Pure camp with tremendous theatrical intelligence in (M)IMOSA, in which four flamboyant drag queens vie for attention

Maniacally she gallops across the stage, stomping like Michael Flatley on crack. Gravely thin and bare-chested, Marlene Monteiro Freitas tap-dances around. She squeezes her tits and pulls handfuls of (fake) hair from her scalp. "My name is Mimosa Ferrara," she panted menacingly, as her black leggings dropped from her ass and stuck just above the pubic area. "And these fucking pants are always falling down."

In (M)IMOSA, four flamboyant performers - two men, two women, all androgynous - take turns embodying the ultimate hysterical fantasy transvestite: Mimosa Ferrara. They do so in the form of a battle, in which they constantly try to outdo each other in flair and excess. The performance is a tribute to the New York underground transvestite scene of the 1980s, with its ferocious vogue dance battles, captured in the monumental documentary Paris is Burning (1990). Mixed with influences from contemporary dance and chaotic performance art.

In rapid succession, the most diverse acts follow one another: hilarious impersonations of pop icons Prince and Kate Bush, fragments of classical ballet, breakdance with shaking hip-hop buttocks, standup comedy-like monologues, hyper-sexualised dry fuck moves, operetta singing and frenzied vogue in the style of founding father Willi Ninja.

After Monteiro Freitas, Trajal Harrell bursts onto the scene. Dressed less flamboyantly than his predecessor, he also introduces himself as Mimosa Ferrara. Harrell grabs the microphone and sings a bombastic tearjerker. Halfway through the song, Francois Chaignaud strode into the hall from the audience, armed with a shiny boa, feather headdress, blow-dried hard rock hair and a screeching falsetto voice. He appears to be a cross between rocker Dee Snyder and Hedwig & The Angry Inch, but he is ALSO Mimosa Ferrara. The fourth Mimosa - contortionist Cecilia Bengolea - crawls out like a grey larva in a very tight-fitting, no-holds-barred stretch suit. With an emphatic dildo in her trousers, she wriggles across the stage like a malloteric transgender stripper.

Thank God (M)IMOSA avoids the obtuse pants fun. This succeeds because the performers constantly undermine all the hysteria and attention-grabbing onstage themselves. They viciously comment on their own performance, and sometimes their own act.

When, for the umpteenth time, one of the dancers demands attention with a song, act or embarrassing outpouring, the others start subtly bantering from the sidelines. Emphatically uninterested, they file their nails, comb their hair, sigh and check their Facebook status or sneer at their colleagues. It is all done completely unintentionally and naturally, without milking it too much. Pure camp, but with tremendous theatrical intelligence.

At 2.5 hours, (M)IMOSA is a bit on the long side, and after Bengolea's totally overpowered Kate Bush impersonation, the performance also ends rather abruptly. But (M)IMOSA vibrates long after. This is an uncompromising, whimsical theatrical experience.

Genius or crazy? I'm leaning towards the former.