyuki Shuto clump into a kind of composite creature (a favourite Cherkaoui device) that playfully passes three books around its six arms, its triple heads sneaking peeks at pages over its various shoulders. The delight at seeing such a felicitously realised physical metaphor freezes when the scene is recapitulated later, with swords instead of books; at its conclusion the trinity splits apart, the dancers step towards a row of three books on the ground, and each stabs his blade into a book. The sword, it seems, is mightier than the pen.

Entwined brotherhood, violent separation, the powerplay between text and body - these images run like undercurrents through Apocrifu. Cherkaoui and Jourde tangle together in a fluctuating duet in which they keep their heads together - sometimes leaning towards each other for support or balance, sometimes straining against each other, like rams, but ending with gently subversive finish: a kiss. In another scene, Jourde is stripped to the waist and Shuto daubs Japanese characters over his skin, so that Jourde's very self seems to be circumscribed by text. Yet his body writes back: as Jourde flounders on the floor, his skin leaves behind a smeared, inky imprint of his struggle. Elsewhere, text itself becomes support (books used as stepping stones to navigate the stage), impediment (dancers stumbling blindly, pages pressed across their eyes) or weapon: Cherkaoui literally throws the book at Jourde.

The most intriguing imagery, though, comes from a puppet. Sometimes this blank-faced, grey-suited creation appears controlled by the dancers, for example in a succession of pietà-like tableaux. In one memorable scene, the puppet struggles against the dancers, grumpily kicking at their shins or shooing away their arms. It wins the fight - and so, of course, collapses. Sometimes the illusion of puppetry is reversed, with the model sitting atop Cherkaoui's prone body as his limbs move as if tugged by strings.

The dancers push the puppet imagery still further: slumped on the ground, they try to hoick up their heavy limbs, as if their own bodies were mere imitations of life, galvanised into sputtering action through force of will. The final scene sees Cherkaoui collapsed on the ground, his legs twisted like the lifeless puppet beside him, knocking his head painfully on the ground as if it were wood (Cherkaoui is a master of the suffering solo: he can do abjection and mortification like no one else), before rising up to join with the puppet, as if reclaiming his brother.

Cherkaoui has created some of the best works I've seen, but for all its suggestiveness and the intensity of its performance, Apocrifu is not one of them. It feels under-realised: though it uses a characteristic montage structure, here the effect is less to build up layers of meaning than to string them out. Indeed, what holds the scenes together most is not the choreography - strong though some of that is - but the set and music. The stage design (by Herman Sorgeloos) is on two levels, like an upper echelon and an earthly plane, and on one side is a long, toplit flight of steps; a stairway to heaven, perhaps.

Best of all is the presence of Corsican male choir A Filetta, a group of ordinary-looking blokes who sound like angels. They follow the dancers' passionplay like solemn witnesses, their celestial harmonies and soul-squeezing Maghrebi melodies bestowing gravitas and spirit to a work that might otherwise seem stretched too thin.

Cherkaoui will be at Sadler's Wells Theatre, London, from 6-10 September with a new piece inspired not by religion but by "the god of manga", theJapanese animator Osamu Tezuka

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Poldark is the latest show to throw in a lazy, irresponsible rape scene

It’s particularly dangerous to present a scene like this as consensual, as the writers insist it is.

So Poldark has become the latest show to throw in a lazy, irresponsible rape scene to spice things up. We’ve sat through them in outrage-courting Game of Thrones, in cosy Sunday night drama Downton Abbey, and even at the opera. Now, they’ve come to BBC period adaptations, too.

This is how the scene plays out (a detailed description of the events leading up to the rape follow):

Poldark (Aidan Tuner) turns up at his friend Elizabeth’s bedroom door in the middle of the night, in a rage. She suggests he come back tomorrow morning. He refuses. She suggests they relocate downstairs. He refuses. She suggests he should not be in her bedroom. He refuses to leave, and shuts the door behind him.

They argue about Elizabeth’s plan to marry an enemy of Poldark’s, a decision that disgusts him. She asks him to leave, again. “I’m sorry you feel like this, but I cannot help it,” she tells him. “Oh, you’ve never been able to help anything, have you?” he says, mockingly, adding, “well, perhaps you can’t help this either,” kissing her forcefully before she pushes him off her.

Poldark threatens her, approaching her again as he insists, “I oppose this marriage, Elizabeth. I’d be glad of your assurance that you will not go through with it.” She says again that she will be married. Poldark kisses her again against her will. She tells him she hates him. “You would not dare,” she pleads, looking at the bed. “I would, and so would you,” he says. He pushes her onto the bed. You can guess the rest.

Of course, this is a rape scene. Some say it isn’t – because Elizabeth shows signs of enjoying the sex, and she’s nice to Poldark the next morning, because she has (or has had) feelings for him. None of these things are relevant. Poldark verbally pressured and physically forced a woman who was refusing to have sex with him. That’s rape.

It’s particularly dangerous to present a scene like this as consensual, as the writers and cast insist it is. Andrew Graham, the son of Poldark novelist Winston Graham, who was a consultant on the BBC's current screen adaptation, said:

“There is no ‘shock rape’ storyline. The only way to judge what my father intended is to read the novels as a whole. Doing so it becomes clear, from earlier scenes as well as from Elizabeth's immediate reactions and later mixed emotions, that what finally happened was consensual sex born of long-term love and longing. It was, as Aidan Turner has put it, ‘unfinished business emotionally’.”

His opinion was supported by Poldark screenwriter Debbie Horsfield as well as Turner – who said the scene “seems consensual”.

This is not how consent works. Consent is not something you can assume based on “earlier scenes”. And it’s certainly not something you can retrospectively achieve based on the “immediate reactions” or “later mixed emotions” of someone you forced to have sex with you. That’s just you attempting to justify the fact that you raped someone.

The idea that Poldark knows Elizabeth so well that he knows what she truly wants (sex with me, the man of her dreams, duh!!) might seem romantic. But no love is so great that it imbues the lover with the ability to read minds. Implying that Poldark knew best peddles the dangerous myth that when women say no, they mean yes. Beliefs like this create rapists. The only way to know what someone wants is to ask them, and to listen to what they say. Elizabeth said no.

Adapting period material can be tricky – not least in its presentation of women, gender dynamics, and sex. The Poldark books are from the Fourties, and set in the eighteenth century. It’s a miserable state of affairs when the understanding of consent presented on primetime television, in 2016, is as dated.

Anna Leszkiewicz is a pop culture writer at the New Statesman.