The stage is open, framed by faded but elegant red velvet curtains draped haphazardly in a mix of patterns and folds. The curtains, which like many other normally inanimate objects on the stage, have life and character in "Aurelia's Oratorio," a predominantly wordless theatrical performance by Aurélia Thierrée.
While many of the sketches in "Aurelia's Oratorio" are mind-bending, they aren't overtly limb-bending. Unlike the more familiar style of the absurd circus that was made famous by "Cirque du Soleil," Thierrée relies on illusion and a few well-placed strings to trick the audience.
The "Oratorio," conceived entirely through the collaboration of Thierrée and her mother, Victoria Thierrée Chaplin, draws heavily from dreams to bring depth to the whimsical world it creates.
For Thierrée and Chaplin, this type of illusion-based cirque is a family tradition. Chaplin is the daughter of Charlie Chaplin and the granddaughter of playwright Eugene O'Neill. She and her husband Jean-Baptiste Thierrée also create theatrical acts that play with illusion and toy with perception, departing from the more conventional pomp of the circus.
"Aurelia's Oratorio" is challenging to describe in simple terms. The "sketches" are loosely connected through an alternate world, where shadows walk upright, kites fly people and the rules of gravity and space don't apply. In a recurring piece, Jaime Martinez, featured alongside Thierrée, alternates between dancing and battling with an empty set of clothing.
Martinez dances with strength and grace, moving beautifully beside Thierrée, as his compact dancer's body imbues his motions with an undercurrent of sensuality. If the whole show is intended to exist in a dream, then the chemistry between Martinez and Thierrée -- her appearance slightly tousled -- puts these two dreamers in the same bed.
Thierrée's costumes, designed by her mother, reflect this same nocturnal theme. She changes constantly between form-fitting red velvet nightgowns to black slips to white linen pants, often wrapped conspicuously in a filmy dressing gown that floats around her as she dances and hangs from ropes attached to the ceiling. In fact, almost the entire design exists in those three colors, with the occasional dazzling flash of gold or silver. The performance employs huge expanses of velvet and lace with gusto.
"Aurelia's Oratorio" succeeds in its ability to continuously reverse the audience's expectations of the actions and images. The results are mildly jarring, but not uncomfortable: The audience feels amused by the departures from reality rather than bothered or offended. Through costume, prop and curtain, the magic of the "Oratorio" occurs just out of sight, but a curious audience might always find comfort in guessing how these feats are accomplished. Still, "Oratorio" is beguiling enough that awe and enjoyment don't hinge on the need to believe that any of it is real.
Thierrée's presence on the stage is infectiously charming. Slim, with enormous dark eyes and an aura of mystery, her appeal is in the collusion of youth and sensuality, grace and humor and elegance and awkwardness.
One gets the sense that "Oratorio" is a glimpse into a psychological dreamscape, where Aurelia gleefully frolics in the playground of her own subconscious. But not everything is fun in this world, where the puppets sometimes turn predatory and the dance becomes violent. Martinez, whose character is unnamed, falls into a protector's role, as if he senses the danger of which Aurelia is blissfully unaware. Emotions, such as joy and fear, become elemental and surreal.
The play is funny and moving, acting both as mindless spectacle and provocative theatre. It resists definition, and much like Aurelia herself, is always just slightly out of reach.
"Aurelia's Oratorio" runs through Jan. 3 at the American Repertory Theatre in Harvard Square. It features Aurelia Thierrée and Jaime Martinez (through Dec. 12) and Julio Monge (Dec. 13 through Jan. 3).
