Polaris

A white owl cocks its head and caws at the audience. A walrus drags its barking body across stage. This is the Czech Adriatik company, rendering the lonely world of snow and ice that is the Antarctic. With inventive and impeccable miming that wins them coos of affection, Polaris falls little short of a wildlife documentary. Yet that is precisely the problem: it is mildly interesting, yet not wholly engaging, and one is left with the relaxed, sleepy feeling one gets after visiting the Aquarium.

To a soundtrack of howling wind and breaking ice, this two-man show subtly alludes to the absurdity of man's quest for knowledge. The explorers shiver motionless in the snow, scribble observations onto crumpled loose bits of paper—their only justification for being in this icy netherworld—before hunting down the subject of their study. Feverish hallucinations of tangoing walruses merge human into animal: the food chain is not merely an elusive concept learnt in primary school here.

But the actors have more fun than the audience, as they wheeze, whine, caw and roar on stage without developing this showcase of talents into a more substantial plot or commentary. Polaris is a piece of physical theatre that has seen a lot of thought go into it. But more work is still necessary if it is to survive the Fringe and entertain more than the occasional child. Because yes, Vojtech Svejda, you do a great penguin. But so what?