You don't get a lot of Jacques Derrida in dance performance these days, let alone his disquisition on how we're prevented from fully enjoying orgasm delivered by a guy on an exercise machine, but that's why the Superamas are worth that intercontinental airfare. Also, they strip.

There's a thematic unity in the events they stage: a band practice and cover of "Smells Like Teen Spirit," a dance technique workshop attended by cheerleaders and football players, a party at a discotheque, a women's locker room chat--and in the filmed segments, notably the gee-whiz "Superamas-take-Manhattan" documentary. They're all deconstructed before your eyes--the dialogue is recorded voiceover, strobes flash to pause the action, scenes repeat.

In each case, they disturb the familiarity of hedonistic obsession, until a scene of amplified enjoyment transforms into an inescapable, death-denying mask. They can't resist tweaking the knobs of what's signified higher and higher: the band is shirtless, even at practice, and they hold their beers up in a commercial's climax. The women changing before a workout are tanned and relentlessly topless--naturally they turn to discussion of how well a new vibrator works. Or to cancer (a bit, we're told, lifted from The Hours). Whatever gets your attention.

If you're mulishly content to ogle--and on display are some of the pertest, upstanding breasts we've seen in mixed company--they show a clip from What's New, Pussycat?: Sellars and O'Toole at a strip club discussing how alienating and unsexy it all is. This is playing both ends against the middle: there is a critical distance on the unredeemably trivial, and there is that nagging, unsatisfiable drive to be there when the highest point is reached. Yes, the women strip, but only to further alienate. We can see your desire, they make clear, like an interactive Vogue ad that instructs you on the false coordinates of the ideal.