Titans review

It commences with the rise of a long, narrow bar of light, a call of horns on the soundtrack and a glimpse of Laskaridis on the ground – a leggy, sunbathing, non-binary comic showgirl-goddess with a pointy nose, pregnant belly and a penchant for distortedly high-pitched, unintelligible chatter. Slipping about on the periphery, avoiding attention, is Dimitris Matsoukas as a less-defined figure in black, sometimes busy with tasks but never uttering a sound. 

Laskaridis’ design is an installation-like arrangement of clutter, and the performers manipulate and interact with various items or objects. These include a suspended light fixture that doubles as a swing, a mound of lumpy dirt covered by a thin carapace of gold foil and a bright, domestic corner featuring hanging vines, an ironing board and a squat, pop-topped bin concealing a secret fountain. There are also slabs of Styrofoam, broken up and grated into snow-like particles by Matsoukas or gouged out in a slapstick turn by Laskaridis.

Some moments are striking, among them a propeller lighting effect that casts Matsoukas’ unstable shadow on to a large corrugated backdrop. And towards the end, Laskaridis’ character shifts their seemingly disembodied head along the light bar, gurning while humming a ditty. They are sometimes blissed out, sometimes shrieking in panic and alarm; eventually their waters break and there is a kind of birth, followed by a would-be transcendental, apotheosis-like finale. The net result? Something more than self-indulgent fluff – but less than complete satisfaction.