SINNER, Harborfront Center Theatre, Toronto

The astonishingly choreographed text of SINNER does not look quite like anything else in the genre of dance or physical theatre. In simple terms, this first production by the British company Stan Won't Dance sports an elevated text by Ben Payne and meticulously timed movement by Rob Tannion and Liam Steel. In the larger picture, it is a piece that is choreographed to within an inch of its life, but in such a way as to fill in the blanks between the words, much like actors project subtext in a play. The result is an intense theatrical experience that opens up whole new horizons in the marriage of movement and text.

Tannion, Steel and partner Ellie Beedham founded Stan Won't Dance in 2004 with the express mandate of arts fusion: the complete integration of original text, dance and design. Tannion and Steel cut their teeth as actor/dancers in Lloyd Newson's agitprop DV8 Physical Theatre. In their own company, they have extended the concept of the richness that movement can bring to the meaning of words.

The subject matter was inspired by the acts of underground transport engineer David Copeland, who in 1999 terrorized London with nail bombs left in Caribbean, South Asian and gay neighbourhoods. The attack at Soho's Admiral Duncan pub was the most lethal, with three dead and 80 injured. That incident is the point of departure for SINNER, which the creators call "a self-destructive solo for two men".

Two strangers meet in a gay bar. Robert (Steel) is a firt-timer and nervous. Martin (Ben Wright) is confident and on the prowl. Both have identical gym bags. The question is: Who is the most dangerous? They play out their psychological thriller as a melodrame — spoken word over a compilation of music that runs from Marilyn Manson and Michael Bublé to classical excerpts to avant-garde electronica. The movement, from the smallest gesture or tilt of the head to scenes of total body physicality, is completely timed to specific words.

The power of the exact physical execution is immense. Martin's seduction speech takes the form of tumbling bodies, with Steel literally being used as a baton. Robert's almost hysterical reluctance at being drawn into a world of drugs and gay sex manifests itself as a furious and intricate pattern of arm, hand and finger gesticulations, undercut by body shudders and spasms.

The use of pauses is also significant. In a sudden silence and stillness, we focus on Martin's hand on Robert's thigh, and we don't know how it got there.

Ian Scott's lighting is a marvel, highlighting the physicality of the men. As well as conventional stage lights, he employs overhead video, not to make projections per se, but as a laser-beam light source. And then there is Ruth Finn's set, a catastrophic jumble of chairs and tables, some of them literally frozen in mid-air. In a brilliant coup de théâtre, these set pieces are used by Steel and Wright to create a shocking ending that cannot be predicted by the audience.

One of the glories of the piece is Payn'e text and the way it repeats, either spoken by the same man or purloined by the other, but each successive time taking on new layers of meaning. Personas shift back and forth as do the two jackets the men wear. Cellphones play an important part. In Robert's case, his monolgue is the inner nagging voice of his alter ego. In Martin's, it is his submerged intentions toward Robert, or his rage against the world. At the end, we come to know both men, and must accept the unpleasant fact that society spawns its own evil.

The performances are magnificent. The small, wiry Steel is a highly charged emotional fuse just waiting for the match, while the tall, imposing Wright is a sexy python, oozing and teasing his way insidiously into Robert's psyche. They play out their dangerous, erotic game in 70 minutes of unrelieved tension that ultimately pulverizes the audience.