Kingdom

Phillip Adams, Matthew Day, Luke George, Rennie McDougall: four queer men, all choreographers, each make a work, perform in all works, and collaborate on one work. It starts off with the lethargic and methodical moving around of objects such as large pieces of thick card, thin wooden planks, cardboard cylinders and strips of bendy paper. Next, the first of many costume changes right before us, and the first dancer to strip nude, as three of the four leap and prance around the floor in a way that looks spontaneous but then the actions repeat themselves. So far it’s hard to clearly identify how this explores the creators’ desires intersecting with art, life and sexuality. However, as a stream of consciousness is unleashed, becoming a noise choir of sorts – barely distinguishable words spouted like rhythmic beat poetry in perfect sync, the rearranging of vowels chanted together, as the only light comes from the books held by the dancers – we’re swept up in the concept and the artfulness of how Kingdom combines sound (and silence), props and movement. A highlight is Adams bestowing phallic-looking crowns on the others, all of them donning g-strings/arseless undies with a lengthy plush horn attached to the front; they move in glamorous poses, pausing in between. Finally, the dancers apply gold paint on each other’s naked bodies, bar one who dons grey apparel, and breathe heavily, orgasmically even, as they writhe and pulse entangled in one another – it’s an orgy, an epiphany, an acceptance, a celebration. Kingdom asks too much patience of its audience in parts, its abstraction and avant-garde emptiness often reaching, but flashes of brilliance and heightened emotion occasionally shine through.