One of the interesting things about the latest show from Uninvited Guests is why, long before the end, we the audience don't just stand up, shout "enough" and leave the theatre. That is partly the point, for Schlock's litany of violent deaths and torture, drawn largely from movies, such as The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, Crash and Opera, is no more violent than the images we see on our TV screens every day.
Why do we not shout "enough" when we watch the TV news from Iraq or look at a photo of blood seeping from the head of a corpse? Could it be that we have become so used to fetishised images of violent death that we can no longer distinguish between the real death and the staged one; between real blood and tomato ketchup?
The idea that death is the new sex is fascinating, but despite an abundance of intellect and a sharp performance style, Uninvited Guests still outstay their welcome with a show that has run out of steam long before the Perspex screen, a Brechtian distancing device, has become splattered with blood and gore. In a way, Uninvited Guests become a victim of their own thesis: one gory death is very much like another, and although the device in which the audience's own deaths are predicted finally makes death seem personal and real, it comes too late in a piece that has already become repetitive.
Uninvited Guests talk a good show - the programme notes negate the need to actually see Schlock - but they make you hear one too. An intriguing aspect of the evening is the live-sampling of internal noises from the performers' bodies: trauma made manifest in the hammer of a racing heart.
· Until Saturday. Box office: 020-7223 2223. Then touring.
