by Tom Fagan, March 2025
A British dancer, choreographer, mime artist, and theatrical visionary known for his performances blending dance, mime, and surreal storytelling, Lindsay Kemp trained under Marcel Marceau and was a major influence on artists like David Bowie and Kate Bush. His work pushed the boundaries of gender, expression, and performance. Tom Fagan revisits a 2001 encounter with the avant-garde legend, whose belief in theatre as pure escapism feels more vital than ever.
Lindsay Kemp was an expert at taking you to another world. As soon as I sat down, fumbling with my recording equipment, I realized he'd been talking for five minutes without pause—and that I wasn't where I thought I was. I was already in his world. The world of theatre, and of dreams.
He began describing an audition from 30 years earlier as if it were yesterday. Lying propped up on his hotel bed, his feet started moving as if under a spell from magic dust. My attempts to prepare melted away under his monologue, sparked by some memory of living on Drury Lane with Steven Berkoff.
The 62-year-old choreographer and dancer wore workman's overalls—fitting for someone who, despite being a master of theatrical gesture, had a straightforward motive behind it. Described as "the link between high art and entertainment," at his core was a simple exchange between audience and performer: belief for enchantment.
"What do you go to the theatre for? Well, to entertain you, of course!" Whatever message a show might carry, this was a fundamental aspect for Kemp. Maybe tired from day’s rehearsals or in contemplative interview mode, he spoke in a surprisingly even tone that belied his extreme imagination. His face would suddenly animate, physically morphing into whatever emotion he wished to convey.
A Return to Romance
The show centered on a deranged film director conjuring scenes from his silent movies, performed by Rambert dancers. It was an era Kemp cherished. The words tumbled out: "Romance and fantasy, escapism and color and beauty” describing an "abandoned age" he was wishing to evoke. "All that beauty that’s no longer fashionable," he said. "All that passion." He lingered on the word as if afraid it might slip away.
Words came thick and fast, but they were secondary for Kemp—gesture spoke louder. Mid-sentence, he’d drift into a movement series, illustrating his point more vividly than any phrase.
Camp, Mystic, Brawler
His secret? Belief in the magic. "The theatricality he pushes to the limit can disarm even the grumpiest of cynics," wrote his literary spokesperson, David Haughton, who called it "the serious art of not taking oneself so seriously."
The Parades Gone By was what ballet once meant to Kemp: "storytelling." He loved resurrecting forgotten worlds. "I’ve never lost my child-like enthusiasm," he said. "I think that is what the company (Rambert) likes about me."
Rambert had asked him back after a complicated history. He’d trained there but was expelled for being "too extreme." "Weird for Rambert, as they were always so extreme," he laughed. He described Rambert as the “cradle of English Ballet,”—a place that had once captured his heart and imagination, where he had set his hopes. "It was my world,” he said. “Like reaching the Gates and God saying you can’t come in."
Dreams Made Real
Kemp spun dreams into reality. We discussed his Midsummer Night’s Dream film, which he crafted from childhood memories of the play. It used few words—movement and gesture carried the story. "Words are so often an approximation of meaning for me," he said. "I’m more eloquent with silence."
Film’s discipline unnerved him. His best work happened live, unrecorded.
His trick was to blend theatre and ballet. "Dancers must find aspects of their personality that fit their roles," he said. Today’s dancers, he noted, weren’t used to playing characters. "Pure dance or storyless ballet is often very beautiful, but abstract."
Life as Theatre
In the heyday of the Lindsay Kemp Company, they performed "every night of the year," touring productions like Flowers and Alice in Wonderland. His troupe was a family, bound by affection, not hierarchy. They worked hard, as survival meant success—there were no Arts Council grants for Kemp’s extreme work. Now, they reunited occasionally, like a "scattered jazz ensemble.”
For Kemp, life and theatre were inseparable. "Storytelling is what we do as children," he said. "That’s the essence of dance—to convey a mood. You do it to pick someone up, to make them happy. It should lift our spirits!"
On stage, he insisted, you couldn’t bring darkness with you. "Before you go on, you might feel miserable, desperate. But then…that’s en-ter-tain-ment!" He sang the word, face lighting up, hands fluttering. "You got to fake it, then you forget. Life mirroring art, I suppose."
Rehearsals for Parades Gone By felt like reinvention. “Any true artist moves towards truth,” he said. "The dancing was exaggerated back then, its first run 30 years prior. "As we age, we become purer, more essential, like a writer using fewer words."
A Stage for Everyone
I asked about the difference between Spain, Italy, and England, since he spent lots of time in all three. Dance in the UK, he said, was still "highbrow," while in Spain, "it’s like going to the pictures." "We must get the public back," he insisted. "It’s not their fault. It’s all been a bit dreary."
Kemp whisked you away while reminding you it was all a show. His performers had to live by "theatre as life." Haughton put it best: "to abandon themselves to the reality of the image as it exists in their imagination."
His makeup, costumes, and performances were called genius. But the real magic was how the everyday world seemed sharper afterward—as if the tension between reality and fantasy had jolted you awake. He let you indulge in dreams, then sent you back to earth, eyes wide open.
Tom Fagan – a book editor and ghostwriter specializing in creative non-fiction with experience in journalism and communications.