Modern dance. Who, what, why? Questions left unanswered last night, despite two hours of dancing, prancing and bouncing to the unmelodic strains of a central heating system. Eat your heart out Margot Fonteyn, this was more nutcase than Nut Cracker. There was lots of running on and off stage, standing like a coat hanger and doing what looked to me like a contemporary Gay Gordons but without the skipping. And for variety, they threw in a bit of group semaphore. Plinky plonk went the violin. Bouncy, bouncy went those tight buttocks. SOS went the arms. Meanwhile, the man sat behind me had some sort of stomach condition. Trump or rumble? Who cares? This was art.