Created by Marc Brew

Review by Dominic Corr

The Traverse Theatre

Everyone can dance. That doesn’t mean they’re magically brilliant. They might be out of time; they might miss a few bars. But they can learn, they can move with music and feeling, and they can change how they see the world. That’s the doctrine which pioneering troupes and dance companies’ thread through their ethos. And it’s something which Boys Don’t Dance excels in conveying to young audiences.

There’s an immediacy to Marc Brew’s Boys Don’t Dance that refuses distance. From its opening moments, it situates itself firmly in memory – restless, fragmented, and deeply personal, yet never indulgent. What choreographer Brew has created is not simply a reflection on identity, but a movement-led excavation of it: a work that understands how the body holds history long after words fall away.

Framed through a recurring visual motif of reflection, the piece sends us Down Under,  beginning with a sense of looking backwards, of measuring distance between past and present without ever fully separating the two. This becomes central to the work’s structure. Rather than presenting life as a sequence of clean divisions, Brew allows it to unfold as something continuous—messy, overlapping, and constantly evolving.

At the heart of the performance are Ross Malloy and Piotr Iwanicki as dancer going through their younger and older experiences. Their partnership defines the production’s emotional and physical language. Malloy captures the restless energy of youth with an ease that feels instinctive rather than imposed: a figure shaped by restriction yet unwilling to fully conform to it. Iwanicki, by contrast, brings a grounded presence that anchors the piece, his movement carrying both strength and precision. Together, they craft a dynamic that is not simply complementary, but interdependent.

Brew’s choreography draws from a wide palette—high-energy physical theatre, music video stylings, and moments of deliberately controlled stillness. There is a clear affection for the aesthetics of 1980s pop culture, a banging’ soundtrack, underscored by a score rich with familiarity, but the work resists nostalgia for its own sake. Instead, these references become tools, shaping a world in which self-expression exists in tension with an environment that seeks to restrict it.

What emerges is a layered exploration of identity: cultural, physical and deeply personal. The early sections, rooted in a rural Australian upbringing, establish a clear rigidity; a world where masculinity is narrowly defined and deviation quietly policed. Movement becomes both escape and rebellion. There is a palpable sense of risk in those moments of dance, as though each action carries consequence, the fear is evident in Malloy’s movements; unspoken but evocative.

That tension is sharpened through recurring imagery, none more effective than the presence of the crow. It operates less as a literal figure and more as a persistent suggestion of scrutiny—something watchful, invasive, and symbolic of societal pressure. Its reappearance throughout the piece creates a thread of unease, a reminder that the freedom found in movement is never entirely without cost.

As the production evolves, it pivots seamlessly into a different register, addressing disability and the lived realities that follow a life-altering accident. Crucially, this shift is not presented as rupture but continuation. The language of the body changes, but the impulse to move—express, resist, exist—remains constant. The transition itself is handled with remarkable sensitivity, avoiding spectacle in favour of clarity and collaboration between performers.

The duets between Malloy and Iwanicki are where the production finds its fullest expression. There is a fluidity here that transcends technical execution; movement becomes conversation, negotiation, and mutual recognition. The integration of wheelchair choreography is not framed as novelty but as expansion, broadening the possibilities of what dance can look like without ever needing to announce it.

Visually, the production remains clean and purposeful. Rachel O’Neill’s design offers an open canvas that prioritises movement, while Jamie Wardrop’s animation and Nia Wood’s lighting provide subtle shifts in tone without overwhelming the performers. They give life to the BSL and narrative elements, communicated by a lively crow. Azariah Felton’s sound design threads the piece together, balancing energy with atmosphere, ensuring that transitions feel seamless rather than imposed.

If there is a slight imbalance, it lies in the narrative layering. There are moments where the density of ideas—identity, sexuality, disability, societal expectation—threatens to outpace the clarity of the storytelling. Not every transition land with equal precision, and occasionally the emotional throughline becomes momentarily obscured. Yet these instances are brief, and the production’s core remains intact.

What Boys Don’t Dance achieves is something far more durable than a simple narrative arc. It presents identity not as something fixed, but as something continually reshaped—by environment, by experience, by time. It resists the idea of a singular turning point, instead offering a lifetime of movement as its central truth.

It is thoughtful, inventive, and grounded in a generosity of spirit that extends beyond the stage. Brew’s commitment to inclusive practice is not an adjunct to the work; it is embedded within it, shaping both its form and its impact. A compelling and finely crafted exploration of identity through movement—occasionally stretching its reach, but always landing with purpose.

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