What Have You Got Toulouse?
The stage is smothered with shanty-town peels, on the verge of a duel, where the virile nature of slapstick clashes with its turbulent tragedies. Haphazard bodies frolic and legs oscillate between the burden of the gesture, and the rousing of the script, which mark no more the front, than the underside of a skirt. It is the failure of unforeseen deliriums, where the poetic is bathetic, and the audience’s audacity is challenged by the dominating body and their props. With Mr Whippy’s and chains, lemon ball gags, Judy & her gimp Punch and their Seagal-pals; the stage is jarred for a boundless show.