Undefined thoughts, struggling to find expression. A panicked moth caught in a net. A paranormal force possessing a human body. Parasomniac disorders of the sleep: night terrors, somnambulism, hypnic spasms. All these ideas and images arise, flow and fade during the course of Leïla Ka’s short and hypnotic solo To Cut Loose.

Draped in a white nightgown, she stays within a vertical column of light, feet planted. The face is always impassive, the eyes downcast. The action happens in the sound (thick electronic sonics that congeal into a beat), in the intensities of light, and, in the body, above the knees. At first, it’s all in displacements and flinches of the arms, head and shoulders. Momentarily Ka stretches straight, one fist raised and face lifted – a sudden focal moment that gives way to low crouches and longer leans. It’s as if a dream has broken, giving way to slower, deeper breathing.

Exactitude and economy of means, phrasing and performance make for a rich and imaginative experience.

A mysterious and apparently fragile figure stands still below three antique-style flower-shaped lights. White socks. White nightgown. White hair. Somewhere between an angel and a disguised rebel. As the stage unveils a shy spotlight, an electro bass slowly invades the set.

This figure is holding herself, writhes, clutching her belly, and then lets her arms go. And repeats. She keeps her whole energy in her gut. Heavily, inevitably, unshakeably. The bass grows harder, the movements grow looser, freely letting go whatever is holding her. But still she does not move through space.

What is it that keeps us from achieving our dreams? Even the deepest ones, the ones that inevitably unfold our true selves. To Cut Loose is an intriguing, superbly performed proposal on the meanderings of freedom of movement, but mostly on the freedom of mind. After all, the one cannot live without the other.

The opening image of To Cut Loose – three antique lamps, a white smock, white socks – place us in a space that is coded Grandma’s living-room. What ensues, however, unfurls jaggedly and ritualistically in stark contrast to these aesthetic elements.

Entering into an altered state, Leïla Ka catapults the audience through 20 minutes of juggernaut dance. Feet rooted 1000m below the surface of the earth, the torso twists and collapses, the arms grab and then yield. Slow motion spirals and fragile undulations are transformed into staccato punches under a persistent strobe light.

A palpable stillness in the audience signals our complete enthralment. You could hear a pin drop, as they say, if it wasn’t for the brilliant sounds of Now That’s What I Call Berghain.

Murky and implosive, Ka performs this vivacious work with unapologetic aplomb, relying on pure physical expression to rattle our very bones.