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
Temptation
At the entrance to the auditorium, all mobile phone cameras are covered with a sticker. ‘For the dancers’ safety,’ is the explanation. There you go. Finally, a robust measure against audience members who refuse to accept that theatre is something to be experienced, not something to be possessed. Halfway through Co(te)lette, you realise just how essential it is to prevent photos and videos from being shared for this particular performance. In this powerful dance performance, the spectator’s gaze upon the female body is pushed to its limits. For an hour, three dancers battle against the nature of their own image, by pitting clichés of seduction against the full expression of their physical urges.
It begins with a display of women’s behinds. Bent forward on the floor, heads hidden, feet in silver heels, the trio raise their white-clad behinds towards the audience and begin to spin sensually in circles. The superficial allure deepens as the spinning movement takes on the rousing rhythm of arousal seeking an outlet. One of the dancers steps out of the scene, covers her scantily clad upper body with a pink jacket and assesses her appearance in an invisible mirror that also encompasses the audience. Later, the three stand together in front of the audience mirror, their facial expressions lifeless. Only to then pick up the rhythm of their inner drive once more.
Ann Van den Broek’s masterful choreography moves between two extremes: hyper-awareness and rigidity in the eyes of the observer, and joyful surrender to the body’s desires. One moment the women strike catwalk poses, hands on hips, heads tilted coquettishly as their long hair swings; the next, they passionately strut across the floor or onto one another, completely absorbed in the moment.
The blending of outward display and the intimate expression of desire adds complexity to this dichotomy. In staccato phrases, hands beckon the audience closer, then grasp fervently at their crotches. A dancer’s finger points at the viewer and then at herself: this is me! The touching of one’s own breast is coolly demonstrative; the fanatical rubbing of bare leg skin is desperate. With a heavy hand, the women beat their flesh tenderly as if they were cutlets. Two of them roughly undress the third, pin her down and throw her to the floor. Laughing, the victim gets to her feet and performs a breathtaking nude dance right in front of the audience.
Arne van Dongen’s soundscape has no beat; the recurring pulse in the choreography comes from the dancers themselves. They each bring their own personal touch: Matthea Lára Perdesen is majestically aloof, Isaiah Selleslagh is sultrily dark, and the tall Sixtine Biron is playfully innocent. The cast (which also features Celine Werkhoven in a rotating role) is brand new. The production by WArd/WaRD is almost twenty years old. And the much-acclaimed Co(te)lette is a real treat. Meanwhile, the battle over who owns the female body has only become more topical. What has changed is the ubiquity of cameras. These constantly confront women with beauty standards and have restricted the space where their image remains intangible. Fortunately, there is the theatre. With the added security of camera stickers.
Marijn van der Jagt, De Groene Amsterdammer May 28, 2026