Four dancers ricochet wildly onto the stage. They form an uncanny choir, squawking and trembling, long hair draped over their faces merging them into one bizarre organism. They’re schoolgirls playing at pop stars and warriors, but a streak of darkness to their games hints at the looming shadow of adulthood; two boxes, at first playthings, turn into a sinister cage which with to imprison one of their number. Unambiguous moments of tragedy and tenderness are fleeting, gleefully sacrificed on an altar of surrealism.
The performers charm us with their relentless energy, led by the impossibly charismatic Kyung gu Lee; she raps languidly into a microphone, before snapping out of her nonchalance to hammer movement home with formidable precision.
Silver Knife goes by in a blur, leaving traces of sadness in its wake, but there’s enormous pleasure to be taken from this captivatingly offbeat world.