Still, this was immersive theater at its best: In between bites of Chef Heidi’s divine dishes, the choreography and its execution seemed a perfect fit for the bare-boned space, which did happen to house several book-laden shelves. Accompanying one of Gray Gall’s and Wells’ many spats, the quartet of movers, indifferent to the couple, crouched with bended knees, their splayed-fingered/backwards extended arm look recalling the wild avians of Matthew Bourne’s “Swan Lake.”

With the dancers continually mixing things up, Paradowski performed a solo replete with yoga poses and pliés, while Crawford’s arched feet and deep lunges were a sight to behold. The indefatigable Paradowski also partnered Green in one scenario, brandishing her like a hood ornament, their mesh costumes voyeuristically appealing. 

Indeed, the lacy see-through attire (“selected” by Lily Abbitt), could have been donned at a kind of They Shoot Horses type of cotillion, with Crawford and Polak holding on to each other for dear life, the latter’s spidery-black unitard a foray into Cruella de Vil territory. 

Medea’s soliloquy, including the line, “Is there anyone more gullible than a broken woman?” and her talk about grief being a “tricky emotion,” was accompanied by Achten’s noodling in the upper octaves on the tuning pegs of her harp, her glissandi a poignant, antithetical touch, bringing the unusual evening to a shimmery close. 

It’s more than satisfying, then, to see that theater, especially one that is dance-heavy, hasn’t lost its edge since Covid struck the arts community. And, happily, Volta is willing to go even further, so kudos to Paradowski, Green and collaborators. Oh: and please pass the Pacific Northwest oysters, the ones with urfa, a dried Turkish chili, and pomegranate molasses mignonette, that slid down this scribe’s throat, as the late Tina Turner once crooned, “nice and easy.”