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Live Active Cultures

Paint-flinging dance troupe DRIP finally opens doors on International Drive

Photo: , License: N/A

The above may make the show sound appealing. Indeed, it includes instances of aesthetic ingenuity: One startlingly stark bit stars Jessie Sander, cowering in a spotlight and dodging a barrage of milky water balloons. And the cast can't be faulted for their energy or abandon, particularly Sander and athletic Marcus Alexander Cartier, the lone male dancer. But while I'd love for local artists to conquer the tourist corridor, DRIP attempts too many different things to succeed at any.

As dance, it's hobbled by underdeveloped, repetitive patterns, out-of-sync unison sequences and frighteningly wobbly partnering (understandable on unstable ground).

As drama, the minimal pantomimed plot – horny kids get drunk, hook up, break up; rinse and repeat – is too slender to support the emotions DRIP's imagery tries to evoke.

As performance art, plodding transitions to shift the grungy set pieces inhibit any momentum, and everything abruptly ends just when it begins to build.

As interactive entertainment, the standing audience gets splashed and stained, but isn't offered an opportunity to actively participate – except my companion, who was inadvertently smacked in the face.

As music, David Traver's monotonously anti-melodic instrumental score is the heavy-metal equivalent of NPR's soporific Echoes, amplified beyond 11.

As erotica, I find muddy humping about as arousing as coprophilia.

As a bar, stingy wine pours don't endear, and I didn't dare drink the fluorescent "beer."

And as a value proposition, the entertainment began 20 minutes late, lasted barely 40, and (at $35 without discounts) costs as much or more per minute as Cirque du Soleil or Blue Man Group.

DRIP might succeed if reinvented as a themed nightclub with a nominal cover charge and atmospheric entertainment. But its current presentation left me cold and damp.

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