Tub-thumping. Valve-busting. Memory-staining. The show that relaunched the Roundhouse Fuerzabruta, now ten years old, is as exhilarating as ever. Stand in the middle of it, blasted by wind, rain and confetti, with bass shaking your ribs, and it completely sweeps you away.
Its set pieces are almost all extended flashbulb moments; the sort of images that storm your memory banks like a dawn raid. A sprinting man hurtles through walls that burst into explosions of dust. A woman runs through air; springing off nothing in particular. Three nymphs dart through water just above your head, trailing ripples of light as they go. These unique sights stick around for years.
And yet, judged as circus, in purely technical terms, Fuerzabruta (literally Brute Force) isn’t all that. When it comes to virtuosity and technique, actually, there’s next to nothing here. Most routines consist of running, either on treadmills or suspended in mid-air, with the occasional somersault for good measure. Squint past the haze and pumped-up aggression and you might just see straight through the sound and fury.
However, such is Fuerzabruta’s adrenal force, that requires a concerted effort. It feels just dangerous enough, as machinery clunks into touching distance and feet fly past your face, that you’re primed to give in to the euphoria. Add a pounding sound and light show, a strong dash of rave culture, along with the dazzle of bloated, steroidal spectacle, and Fuerzabruta remains a treasure.
That’s as true of its minutiae and moments of stillness as its grand, tumultuous tumbles. The best sequence is still its legendary paddling pool, lowered over our heads, through which three lithe women gambol and glide. Their aggressive jumps, spraying shimmers of water, might jolt the nervous system, but the serenity of paddling feet and the flirtation of submerged faces are no less joyful.
What it lacks is some substance to chew on. There are hints within: a recurrent motif about the frailty of life and the anxiety of urban existence, a constant sense of realm-crossing, of us and them. Yet none of these are developed or consistent enough to merit anything properly thematic. If anything, it flirts with meaning without actually committing to it and hides behind ‘whatever you want it to mean.’
Yet worldliness is hardly the point of Fuerzabruta’s extravaganza; it’s as giddily intoxicating as ever, even if it’s slight more transparent second time around.
Photograph: Tincho Garcia
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