Anyone who plays or watches tennis regularly knows it is a game almost constipated with social etiquette - a fact which makes it a perfect match for performance company Shunt.
The group serves up a show of satirical surrealism, toying with the sexual fetishism which seethes beneath the surface of the suburban sport beloved of Sue Barker. However, this is no kind of sober BBC commentary, but rather an obsessive, faintly nefarious take on the squeaky clean ceremonies of tennis. Stuffy, blazered umpires run the show, officious linesmen cry "fault!" as the audience step into the performing arena and waif-like, bullied ball boys and girls cower in corners, while streakers emphasise the sexual nature of the pompous charade.
Transforming the eerie attic space of the Museum of the Unknown, Shunt's performance triggers many different associations, not least as its members revel in the territorial absurdity of ritualised competition. But above all, the show is powered by the mutant libidinal forces which drive a game already replete with sexual and phallic imagery - rackets, balls etc. But much of the game's implicit sexuality, like Shunt's suggestive performance, takes place in the mind. Thwarted and unrecognised crypto-sexual drives are therefore twisted into rituals of domination and submission, played out between breathless participants and voyeuristic spectators.
All this, together with the initial dividing of the audience into separate rooms for men and women, generates a childlike buzz of expectation. There are unsettling moments, such as the terrorising of the urchin ball boy, striking tableaux such as the sudden disappearance of the lines of the indoor court and intervals of audience involvement. However, much of the show's theatrical potency is derived from its novelty, while its rough edges suggest it is not yet entirely match fit. But, having served out a good first set, this saucy performance should still mature into a five-set thriller to get the sexual deuces flowing.
The Tennis Show
