-Steff Malherbe
I watch as the back muscles of each dancer seem to propel them across the stage. Skirts fall from their waists, the material moving constantly, disobediently. The first performance of the show, put on by the Paul Taylor Dance Company, contains only their male dancers. Juxtaposing their obvious strength is the tenderness each movement carries. They lean on one another; caress bodies; hold up falling heads with outstretched hands; pick one another up; throw their partners into the air, before breaking someone else’s fall. While watching the intimacy unfold through each dancer’s motion, all I could think about was rugby.
The Springboks have just won the 2023 Rugby World Cup, so perhaps rugby has been on everyone’s mind far more than usual, including my own. But there was something in the rhythmic, overlapping bodies floating across the stage which reminded me of watching a rugby game. It made me think of the duality of physical touch. The multiplicity of masculinity, determined and differentiated only by the context and environment.
There is something undeniably homoerotic about men’s rugby. You probably aren’t supposed to point that out, but there is. While watching the Rugby World Cup Semi-Final, one of my girlfriends queried, “This is quite sexual, isn’t it?”. And honestly, she isn’t wrong. Bodies, dripping in sweat jumping on one another; passionate, unselfconscious embraces; figures mounting one another in pursuit of the ball. Rugby revolves around touch: tackling, scrumming, rucking, mauling. There is hardly a moment that goes by when one person’s body is not brushing (or thrashing) against someone else’s. When a team wins, they hug, cry, kiss. They hold one another’s faces and smile, their teeth mirroring one another, close enough to clash. After the Springbok’s quarter-final game against the World Cup’s host nation, France, a video surfaced of Siya Kolisi, South Africa’s captain, planting multiple kisses on his fellow teammate Jessie Kriel’s face. Many of these interactions, from the intimate moments to the aggression shown between members of opposite teams, would be condemned, or censored off the field. However, mid-or-post game, these actions are viewed as displays of secure masculinity, a confirmation, if anything, of their unwavering heterosexuality.
The underlying homoerotic nature of the sport is often drowned out by the blatant homosociality connected to it. Homosociality is the “bonding of men from a non-sexualised perspective” (Morriss-Roberts 70). It is a form of patriarchy where men use their intimate friendships with other men to maintain their social power. Therefore, what often happens, particularly in sports, is that men’s homosocial relationships with one another are used to prove their heterosexuality. The way this is done is that the men engage in intimate, touch-focused activities such as play-wrestling, “doggy-piles”, hugging, and kissing, in order to prove that they do not get aroused by them, and therefore, are not homosexual.
Whereas, when I think about dance, I can’t help but wonder if the age-old association with male dancers, queerness, weakness, and femininity lessens the ability of these men to engage with one another without scrutiny? I would argue, yes. The tightness of their costumes; expressions on their faces as they perform; their intimacy with one another depending on the choreography, would inevitably make certain people uncomfortable to be around. But when you really get down to the details, there is not so much that seems different. The most obvious differentiating factor is the gender stereotypes associated with both sports. Rugby is seen as a traditionally masculine activity to participate in, whereas dance is often related to femininity, making men who engage in the sport promote, willingly or not, non-traditional gender roles.
Before the dance performance started, I had noticed a couple sitting a few rows in front of me. It was clear that the relationship’s female counterpart had begged her male partner to attend the show. He looked grumpy and put-out, causing him to stand out from the tangibly excitable crowd which engulfed him. Once the show started, and the male dancers took the stage, I kept getting distracted by him squirming in his seat. This isn’t an exaggeration. Every time the men touched one another it sent a shock through his spine, causing him to rearrange his body. I made sure to watch him during the female company members' performance, and as you can imagine, he remained perfectly still. I am aware that this was just an observation, in fact, this entire piece is merely the reflection of a connection I made in my mind between dancing and rugby which may or may not exist. However, I do believe there is some merit to this comparison. And please don’t get me wrong, I love rugby. I have spent most of my life watching the Springboks with my dad and brother. Watching the positive effect of the World Cup win on our country is undeniable and magic to be a part of. However, what it has highlighted in my mind is the allowance for a certain kind of male-on-male intimacy determined by context.
There is a large part of me that hopes the closeness displayed by the Springboks, and the players of men’s sport in general, will allow for more intimate male friendships, without the burden of proving the platonic nature of their closeness. Similarly, it makes me hope for a more balanced response when dealing with traditionally masculine and traditionally feminine sports and the interactions of their participants. However, I fear that only specific spaces will allow for this; only particular kinds of ‘men’.
References:
Morriss-Roberts, Christopher. Big and Pumped: Embodied Masculinity in Homosocial Sporting Environments. Diss. University of East London, 2013.
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