Jemma Kahn has got great performance boobs.
Perhaps we have become spoiled and jaded.
People want to relive the epiphany of The Epicene Butcher.
Jemma wants to move on, collaborate, explore.
We must not hold her back.
The audience is demanding more, and she has given more.
More diversity, more depth, while retaining the structured quirkiness and sexy, wicked elegance of Kamishibai, as taught to her by Rouka Genji.
Yes, she lost her lines at the end, but we were so deep in the wild orgy of seafood, penis flutes and pomping that it didn’t matter.
She covered, (which sounds wrong), but she did it so well it seemed to fit in with the bedlam of bonking.
This was polished, sparkling, outrageously enjoyable theatre.
Those mesmerising, bouncy tassled props were the artist’s final jubilant shout: she knew she had us firmly by our dark, delicious, subconscious junk.