Rocìo Molina appears in a traditional outfit wearing a traje de flamenca of an immaculate white. She moves in a surgical kind of slow.

She strips naked before her four male musicians. They behave like fathers, brothers, lovers, the plot is unclear. Rocìo emerges as a matador and literally explodes. Her muscles tremble, her fingers snap and uncurl the movement until the tip of her nails. Her focus is absolute.

The chrysalis discards a series of cocoons and stumbles her way through ancient stereotypes, slogging between potent masculine energy and an infantile and fragile type of femininity. The imago eventually slips on a blood-stained plastic gown, dripping jets of red liquid onto her legs as she smudges the floor with it.

Swaying between folklore an emancipation, Rocìo Molina built Caìda del Cielo on an alternation of clichés, which she faithfully embodies before destroying them with her weapons of choice: her perfect command of flamenco, (pretty bad) rock music and SM equipment. The result is eloquent.

It’s not written in the stars that tradition should be a confinement.

Rocìo Molina in Caìda del Cielo, Théâtre National de Chaillot, illustration © Araso
Rocìo Molina in Caìda del Cielo, Théâtre National de Chaillot, illustration © Araso

Caìda del Cielo is flamenca Rocìo Molina’s latest creation,
Théâtre National de Chaillot, Paris from November 3rd to 11th