“People call me Alex,” says a gruff man in a tank top, “but my real name is… Alex.” He’s one of four beardy blokes, their offhand stance, shaggy hair and ill-fitting clothes making them look like metalheads. They do, indeed, do a lot of thrash-guitar flailing. They stage cartoonishly violent fights of karate-chops and sucker-punches. They josh together, plant buddy-buddy kisses on each other’s cheeks, and eyeball the audience.
In this entirely exaggerated display of maleness, it’s a while before you suspect the dancers may be women. They do, eventually, bare their breasts. “What do you think?” growls one of them, “what do you see?” In truth, seeing this forceful headbanger of a piece stops our thoughts altogether, leaving us – like the figure rubbing troubled hands over her naked body – only with anxiety. Between male and female, between Alex and… Alex, the body lies subjugated.