Promising so much but giving so little, Love Machines is a massive disappointment. With precious few exceptions, this is scene after unimpressive scene of witless faff.
Funny thing is it doesn’t quite seem that way — a great deal of stock has been placed in the sound, lighting, and costume (psychedelic Borg-like creations which complement the electronic backing music quite well). The result is superficially impressive but once you strip away the glamour, scarcely anything remains. Paint without a canvas. That such laboured trite can be concealed so thoroughly would be impressive were it not so painfully discovered.
On paper it sounds brilliant: a noted dance troupe performs a homage to da Vinci’s anatomy and machines, but it’s a bit of a con. You might glimpse a fleeting recognition of some sketch or other amongst the fluff but they are little more than token gestures, lip service, and there is certainly no sense of an overarching project.
The dancers, although individually talented, win no awards for cohesion. Someone always seems to be off-beat, like Lance-Corporal Jones in Dad’s Army. The occasional feat of imagination or athleticism offers a glimmer of hope that things might suddenly improve, but there is never any follow-up and the dreary affair marches on with all all its finely-dressed-up nonsense.
The final body blow is that the show never seems to end, it’s like reading Lord of the Rings or driving to London: just when you have reached an obvious climax it turns out to be merely a false summit, again, again and yet again. Unless glitter is as good to you as gold, chronic boredom awaits. Avoid this vacuous unmemorable drivel.
1/5 
Bernie Greenwood
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