This was a show of two halves. The first was an amazing, life-affirming and subtly political piece, the second was, well . . .

Let's deal with first things first. As all the seats had been taken out of the theatre, we had to sit on the floor.

A naked man then placed himself in front of us and, lit by a single spotlight, tucked his head under his chest and resting on his shoulders, performed a series of incredibly slow, controlled movements.

Apparently headless, with arms somehow stuck on in the wrong place, his body was transformed into something that was barely recognisable as human.

Five further dancers continued this bizarre fragmentation of the body and, as in a game of Misfits, bodies became oddly but gloriously fused.

What the body is, how we perceive it and what it is capable of was all called into question.

This was also a reflection on how we see ourselves.

Spasming their way through the audience on their backs, the dancers rubbed their flesh against ours, they suggested that we too could be part of this revolution.

Then came the second half and it all went wrong.

Now clothed, the troupe stomped - admittedly very beautifully - to a big banging drum, shouting out buzz words such as Tony Blair, Not in My Name and Calvin Klein.

Exhorting us to join the "struggle", they ended it all with Imagine by John Lennon.

A hectoring and unsophisticated end to what began as such a powerful manifesto. This lot really should stick to taking their clothes off.