Jasmin Vardimon seems to be appointing herself tour guide to the weird underbelly of modern Britain. In her last work Lullaby she made brutal comedy out of hospitals, hypochondria and the nation's health issues. In Park she scrutinises the various forms of deviancy we indulge when we're sent out to play. These are rich, ambitious themes for dance - but Vardimon's vision seems to outstrip her craft.
Park is her largest work to date, set on a stage that replicates an inner-city playground with grim ingenuity. The space is rimmed by security fencing, the grass confined to concrete flower beds, and the one concession to beauty is a mermaid statue that sits on a feebly sprinkling fountain.
Into this litter-strewn arena Vardimon gathers a string of iconic types. There is a couple of ASBO-qualifying teenagers who terrorise the others with their twitchy aggression, a sweetly amateur busker, a rank-smelling bag lady and an office worker who eats her sandwiches mildly in their midst.
Initially Vardimon sets out to establish the outlines of her characters - which she does with an efficient eye for physical detail. But her real interest is in exposing what's anarchic and instinctive inside, and in mapping the primitive social dynamics that surface when the British are at leisure. Soon her characters are letting rip in frenzied monologues, or losing their inhibitions in ritualised dance routines. Vardimon's favourite device is to have them morph into animals - so that a man running away from a fight ends up hanging from a lamppost like a terrified monkey.
The problem is that these devices have already been extensively worked elsewhere, and Vardimon lacks the resources to reinvent them for herself. Too much of the material feels arbitrary, telling us little about the characters or what they represent. It's a tough message to give to Vardimon's hard-working cast - but long before the evening is over you're willing the park warden to arrive, lock up the gates and send them all home.
