John Fabry’s visceral show takes its name from the ancient Greeks. As a result of drinking ambrosia and nectar, the blood of Greek gods was different to that of mortals; an ethereal golden fluid called Ichor. In Fabry’s show, Ichor is a man, half-naked in the centre of a black-box theatre, paralysed by his need to be accepted. There are no gods here, only flawed mortal men.
Ichor’s story is told via contemporary dance and physical expression. Dressed only in a headscarf, loincloth and body paint, the 5-man ensemble collapse, stamp and hurl their bodies for the full hour. Through plumes of smoke on the empty stage, the men trounce around, stalking the space. Their only prop, wooden sticks to strike the floor, are quickly tossed aside, opting instead to strike their bodies to the ground.
Their ritualistic grunting and synchronised movements immediately unsettle and intimidate. It is a show of primal masculinity as the men demonstrate their strength. Their hissing, pointing, laughing and spitting are reminiscent of locker rooms and high schools. But it doesn’t just happen once. Fabry finds an entrancing beat and a rhythm in this act. In doing so, he presents how this toxic masculinity becomes ingrained in the culture. How it creates a cycle that, like blood, flows instinctively in us.
The groupthink mentality morphs from grunting and muscle-flexing into a hazing ritual as Ichor is forced to bear himself. It is the first sign of this work’s real strength; the acknowledgement of homoeroticism which is intrinsically tied to spaces of testosterone-fuelled masculinity. We watch as these men appreciate each other’s bodies. Their grunts evolve from intimidation to something sexual, a fine line that is adeptly walked by the ensemble.
