Tomatoe Splatter

There sure is a lot of it: tomatoe sauce dripping down from underneath the long hair of a lushous woman, tomatoe sauce abun­dantly leaking out of the mouth of a dying man, tomatoe sauce squishing from plastic bottles and hardpaper boxes. There is red sauce in a transparent plastic bag from which a gasping female body struggles herself free, there is blood spilling from the belly of a desparate boy right down to his sex, and of course there is blood being shed when two ferocious males rip apart the underwear of a woman with their teeth.

Blood comes gushing from almost everywhere, and towards the end of Lia Rodrigues’ startling new show the ambiant smell is sickening.
Rodrigues skillfully plays on the repulsive, though. With her company she has arranged yet another panoramic view of society’s shortcomings. But she does so in a way much more radically explicit than in “Such Stuff As We Are Made Of“ for instance. As is common with her choreographic style, she has arranged “Incarnat” according to a sort of perverted entertainment mode. Image is composed after image; but Rodrigues refuses relief this time. No matter how the action starts, it unfailingly ends with pain, grief, violence, ...