will soon feel at home....No one is going to help you except us....Try to relax"
The voice in the incongruous panelled bar sounds soothing but the effect is
sinister, for Shunt, the collective freshly affiliated to the National Theatre,
has lured its audience into the vaults beneath London Bridge station for this
exhilerating Freudian frolic in a perverse Narnia full of surprise. Apparantly
pitched into a renegade research institute where vivisectionists are investigating
what makes man tick, the audience are never sure whether they are visitors or
subjects as they are herded about in darkness. Spasmodic light flashes reveal
a string of queasily vivid images: a feathery flurry of exotic dancers, a heavy-metal
funeral; an autopsy to ansere the question "How do we get back to the point
we came in?" Appropiately, the cast dispenses tequila at the end- Tropicana
is a mescal worm amid too much theatrical cheese and wine.