Men in tutus. The joke­potential is obvious – the heavy ballerina either dropped or unceremoniously dumped off­stage; the dying swan that is also seriously moulting – and the company’s stage names (Maria Clubfoot‚ Ida Nevasayneva) clumpily underline this. But within a very few physical limits these dancers meet the technical demands of classical ballet (they dance on point‚ one of them very deftly fakes 32 fouettés‚ another has legs that Sylvie Guillem might envy – and a nose that she would not) and they stay pretty close to the choreography that they parody. In Les Sylphides Michel Fokine’s copyright is properly acknowledged; Petipa’s Paquita might just be the real thing if you don’t look too closely. Paquita is a good example of what this company does best‚ slyly mocking the mannerisms of ballet (the fixed smiles‚ the elaborately formal acknowledgments of applause‚ the unspoken rivalries) while forcing you to admit that they dance extremely well. Les Sylphides is such a perfect ballet that only slight jokes can be made of it; there are odd moments when you wish they’d simply do Fokine’s original. A rather extended parody of Jerome Robbins suffers from being much less funny than its original‚ Robbins’s ‘Concert’. But the Trocks’ (as they are known) version of the famous Pas de Quatre is both ludicrous and an affectionate tribute to one of ballet’s sacred relics. In Paquita they choose a particularly young‚ slight and guilelessly smiling youth as their premier danseur noble‚ and the laughs that are drawn from this range from the outrageously broad to the knowingly subtle. A perilous lineis trod between high camp cheek (‘sauce’‚ Noël Coward called it) and heavy­footed mockery. The company’s dazzling skill and their obvious love of classical dance ensure that they stay on the right side of it most of the time.