Lights dim. The sounds of a metal punch and a ventilator unfold our imagination behind the curtain. Soon the stage discloses a ritualistic scene: a chair on top of a table forming an altar, black-clad Spanish choreographer Richard Mascherin powdering the centre to generate smoky air; another man in the shadows produces the sound partly sourced from the stage.
When Mascherin climbs up to the chair, his movements recall our feeling at height: legs stay motionless, waving arms try to stay balanced, shivering body tending to lower the centre of gravity. Meanwhile, surtitles convey his falling experiences: injuries and pain, thoughts, the audience’s disappointment when he lowers the height. Then he falls – suddenly, naturally, earnestly. A moment of stillness. Lying on the floor, some puppet-like movements of forearms and legs show signs of life echoing with beating sounds. Gradually his body unlocks more movements: crawling, kneeling, side fall. He finishes on his hands and knees, hips rolling. A moment of trance.
Mascherin reappears in velvet red carrying a giant double-sided ladder; the text shifts to aloof politicians expected to fall by the public. When will his next fall be? We stay in suspense as he unhurriedly places the ladder, ascends and descends it, clings to it. Strong beats are back and he starts spinning around, holding the ladder as if extending arms or wings. A moment of thrill. Then he falls – preparedly, resolutely, purposefully. ‘I don’t want to die. I want to survive.’
Mascherin lifts himself upwards on a pulley system before the curtain closes. Is it a good thing when technology keeps us from falling? Haven’t we shadowed the vulnerability of our bodies? Caer, Caer, Caer (falling, falling, falling) is a physical, acoustic and poetic fable showing falling as a fact, and to keep falling as a destiny.
