Four-hundred-and-fifty people have gathered in a sculpture court. Small folding stools on the perimeter of the spacefill quickly. I am whispering requests to the artistic staff and catching the cast’s eyes to let them know we are ready. H and Shannon are tied together with rope, back-to-back on a six-foot high platform. They are both tall, and one faint moment could send them both crashing into the marble floor. I check that the safety ladder is close to them and give the go to Joe and Jeff on sound and lights. Images floating around me cohere and break apart, like clouds or nebulae. The sinking of the Titanic is buoyed up by a tap dancer in flapper garb, glowing at the audience as she spins in double time. We are wrenched back into the modem world with a pulsating dance that all thirty-seven actors whip into, an accumulating, repetitive movement that surges through the space, till the fragile wooden plinths look in danger of toppling. After the frenzy, a meditative text on the idea of home, and a grand finale of Vegas dancers, who break down like wind-up toys, littering the stage with their peacock feathers as they die in a parody of Swan Lake. The final text – echoing over the dancers’ bodies, the stilled tableaux – is doubly resonant for the company members who know it is their last performance together.