Disembodied left me discombobulated. That is a compliment and a criticism. Its creator, David Glass, surprises you from the off: while you are looking expectantly at the darkened stage, he is entering through the auditorium. But Davis, one of the greatest physical theatre performers, still has something up his sleeve: his body is gnarled and crabbed like an ancient tree, bent like a branch heavy with snow. But it is life and time that weigh him down. His mouth is a gash of red, his face white like that of a tipsy clown. He reminds you of Aschenbach at the end of Death in Venice - absurd and tragic. Old Sam's spirit hovers over this 75 minutes, as does the legacy of vaudeville. This is a show full of disappearing acts.
Disembodied is about the nightmare of growing old and the way that as we grow old, we seem less ourselves - at least in the way our body misbehaves. There is a sequence when Glass's hands and feet appear to be entirely unconnected to his limbs. It is also about how the old disappear from view. At one point, Glass simply vanishes down a crack in the floorboards. Out of sight and out of mind. Like a lost letter.
The show is full of music and grief, and there is much that is astonishing, but it doesn't hang together. What is the connection between the young man in the urinal and Glass's character? Are they one and the same, the past and present, or existing in a parallel universe? I can hazard a guess, but if I could have heard better (maybe old age is making me hard of hearing), things might have been clearer.
I left feeling confused and frustrated, because I reckon there is a great show in here somewhere that is clamouring to be let out. It only requires a little more rigour on the part of performer and director to make it happen.
· Until March 13. Box office: 020-7223 2223.
