This one-man show melds sound, movement and
pyrotechnics to paint a picture of the human body that is disturbing
and playful in equal measure.
Performer Adam Reade shape-shifts through a
menagerie of creatures: one moment, a limpet sticking to the wall,
the next, a monkey swinging from rope to rope.
His mimicry reflects the double-edged nature of consciousness
– man thinks of himself as possessing
a body, yet at the same time he is
a body.
At times, Reade seems puppet-master of the
show, turning lumps of wood into imaginary weapons and musical
instruments. Stripped
bare, he contorts his body with clinical efficiency like an
anatomist dissecting himself. Yet,
moments later, he is writhing and screeching on the floor, at the
mercy of his instincts as smoke and darkness engulf him.
Pulse-like rhythms creep into the corners
of our ears, suggesting a tribal atavism in Reade’s movements,
tracing music to the mechanisms of our bodies.
Then, just when something like a purpose seems to be
emerging, the CD skips to punk rock classic Blitzkreig Bop by The
Ramones.
Is Reade taking the piss?
It may sound that way on paper, but in performance the change
seems weirdly logical, even witty, linking modern chart-toppers with
the circulatory rhythms that make them meaningful to us.
Don’t expect fripperies like words,
characters or a plot. Our
mute storyteller hurls himself around the stage in a thong, before
scrambling up to the rafters and sprinkling petals over the
audience. Shades of
Beckett colour his routines, repeating the same mistakes, forgetting
to remember and remembering to forget.
The show drifts, occasionally, into
self-indulgence, but it’s Reade’s willingness to take risks that
makes Eclipse so gripping. His
lizard-like frame twitches with nervous energy, chiselled by years
of training into a kind of living sculpture.
Eclipse may not suit every taste, but you
cannot question Reade’s dedication to his art, or the originality
of what he has created. This
is what the fringe was made for.
Will
Abberley
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