¡Viva!. Peacock Theatre.

Manuel Liñán is a celebrated figure in Spain for reasons beyond his astonishing technical mastery of dance and choreography. His popularity stems from his ability to deliver exuberant showmanship within the framework of traditional flamenco, while also challenging deep-seated cultural norms around gender and identity. His work honours flamenco’s traditions while expanding the form’s expressive possibilities. One wonders then why the Peacock Theatre’s show blurb for Liñán’s Olivier Award-nominated show ¡VIVA! would choose to describe the piece as a “drag flamenco extravaganza”.  The depiction feels close to disingenuous, even patronising.

Liñán’s six male dancers are clad in traditional tight-fitting, flared “trajes de flamenco” in a rainbow of crimson, purple, black, green, and red. They wear fringed shawls, flower-adorned wigs, and heavy makeup (that runs with rivers of sweat – these are serious athletes). Their intricate zapateado footwork includes elements associated with both male and female dance styles. Graceful and expressive hand and arm movements ooze female elegance and sensuality (though the dancers are not trying to pass for women).

But this piece emerges as far from the ironic, over-the-top, Anglo-Saxon style of drag-camp as it is possible to reach. Describing ¡VIVA! as drag is like comparing an Alsatian with a Poodle: both canines but very different beasts. Though comic in part, particularly in the scenes of physical theatre that are likely to appeal most to those unfamiliar with flamenco vernacular, ¡Viva! bristles with serious intent. It’s drag Jim but not as we know it.

In addition to ensemble pieces, each of the dancers gets a solo or duet, although Liñán himself gets most stage time. A highlight comes when Liñán is boxed in by steel-framed rectangular decks, finding himself clicking heels against wall and ceiling.

Miguel Ángel Heredia, well over 6 feet and bedecked in blushing pink, towers above the others yet manages to communicate softness and desire in a slow, sultry solo. A stone-faced Jonatan Miró glances down at his feet from time to time, seemingly surprised at what they are capable of. Daniel Ramos and Yoel Vargas have a gloriously funny, ballet-unfused dance-off duet: anticipate competitive splits and lightning-fast castanets. Manuel Betanzos’ hands seem almost too big for his body; his “floreos” bring to mind the blooming and unfurling of tropical flowers.

The interplay between the dancers and musicians is one of the most compelling aspects of the piece. Five live performers provide the emotional undercurrent, delivering rhythms of alegrías, tárantos and bulerías with a modern sensibility that complements the show’s unconventional approach. Guitarist Francisco Vinuesa adds (what feels like) jazz-influenced chords to the classic flamenco palette. Victor Pitarch Pronk brings the relatively uncommon violin into the genre and plays it masterfully. Kike Terrón’s drums and percussion are impeccably aligned with the dancers. “Cantaores” David Carpio and Antonio Campos convey love, sorrow, and longing although even Spanish speakers may struggle to decipher thick Andalusian accents.

Ironically the show’s final ensemble piece, impressive though it is, comes closest to what Brits might think of as drag. The dancers slowly decamp from polka-dot frocks to gender-neutral underwear, removing make-up and wigs to reveal masculine forms. Yaiza Pinillos’ gorgeous dresses are now hung on racks at the rear of Alberto Velasco’s minimalist set. The symbolism is touching, but anyone who propped up the bar at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern in the 1980s will have seen it done a dozen times.

Choreographer:  Manuel Liñán