Coming out of Fuerza Bruta felt a bit like being the SNL-version of Miley Cyrus– Like, why was that guy running? And like, why is he being shot at? And like, is it all a metaphor for work and play? And like, how is that plexiglass thing so strong? And like, who’s that Uncle Sam guy and like, everyone else for that matter?

The answers to these questions don’t exactly matter. Fuerza Bruta at times feels like a performance art piece trying to be a meaningful metaphor of something or other. It opens and closes with an endlessly running man dressed in a weird cross between a business suit and a hospital gown. What I imagine a clown would wear to a job interview… from the 1990’s.

The man is shot at. And bleeds. Like twice. And he’s running. A lot. Sometimes other people dressed in ugly business suits join him. Is he running from a hit man? Running towards a hit man? Is it a metaphor for overcoming life’s trials? Are they all dressed in over-sized blazers because they’re running from work? To work?

Maybe they’re running away from their costume designers?

No one cares. Lights out. Set change. Crazy dances ensue. Also, about a ton’s weight of paper confetti.

Fuerza Bruta hovers between being edgy, visually-beautiful performance art and setting a dance club-environment. It works best when it abandons both pretensions and just focuses of stimulating the sense. The coolest part of the show by far is when a plexiglass ceiling lowers on the audience while four female cast members splash, slide, play, and crash in pools of water.  It was rousing, even a bit suspenseful, but also visually unique.

Four wet chicks thank you for your time.