Twenty people, one room, and a seven foot rabbit with questionable intentions, Invisible Treasure describes itself as an ‘electrifying exploration of human relationships, power structures and individual agency’. There are no actors and no plot as such, just an enigmatic display board on one wall offering cryptic instructions which the audience must decode and carry out together in order to progress to the next ‘level’ of the experience.

The atmosphere in the room is one of carefully constructed foreboding. The rabbit is an inspired cross between Alice in Wonderland and Orwell’s 1984, its eyes flashing different colours depending on its mood, and its mouthpiece, the display board, goading the audience with commands like ‘behave’, ‘conform’ and ‘Eugenie Knows’ as they get closer or further away from unravelling the tasks.

Each challenge is woven together with an inventive balance of lighting, sound, and technology. Moods throughout the performance move seamlessly from panicked activity as timers count down and lights flash amber or red in displeasure, to moments of serene contemplation as fluorescent digital paint flows across the ceiling, mirroring the movements of the audience below. To lighten the mood and express his satisfaction the ambiguously motivated March Hare occasionally flashes green and white and shoots bubbles from his nose.

The real performance of the experience, however, comes from the audience members themselves who, without prompting, assume the roles of leader, director, follower, interrogator. It is easy to discern parallels with cultural explorations of social experiments that have come before – Lord of the Flies, Lost, the first half of any zombie film – which similarly confront the audience with existential questions like ‘if this were real, would I survive?’, ‘Who can I trust?’ and ‘Who is Eugenie, and what does she know?’.

It is this element of the experience that seems to hold the real purpose of the show. It quickly becomes clear that success is only possible as a group, but each participant is encouraged to question their individual role in that accomplishment and their experience of it, ranging from the enjoyment of successful teamwork to irritation and rebelliousness as the group is challenged and different members vie for leadership.  There is no definitive comment offered on these dynamics, merely a reminder of their existence, which perhaps is enough. The audience leaves conscious that they have unwittingly played a part not only in an interactive digital experience, but also in a mild social experiment examining impromptu power structures, the agency of the individual, and cooperation and competition in group dynamics.

The experiences also offer the audience more practical insights, like how difficult it is to form a human triangle in the dark.

The beauty of any interactive, audience-led performance is that the experience will be unique for each group, often depending on the politeness, collaboration and/or general sobriety of its members. For this performance there are a few moments of inactivity and confusion, leaving the audience wondering whether their actions are truly moving the performance forward and to what extent the messages, lights and sounds are predetermined. These lulls, however, do not last long and no sooner have the questions arisen than the performance moves on, either by the audience’s ingenuity or the grace of the omnipotent benefactor. We hope for the former.

But if the audience are left questioning their success in some of the tasks, Invisible Treasure has one final act to reveal. The first and second acts (arrival and participation) take place entirely within ‘the system’, overseen by the furry, bubble-blowing megalomaniac. The third act, however, takes place outside of this system. It allows the audience to explore its artifice, to see the complex technology at work and to view their experience from an alternative perspective. It is this third act that gives the first and second their meaning, keeping them from fading into superficial novelty. Where a good illusionist keeps their audience guessing and questioning by withholding their secrets, conversely, Invisible Treasure offers the same level of intrigue by revealing all and laying bare its very construction. After seeing and examining everything, both inside and out, the audience have nothing left to question but their own actions and behaviours – memories that will stick with them long after the performance has ended.

Good Lord, she gets around, this Lulu. Spreads herself about a bit. A couple of plays by Frank Wedekind (Earth Spirit, 1895, and Pandora’s Box, 1904). An opera by Alban Berg. At least four films, including the GW Pabst classic reworking of Pandora’s Box, featuring the legendary Louise Brooks sporting that haircut. A character in the Final Fantasy series of video games. The inspiration for the last-ever album by Lou Reed. And now, the subject of a contemporary opera by The Tiger Lillies.

But who is the elusive Lulu? What is she? Are we any the wiser? Do we get any insight into her thoughts and dreams and desires? No, of course not. Lulu eludes us, as she has always done. A girl who goes by many names: not only Lulu, but also Mignon, Eve, Nellie. She is a blank canvas, a fabrication, a doll. A depository of men’s dark dreams and dirty desires.

The Tiger Lillies’ Martyn Jacques takes Frank Wedekind’s verses as the starting point for his lyrics: She was born in the big city / In the middle of a slum / A chap called Shig pass for her Papa / And a harlot was her mum. In the programme notes, Jacques says ‘it was hard writing the songs for Lulu. You’re drawn into a very dark place’. And if you have any previous experience of the Tiger Lillies’ work, you’ll know that if Jacques finds the subject matter dark, then ye gods it must be the darkest of the dark.

The resulting production pulls no punches. We encounter the whole terrible tale – child abuse, rape, prostitution, exploitation, murder – through Martyn Jacques’ sung lyrics, and his spoken words delivered in character as her amoral father, Shig. We are never placed inside her experience – everything is seen from the outside. But the trajectory is clear enough: behind the Femme Fatale who lures men to their destruction is the abused child, sold into prostitution at a terrifyingly young age by her father. Passed from man to man, until she is old enough to take it upon herself to conspire with her father ‘to see what could be had’. But she’s never herself: ‘For each man she’s a mirror’. Again and again Jacques’ lyrics describe her as a doll – a doll to be dressed and played with, a puppet to be manipulated. She drifts silently through every scene: Jacques as Shig chucks her chin as he leers at her; or she stands on the piano and stares down at him. When we hear of her being painted, then bedded, by the artist Schwarz she moves ghost-like through a series of empty frames projected onto the screen.

Our Lulu here is played by Laura Caldow, a Merce Cunningham trained dance-theatre artist who has worked with Deborah Warner and Maresa Von Stockert, and is a frequent collaborator with Will Tuckett. Apart from the three Tiger Lillies, she is the only performer. The portrayal of Lulu as fantasy character, as avatar, as the projection of others’ fantasies, is bolstered by the constant changes of costume, and the use of a screen veiling the rear of the stage, which she is often to be found behind. But whether she is behind that thin veil – which creates a filmic mise-en-scene – or right there with the musicians, she is always ethereal, other. Caldow’s delicate and effective self-choreographed movement work embraces ballet, contemporary, expressive dance, mime, and a kind of sculptural posing, so that she appears to be placed in the scene as a kind of living statue.

Lulu – A Murder Ballad is directed and designed by Mark Holthusen, whose previous work encompasses photography, album artwork, music videos, and stage design for numerous bands. He previously collaborated with the Tiger Lillies on The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. His chief scenographic tool is projection. This works best when the images are of a Gothic landscape (tall wonky houses, lit windows, street lamps) or ornate interiors. It is less successful when performer-video interaction is attempted – with the exception of a simple and beautiful image of Lulu holding an umbrella as filmed rain bears down on her. The culminating murder scene uses a beautiful design idea of lighting the proscenium arch with an intense red-and-black projection, although this is marred slightly by an odd cartoonish burst of on-screen blood.

The songs are mostly written in the third person, about Lulu and her abusers/lovers, although some are addressed to her. The imagery is nasty. One abuser of the young Lulu is described as ‘salivating on her dress’ (accompanied by nasty slurping noises by Jacques). And as for Lulu: ‘Does she want it? She doesn’t know anything else.’ he spits. Lulu is, variously, ‘A bird on a wire’ or ‘Just a marionette of a pervert’s desires’ or ‘An animal in a cage.’ There is, amongst the original compositions, a very lovely cover of Cole Porter’s Love For Sale, Jacques’ robust delivery forcing the song away from breezy romanticism into a harsh laying-out of Porter’s disturbing lyrics in all their bare distress: Love for sale / Appetising young love for sale / Love that’s fresh and still unspoiled / Love that’s only slightly soiled / Love for sale.

The most harrowing of the songs – the culmination of the story, the horrific ending of Lulu’s life at the hands of Jack the Ripper– is written in the second person, addressed to her killer. Jacques sits at the piano, and rasps the words out: Do you pray, Jack? Got a crucifix on your wall? Do you think God will be grateful you’ve rid the world of vermin? Do you masturbate over her dead body, Jack, her uterus torn out…? It is truly, terribly, magnificently horrible.

Musically, it’s mostly the usual Tiger Lillies mix. Waltzes fast and slow. A fair few ‘oom pah, oom pah’ jolly bounce-along tunes. A rumba or two. Martyn Jacques moves from standing with uke or accordion (and occasional swanee whistle) to sitting behind his piano. Adrian Stout is solid as a rock on contra bass, and adds interesting layers of sound with musical saw and Theremin. New boy Jonas Golland does a fine job on drums / percussion. There are some interesting and complex sections of music that take it all into a more jazzy and experimental direction. But it is Jacques’s voice that mostly draws our attention – his extraordinary falsetto singing voice, and his horribly gruff spoken voice (as Shig), a mesmerising mix.

Lest we leave the theatre totally destroyed, there is a very lovely comic coda to the story – the murdered Lulu re-appearing pretty as a picture to be serenaded by Jacques with the second cover version of the night. It’s another Cole Porter classic – and it is, of course, My Heart Belongs to Daddy. Sick!

Commissioned to celebrate the 40th birthday of seminal North London venue Jacksons Lane, Gandini Juggling’s new show meta is a glorious concoction of many of the ideas that the company have explored over the last 25 years – ultimately recalling their earliest experiments with the choreographer Gill Clarke.

Built around Abbott and Costello’s famous baseball coach sketch ‘Who’s on first?’, meta gives a nod towards juggling’s popular entertainment roots. More importantly, it also reflects juggling’s inherent structural heart. Just like the classic comic double acts, juggling is a back-and-forth affair. By unpicking and replaying the sketch in different configurations (doubling, trebling and multiplying the two interlocutors of the sketch) Gandini Juggling transform the simple ‘call and response’ nature of the gags into a landscape of perpetual confusion and uncertainty. This leads to many of the humorous moments for the work – whether it is dancers Kate Byrne, Erin O’Toole and Emma Lister’s execution of the text of the sketch alongside rapid tendus (suggesting a particularly gossipy and disorientated corps de ballet) or Owen Reynolds’ patronising rendition whilst juggling a sequence of varying three-ball patterns.

In spite of this witty and popular primary source material, in terms of its overall tone, meta owes more to Gandini Juggling’s recent experiments with darker themes in their work – for example the indoor version of Smashed (2011) or their darkly vicious CLØWNS & QUEENS (2013). The latter performance in particular is a clear touchpoint for meta’s inclusion of the performers’ violent assaults on furniture and each other.

In CLØWNS & QUEENS Gandini Juggling explored the inherently exploitative nature of circus’s use of sexuality and violence. In meta, this idea is developed further with the company beginning to look more explicitly to the world outside of circus, most notably in the moments when Lynn Scott provides a darkly moving explanation of the first, second and third base metaphor for sex. Alone in the spotlight she haltingly recounts the descriptions of these sexual acts and, as she does so, it becomes clear that the world of meta actually closely reflects our own; clear that Scott’s trauma and the violent outbursts manifest our own frustrations and turbulence in the face of life’s confusions.

Of course, little of this has so far touched on the juggling in meta. As is usual with the company the juggling is precise, crisp, adventurous, and involves not just the jugglers but the dancers as well. The juggling material is drawn from the company’s previous works, including many of their early signature motifs. Most notably there are ‘cranes’ (gently sweeping juggling patterns in which balls are dropped, rather than thrown, from outstretched arms into the juggler’s hand) and the deliberate inclusion of the calling of the rhythm and numbers (a succession of ones, twos, and threes) associated with particular throws. It isn’t necessary to know the source of this past material, because it is the tone in which the performers execute that patterns that help create the shifting emotional landscape of meta.

It is doubtless that meta’s aesthetic would not have appealed to Clarke’s more minimalist sensibilities, but Gandini Juggling’s rich use of deconstruction, fragmentation and extensive oblique quotation would not have been possible without her influence. In this way, meta proves that Clarke’s influence continues long after her untimely death and that Gandini Juggling continue to draw on this to define new possibilities for juggling.