Miss Revolutionary Idol Berserker

I saw it. For me, the ending was everything.

I suppose I can talk about it now, as it's over. . .

Having to wear a plastic mac made me feel both fearful and excited. Having seaweed thrown at my head, and water squirted in my face, was jarring, and conditioned me not only to relax, but also to do what I was told: a kind of waterboarding for overgrown kids.

The torture continued with the screaming and shouting of 25 "singers", who engaged in choreographed yet haphazard frenzied dancing, who touched their tongues one to the other, between melding all sorts of musical genres, including a bit of Aladdin and a bit of Les Mis, with all sorts of pop, and overall sensory overload to complete a full Guantanamo Bay softening up.

Duly compliant, we were led onto the stage, and encouraged to emulate the noisy jumping up and down, and cacophanous karaoke, that we had heretofore been listening to.

Once I realised the audience were on the stage performing, and the performers were in the seating area, it seemed the point of the Guantanamo treatment was to make us compliant enough to switch places: the audience now performers, the performers the audience.

The coup-de-grace, as we exited, confirmed this, as every performer lined up like they were fans, high-fived me, shaking my hand, and generally acting like I was Kit Harrington at the stage door of Dr. Faustus.

For a moment, I thought that we were being critiqued for our passivity as audiences and as people, which may have been part of the theme, but for the most part, the performers seemed so genuinely pleased to see us, so happy to be with us, that I read this ultimately as a celebration of performance, engagement and life in general.

4 stars