That it can be the subject for dance theatre to speak potently about, still in our own times, is down to the bravery of choreographers such as Tanja Liedtke.

The young German-born Australian was at the top of her profession in her homeland at the time of her accidental death in August 2007 and Twelfth Floor was already more than a year old.

And it is a fairly confident bet that the behaviour of the four suffering characters, and even that of the fifth person, a bizarre young woman who overlords them with the habits and deportment of an automaton, reflect a recurrent issue that will necessitate similar works decades from now.

Liedtke's work, in the creation of which her compatriot dancers collaborated, is genuinely disturbing. Anything otherwise would have been a failure.

And the oppression of the quartet of three men and one girl in the scenario, the movement, and the often electronic noise score of DJ Tr!p is a shadowed scene of the defeated seeking counter- victory through humour.

They finally triumph and escape after bewildering and taming their female guard in a final triumph for the artificial horseplay with which they have already kept themselves sane.

Three males are confined. Two extroverts tease, berate and amuse each other to stave off madness, barely succeeding.

A third, on the threshold of derangement, cowers around the room, chalking his wailing thoughts onto walls, and drawing borders around floored objects, like police around objects of evidence at the scene of a crime.

His written words are the only ones we hear. But we listen for more in the silent action, and get it.

A new, captive young woman is thrown into their existence and eventually connects with the least likely, the chalker. He emerges partly from his shell and both intertwine while perfecting his obsessive outlet.

There is considerable subtlety in all the relationships, paradoxical beauty and crudity in its expression. But the adult content, the inevitable physical frustration, is found to be as desperate as the fun engineered by the inmates in between their shuddering fear of their inspecting warden.

That fear metamorphoses into mockery, courage is empowered, and enables them to make the leap for freedom.

The award-winning dancers are labelled performers, and rightly so, with so much to portray and evoke. None — again rightly so, if casting be meaningful — are classic modern dancer shape. Each is outstanding in their achievement.

Anton (he bears no surname) and Paul White are Little and Large. Julian Crotti is the slightly tubby introvert.

Kristina Chan is the girl, first traumatised, finally liberated, who is last to leave the 12th level after the others have fled.

And Amelia McQueen is the guardian whose pink uniform provides the key to the resolution.

Liedtke's observation and expression triumphs amid the black material. Gaelle Mellis' design features two locker cabinets, one permanently on its back, on the floor, and an equally resourceful revolving exit door.

The one window reflects the progression from misery to a new dawn with the faithful portrayal of the beauty in the unobtainable world outside.

And the directness and clarity of Liedtke's statement requires no reiteration. It needs but one performance. Those who have seen it will not forget it.


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