I feel a clarification is in order.

A few days ago, on this very blog, I confessed (not altogether seriously) that I’d love to see an audience that cared enough to storm a stage. Well, at last night’s performance of Repair, two doughty spectators cared enough to get up, give voice to their disgruntlement and trundle themselves loudly out of the auditorium. And my goodness, the indignation was palpable. Goaded they were, by God, to take this stand. Scammed they were, by God, for the king’s ransom of twenty euro.

So, to clarify: ladies, whilst I appreciate the gesture, I’m afraid that’s not at all what I’d requested. By storm, I’d meant invasion on principle,  not evasion of the recondite. I wanted dash and daring – not dull and indolent. No, it simply won’t do. Nothing less than a melée of frenzied mavens will meet my needs.

Frankly, I felt a little embarrassed for you. After all, nothing could be worse than picking the wrong battle.

Because Repair really is such a fine, eminently accomplished dance piece. Visual artist Barbara Kilpatrick, composer Elise Kermani and choreographer Vicky Shick have created a work greater than the sum of its parts. It’s not too much to suggest that both Kermani’s score and Kilpatrick’s set and costume design almost constitute characters. Yet the true alembic of the work, it must be acknowledged, is Shick and Jodi Melnick’s duet. In action precise and succinct, both women bring an airy – yet strangely, never unsubstantial – quality into presence. Again and again, the relationship of these women to each other presents itself to us for interrogation. At times, they seem to dance together. Just as often, Shick appears a hidden guide, or the disguised helper in some little known folktale. Mostly, though, you sense that these two reside in different worlds, so that even when face to face, they see each other only through a glass darkly – if at all.

And personally speaking, I find Melnick a wonder. With angular grace, she has the power to infuse motion with a turbulent intensity. And yet, it’s an intensity not at all fraught with emotion. Remarkable.

Alas, my revolutionary guards seemed to have missed all this. What a pity. They will be relieved to learn, however, that their outburst was not the most shocking thing I heard in the auditorium last night. That particular distinction goes to the estimable John Scott and the appalling disservice done by him to the Spanish language.

Lo siento, señor Scott, pero no puedes hablar Español…so for the love of God, cease and desist….