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Ten of the twelve performers are lined up across the back of the stage clutching large cardboard boxes marked ‘FRAGILE’. This label could describe the performers as much as the content of the boxes: dressed in odd assortments of clothes which appear cobbled together, they seem desperate and forlorn as snow falls around them. The vulnerability sensed in the opening of The Rite of Spring gives way to urgency and desperation as Stravinsky’s score takes off. The group pulses and pounds to the visceral thrumming of the music, played live by sister pianists Lidija and Sanja Bizjak, who also arranged the work for four hands. The performers’ commitment to the simple physicality and the intensity of the rhythm is compelling, and this opening sets up an intriguing group psychology.

Fabulous Beast’s Rite and Petrushka combines a re-imagining of Michael Keegan-Dolan’s Rite of Spring (2009) with a new interpretation of Stravinsky’s Petrushka. Stravinsky’s music is the connection between the two works, which are presented in this production as two halves of one idea rather than stand-alone pieces.

The relationship between the group and the individual is a theme throughout both Rite and Petrushka. In Rite, the balance of power continually shifts as the group periodically turns on different members. They are singled out, forced to strip, hoisted around the stage. The aggression increases, the imagery becomes more violent. One woman cowers in her underwear, threatened with knives. The performers don animal heads. With one hare and numerous dogs, the power balance is clearly in favour of predator, not prey.

The imagery is effective and there are moments which resonate. Nevertheless, what should be powerful themes of ritual, fertility and pack mentality do not make much of an impact. The stakes are clearly high but it does not always feel that way. The climax is distinctly unrewarding, and Rite does not fulfil the potential glimpsed earlier in the work or demanded by the powerful score.

There is no curtain call after Rite and after the interval, the same cast returns to the transformed stage for the second half of the evening. As such, when Petrushka opens, it feels as if the performers’ journey is a continuation of what came before rather than a new exploration. It perhaps helps to compensate for what felt like a premature or anticlimactic end to Rite, but Rite should not have to rely on a sequel for closure.

The stage is draped in clean, bright white drapes. Also in white, the performers seem lighter here. Maybe these white surroundings allow them innocence after the darkness of Rite. The relationship of the individual to the group is again prevalent, but there are more smiles, more joy now. Olwen Fouéré’s character is again set apart from the group, as in Rite: this time, she is suspended on a platform just outside the proscenium arch, periodically relighting her cigarette to remind the audience and dancers of her presence. Her separation from the group works better in Petrushka than in Rite, although I am not convinced that her character adds significantly to either work. The performers look to her for approval or permission: a guardian, supervising children at play.

Among these swirls of white, there are compelling moments; the real strengths of Petrushka are the individuals who burst out of the group, and Rachel Poirier and Ino Riga particularly stand out. It may not be clear exactly what they are going through, but it doesn’t need to be: they are immersed in an experience.

However, as in Rite, the cumulative effect is underwhelming. The rituals continue, and although in both Rite and Petrushka, there is no doubting their significance to those participating, their effect does not translate to those witnessing them. I am left unsure if a transformation has taken place, and whilst I feel slightly transported, it does not quite feel far enough.