In flowing multi-colored green skirts, two dozen women from the California-based Academy of Hawaiian Arts graced the stage at last year’s prestigious hula competition performing a dance about the Merrie Monarch himself, King David Kalākua.
The dancers stepped on papa hehi — a non-stringed, wooden instrument — creating a bass sound with every chant as the crowd erupted in cheers.
The kumu hula, or a master teacher of hula, behind the dance and chant was Mark Kealiʻi Hoʻomalu.
He knows he’s a crowd-pleaser going into this year’s Merrie Monarch hula competition.
“I’m anxious to pound ground,” Hoʻomalu said.
Merrie Monarch has been celebrating the tradition of hula and Hawaiian culture since 1964. Many hālau put emphasis on upholding that tradition when performing on stage in front of a local and national audience.
But a growing number of hālau are mixing a bit of modern touches into hula kahiko, or traditional dance.
Hoʻomalu has been open about pushing the boundaries of hula. He said he’s more old school than people think.
“Times have changed,” he said. “I don’t think I’m contemporary. I’m a 1970s Renaissance hula dancer taught by a 1970s Renaissance kumu hula, and I carry on that idea of it.”
Maelia Loebenstein-Carter, the 1993 Miss Aloha Hula, said some avid watchers of the competition have viewed the addition of modern movements as controversial.
She first saw a steady progression of contemporary hula around the late 1990s and early 2000s, though she said that generations before her would say they saw it earlier, after Merrie Monarch was first televised in the '80s.
“Every generation can see when there’s something that shifts,” she said.
The week-long hula competition features 20 hālau. They have seven minutes to perform each dance under two major categories: hula kahiko, or traditional hula, and hula ʻauana, or modernized hula.
The judges look at precision from foot movement to hand gestures, and from costumes to interpretation.
Loebenstein-Carter is on a panel of judges this year.
“The judges are at foot level. They’re watching the feet,” she said. “That’s our foundation. Our feet need to be pa‘a (firm) on the ground, so we see everything.”
According to Loebenstein-Carter, the chants for hula kahiko must be dated 1893 and before, while the chants for hula ʻauana come from after the overthrow of the Hawaiian Kingdom.
“When you ask me what is traditional... if you know, you know," she said.
She has seen contemporary dance creeping into the ancient hula category, and even ballet moves woven into hula ‘auana.
She’s worried that it might give the green light for those outside Hawaiian culture to appropriate hula.
“There should be an underlying similarity in the things that we present as traditional hula,” she said. “Now, is there room for creativity? Yes, there is. But it needs to still feel, look, sound, and move like hula."
Hula has been a foundation of Hawaiian ancestral knowledge and storytelling. That legacy was banned in 1830 after Queen Ka‘ahumanu converted to Christianity.
Hula saw a revival 53 years later because of King David Kalākaua, who sought to revitalize Hawaiian culture by hosting a hula performance during his coronation at ‘Iolani Palace.
Kalākaua’s vision continued with the first Merrie Monarch hula competition in 1971.
Since then, hula has been an evolving dance form.
During a 2018 Merrie Monarch competition, hula dancers from Hālau Ka O Ka Ua Kanilehua of Hilo made their way on stage in black gowns adorned in yellow feathers. Their movements were similar to a bird.
The kumu hula behind the dance was Johnny Lum Ho, who died in 2022. He was known for his creativity, and some people remember him as a maverick.
“I swear there must be a bumper sticker that says 'Only Uncle Johnny can, and only Uncle Johnny should,'” Loebenstein-Carter said. “Uncle Johnny was a visionary.”
Loebenstein-Carter said he could write a mele — or song — about chasing a fly in a house or the donkey ride down Kalaupapa.
But she said Uncle Johnny was considered controversial by some.
She recalled a 1983 Miss Aloha Hula performance with one of his mele. The performer was dancing to a song about the fire goddess Pele. Her pā‘ū, or skirt, was burnt at the bottom, creating soot that would fall on stage as she danced.
She said people either loved or hated Uncle Johnny.
“Whether you liked the performances or not, you had to appreciate his creativity and his commitment to sticking to his guns,” she said. “He never did it to win, ever. He did it because that was the tradition he was going to uphold.”
Loebenstein-Carter recalled her grandmother always thanking him for his creativity.
“This is where there's a fine line. If we don't create new mele, we become stagnant as a culture,” she said.
For Hoʻomalu, his halau has not taken home any big wins in the past. But his main drive is to get on stage and perform for the audience.
“I haven't lost yet. I walk away from Hawai‘i every year a winner. There's a lot of people who complain, and a lot of people who are critical,” he told HPR. “There's lots of wins out there, people that love what we do, so rock and roll.”
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