Red

There's something frighteningly, gorgeously courageous about Carl Knif's solo performance. And it's not just because he starts out dancing with lit candles clutched between his fingers and toes. Even (or especially) after they're snuffed out, he's small and vulnerable on a huge black stage. And out of its darkness, he brings his demons to life, in a dance that does anything but tiptoe round his lowest moments.

He's lithe and strong as he performs his own choreography, full of moments of falling and floating. He drops to the floor again and again, despair embedded in his gentle return to his feet. At other moments, his arms become wings, as strobe effects make them feathery and full. Janne Hast's gorgeous, richly discordant sound design gives a religious intensity to these moments, rich with chimes and bells.

In the piece's spoken word sections, he gives them context, talking about his depression and the out-of-body experiences that come with moments of extreme fear or hurt. His performances map out these extremes, stringing them together in a series of emotional red alerts: coming out to his parents, hearing of the death of a school friend, a nervous breakdown.

Knif's faltering revelations are painful, the product of moonlit introspection, or self-hatred in a dingy flat. Jukka Huitila's lighting design uses a red glow to symbolise their intensity, and the pure flame they burn with. But it also feels like an emotional 'Stop' signal – and what's so startling about Knif's performance is the way he powers straight through this red haze, to find an honesty that's as bright and pure as a candle's flame.