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The Guardian - UK
The Guardian - UK
Entertainment
Lyn Gardner

Plastic Woman

Asadwut Luangsuntorn in Plastic Woman, Pit
Asadwut Luangsuntorn in Plastic Woman, Pit. Photo: Tristram Kenton

Like its music, the theatre of South-east Asia can seem singular and strange to westerners. This solo performance, however, seems curiously familiar, like a piece of feminist performance art you might have seen at Oval House in the early 1980s.

Based on Rong Wongsawan's novel Leaving 1974, it tells of the sudden arrival in a small seaside town of a beautiful plastic woman, created by a scientist and fashioned from synthetic materials. She takes up residence in a house where a queue soon forms for her services.

Part modern fairytale with no happy ending and part social and moral lecture, the tone is satirical, particularly in its treatment of the men who mouth high-minded platitudes while ensuring their place in the queue, and the women who spurn Plastic Woman and aid in her destruction. There are also some neat little asides, such as when the communists accuse Plastic Woman of being a sign of capitalist degeneration and exploiting the people's energy.

Unfortunately, the whole thing has a dated feel both in the simplicity of its sexual politics and its performance style, which involves actor and Thai film star Asadawut Lusangsunthorn sliding energetically but to no particular purpose on the floor and making vigorous love to a wooden table atop of which sits a beautiful mannequin's head. He finds plenty of suggestive uses for fans and sunglasses.

The piece only really comes into its own at the end, when it changes gear and you suddenly realise that this is no moral fable taking place in a distant land - but a story of the daily exploitation of women by the 5.4 million sex tourists who are estimated to visit Thailand each year. The show cleverly changes perspective from a piece about them to a piece about you. It leaves the audience nowhere to hide.

But it is too little too late in a performance that reflects the cultural diversity of the BITE season, but is no un-discovered cultural treasure.

· Until October 5. Box office: 020-7638 8891.

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