Deyan Georgiev

The prevailing tone of Deyan Georgiev’s earnest and imaginative abstract solo is contemplative tension. Ensnared by long strands of vividly red, rubbery string, the pale, shaven-headed and strongly-built Bulgarian is the softy undulant centrepiece of a boxed-in, crepuscular stage space. Accompanied by a reverberantly throbbing soundtrack, he twists, tumbles and tangles himself up within taut, trembling elastic like a distraught casualty of the information superhighway.

He’s an adroit mover, but releases himself from his constraints too easily. He then must contend with a dark, thinly-slatted cylinder on wheels – a kind of existential transformation booth spun like a zoetrope, or tipped on its side to become a short tunnel.

The performance contains striking effects but, like a brief but tantalising bit of nudity, doesn’t lead to much of anywhere and is burdened with both a fuzzy concept and design gimmicks. Georgiev’s symbolic struggles start out intriguing but end up seeming artificial and ultimately unmoving.

Donald Hutera

A man stands in an empty space strangled by red strings. He looks like a cyborg or a puppet winding and unwinding itself up in these wires, diving under them and rising back up again. But when he later removes his second-skin clothing we see his humanity. Deyan Georgiev presents us with a lone human being – and maybe the last one – trapped in what seems like some smoke-drenched apocalyse. His movement alternates between rolling undulations and quick outbursts.

At first his solo is captivating and mysterious. Who is this creature twisting in the strings? Does he represent all of us caught in the web of our duties? But as it continues, his patterns become repetitive. He struggles and escapes one cage that leads automatically to another.

Georgiev’s body and energies are so focused that our attention is maintained throughout, but the performance doesn’t engage the emotions. I was left at the end with some pleasure but also disappointment.

Zsófia Bálint

At first Deyan Georgiev seems to be pulling the strings of this solo performance. Standing in darkness, body tangled in dozens of scarlet cables criss-crossing the stage, he explores a constrained space through both slow and frenetic gestures. Mesmerising waves and vibrations emanate from this large spiderweb of elastic, infrared rays.

But when he rips off the whole intertwined set and disappears into a black, cylinder-shaped box we start losing the thread. Emerging naked, Georgiev turns his cubicle into a tunnel suffused with orange light. Crouching there for a moment, he could either be embodying genesis or apocalypse.

Hence, a paradox: the more the piece underlines the notion of exposure, the more it drowns in abstraction and feels overwhelming and unfulfilling. Maybe this is also due to the artificial smoke repeatedly flooding the space. But they are merely fumes that cloud the issue. Sure, Georgiev is wired, but he may have got his conceptual wires crossed in the process.

Callysta Croizer

The stage is dimly lit, a multitude of red threads creating a kind of Cartesian coordinate system just above the floor. Within this woven plane an entangled man waves his arms in slow, hypnotic fashion. Smoke surrounds a looming upstage cylinder that collects the strings binding him. He breaks free, only to end up trapped beneath the unfinished carpet. I don’t believe his ensuing frantic, squirming panic.

The dual axis of Wired is strong imagery and lots of empty movement. I am partly enthralled. Deyan Georgiev is trying to be truly present and take us with him into his confusing inner world. His intensity is compelling. But however focused his mind may be, the performance – with its technical trickery, flashes of nudity and pervasive smoke – leaves my body unmoved. Wired wants to do a lot and often does it clumsily. It also asks a lot of us. We get a teaser of what it could be, but nothing more than that.

Djalil Sultani