Little Wimmin review – off-kilter cocktail of am-dram and anarchy

You probably won’t remember the page in Louisa May Alcott’s novel where the March sisters lick a phallic, vodka-soaked ice sculpture. Nor the bit where they make lethal cocktails while dressed in hazmat suits. It’s safe to say this is not a direct adaptation. Revelling in brazen, absurdist satire, outlandish performance collective Figs in Wigs do anything but revere the 19th-century classic, instead hurling at it an off-kilter blend of feminist performance art, stomach-ache comedy and futuristic dance.

Levitating – human statue style - a few feet above the ground in glittering pink robes, the five Figs (Alice Roots, Sarah Moore, Suzanna Hurst, Rachel Gammon and Rachel Porter) spell out the motifs and symbols they’ll later use, like prophetic York Notes. The show’s tongue is so deep in its cheek it’s choking, as deadpan explanations link the classic story to contemporary concerns, boshing their way to a thesis of Alcott doing her birth chart and fighting for the active removal of greenhouse gases.

The whole production is a boisterous piss-take – of theatre, literary analysis and the canon. Presented on a blood-orange set, a painfully affected am-dram sequence gives way to a series of high-concept, pun-filled skits, with visual metaphors barrelling out of control. Through the chaos, the Figs indulge in earnest irony, ribbing theatrical tropes and the way we crave deeper meanings in every image we’re fed. Yet Little Wimmin is also a celebration of what it mocks. Dances are slick, the timing is impeccable and they delight in the playfulness of stagecraft, using the Pleasance’s revolve to particularly glorious effect. The show may be too cool to pretend it cares, but it’s an ode to storytelling, and an anarchic glimpse of how much fun experimental performance art can have when not restricted by a budget littler than its wimmin.