Imagine an empty 6,000 sq metre warehouse intricately designed to contain 40 smaller performing spaces on multiple levels. On one side lie the fallen remains of Troy; on the other, the city of Carthage. At its dark centre is a labyrinth, and above sits the decadent realm of the gods, who are all too keen to interact with the struggling humans below. The look is steampunk dystopia meets Berlin cabaret.
Step through a black-curtained door and you are in a neon-lit bar where two men writhe, whirl and twist above you on ropes. Then climb a spiral staircase to a pool above which a goddess hangs by her hair and spins in a frenzy. Somewhere below a monster drags a woman into the labyrinth’s heart and the darkness devours her. Above, exiled Trojan soldiers pay homage to an imperious queen. One of her courtiers breaks away, chased by a soldier – with a few audience members in hot pursuit. There is no safety net, no stage: only viewer and performer.
