We’re on terra firma for Johan Inger’s “Passing,” which starts with the strewing of soil on stage and takes inspiration from the climate emergency, although I have to say this latter fact passed me by. The vibe is twee and witty, with lots of whistling and guitar-plucking and grape-vining as a backdrop to reflections on different kinds of bonds: romantic, familial, neighbourly. 

There’s a whiff of Pina Bausch to Inger’s theatrical flourishes, oddity mixed with tenderness—for example, bursts of crying that are so unexpected they provoke laugher, then so protracted they become unnerving. The shrieks of an orgasm lapse into those of childbirth; a wistful acapella solo is interrupted by a man furiously galloping into the scene on all fours. The comedy tends to linger several, sometimes many, beats past its welcome—and not by accident, I sense—but the warmth underpinning it provides a decent counterbalance.

The dance language is likewise quirky and earnest, mischievous but committed. Its staccato quality shows off the troupe’s deftness via fast-stopping turns, lurching face-down planks. Again, what it lacks in structural precision it makes up for in warmth. The final scene strips the dancers of their clothes and sends them into each other’s arms for a slow, affectionate saunter. Glitter sprinkles from the rafters like falling stars, and it’s back to the glimmering cosmos we go.