Two decades later, the female nudity in Co(te)lette takes on even greater significance thanks to a new, outstanding cast
Perhaps by chance, but the front row at Theater Rotterdam turns out to be 90 percent filled with men. Anyone who has done their homework knows that the revival of the controversial dance performance Co(te)lette, nearly twenty years after its award-winning premiere in 2007, promises female nudity. And female pleasure.
Choreographer Ann Van den Broek created, with three dancers, an obsessive ode to physical desire from a female perspective. It became a depiction of a healthy hunger for lust and satisfaction.
She named her trio after a cut of meat (chop): regularly, “the female flesh” on stage is beaten almost tender by their own flat hands, until the skin turns red. Of course, the title also contains a nod to Adam’s rib (côte), from which, according to the Old Testament, Eve was created—giving rise to harmful notions of female subordination.
And Van den Broek refers to the French writer Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette (1873–1954), who was a radical advocate for women’s liberation in her prose, on stage, and in journalism.
Now, two decades later, the revival, featuring a new, outstanding cast, carries even greater weight. Because of the prudish conservatism dictated by an American president with more than a few double standards. Because of the urgency of actions like “We reclaim the night, let women come home safely.” Because of the #MeToo movement against sexual misconduct, which began ten years ago. Because of the ever-growing influence of the manosphere. Scandals aboun
They vibrate softly in the background of this oppressive, confrontational, and intensely danced defense of the right to self-love, as the dancers point a piercing finger at the audience and then back at themselves. In a clean setting of white fluorescent light above a white floor, framed by white sheers, they begin on their knees, their buttocks swaying lasciviously in white pencil skirts. This is not a lewd invitation to another. Rather, it is the beginning of a break from a compartmentalized view of female sexuality.
Their demure smiles, their bored tapping of a nipple, their polite handshakes are increasingly giving way to an intimacy in which they dare to discover their own pleasure. T-shirts, heels, and skirts come off. Bodies begin to shiver and tremble. Squeals of delight merge with shrill whistles in the buzzing soundscape. They stick four fingers in their mouths, kiss each other, headbang with long hair. The light shifts.
The compulsive repetition makes everything grim and gleaming at the same time: it must be shown but also wants to be felt. The proximity of the audience makes it both vulnerable and confrontational. Fortunately, the logical request not to take photos or video recordings is heeded in Rotterdam. Afterward, two of the men in the front row snap a photo of the pristine white stage, with underwear tossed in the corners as a memento of this total surrender to physical self-love.
Annette Embrechts, de Volkskrant, May 12, 2026