Requiem, by Lemi Ponifasio and Mau at SkyCity Theatre

Lemi Ponifasio

There was no sign of the troublesome screens that caused the cancellation of Friday night's opening performance, when Mau's Requiem finally got underway a day late.

The screens, meant to delineate the realms of living from the dead, proved unexpectedly transparent when erected, so were chopped.

It is to director Lemi Ponifasio's credit that the amputation left no visible scar - and to the company of 19 dancers who moved through whatever changes were necessary without batting a singularly focussed eye.

The stage is set with two poles reaching skyward, reminiscent of the roof supports of the Samoan fale.

Helen Todd's masterful lighting creates a rich, if gloomy, palette of moods against this simple backdrop. It emphasises the rippling musculature of a male torso in the opening scene; highlights the rictus of death on the "bodies" in their ceremonial parade; catches the clouds of dust, the swirling smoke, the sweat variously exuded from other live bodies; and mysteriously merges, separates, and merges again those in the present and those who have passed.

The action is muted. Apart from a trio whose footwork is so speedy they achieve a rapid glide, the pace is glacial, in best Butoh tradition.

The effect, combined with the clever lighting, is hallucinatory. Did those giant pillars creep forward? Did that backdrop rise and fall?

Sounds become more vibrant - and this Requiem has a soundscape that ranges from Kiribati choir and other Pacific songs, beautifully sung, through chimes, flutes and bells, to the earthy chants of insects, and the roar of the ocean. The result is a powerful commemoration of the dead, a sweet song of mourning, and a strong reflection of cultural beliefs that ancestors maintain a role in the affairs of the living.

Commissioned by the New Crowned Hope festival to celebrate the 250th anniversary of Mozart, it will present a dark, but strange and touching beauty, when it premieres on the world's stage in Vienna in November.