Every now and again a performance achieves a quality quite at odds with its apparent intentions. The result is a transcendent display of human figures marching to a beat of that dull fate that passes for eroticism in a world too full of peas. For a few momentary passages the production edges towards an expressionist pastiche – and the text is an open maw of romantic (self) destruction for artists who fancy indulging themselves.
There are conventional moments of sandy self-scarification, crunching sexuality and spirituality in the usual manner. This is transgressive stuff, but it, thankfully and exceptionally, moves beyond that into an un-ironical deattitudinised sublimeness.