I am back at the Abrons Arts Center’s historic (but unconventionally programmed) jewel box, the Playhouse, so soon after the recent Jack Ferver extravaganza. This time around, the stage is hosting another choreographer, Yvonne Meier, whose “reconstruction” of The Shining I likewise had the opportunity to ruminate on earlier this season.

Much like the other work I’d seen on this stage recently (and, conversely, very much unlike Meier’s last piece), this production, This is not a pink pony 1 + 2, is rooted in an irreverent, off-kilter approach, that works to its advantage – most of the time.

Sectioned off into two parts, featuring identical performance tactics, seasoned with two (slightly different-flavored) dressings, parts 1 and 2 sport different casts, the only connecting thread being the presence of the prodigiously versatile dancer Arturo Vidich. But really, I’d much rather talk about them as one piece than two separate ones.

As the evening begins, the stage picture is very much dominated by deer – two of them staring at me from a large tapestry hung on the rear wall of the stage, with a third, taxidermied one carefully placed just upstage of the blue gymnastics mats that fill the center of the otherwise sparse stage floor. Enter the cast of three (two men and a woman) and off they go on a madcap adventure that appears to be a mash-up of an elaborately bizarre mating ritual, slash wrestling contest. What begins rather innocuously as a game of jump-rope morphs into a slow-motion fight sequence, spins off into a whirling-dervish-like solo, or maybe just a moment where one (or more) performers appear to be trying to shake off a bug that had crawled underneath their clothing. The music – mostly lifted straight out of David Lynch soundtracks from the 1990s – comes and goes at random intervals, with occasional interludes of quiet silliness, interrupted again with outbursts of frenetic energy. In the midst of all this, tenuous connections begin to emerge between the three dancers, but are mostly dissolved before they are fully formed. The protagonists engage in frequent couplings, if I can call them that – they are almost sexual, but in an awkward, non-erotic way. They look like people, but there is something animal to their demeanor. They don’t speak. And, to make everything more interesting, every now and then, and without a warning, the wrestling mats become a battlefield and, if my memory serves me right, none of the three performers are spared from being gunned down in the process. Many of the performative tactics I mention here serve as building blocks and form a kind of a theatrical vocabulary that is then subjected to recombinant sampling and repetition. The cast is impressively committed to the cause, though I wonder if, by the time the first section ends with the King-Kong-like image of the two performers in gorilla suits dragging off a damsel in distress off into the wings, what had really gone down on that stage is really anyone’s guess.

Meier’s new work is entertaining when one embraces it in a sort of nonsensical, absurdist sense. If there is a problem with the piece, it lies within a certain semblance (illusion really) of a narrative and character. Judging from the the loosely improvisational creative process that went into the construction of this work – based on the instantaneous, uncensored physical imagination of the performers, generated on the spot in response to Meier’s barking instructions drill-sargeant-style from the wings – there really weren’t any to begin with. With that in mind, searching for a deeper meaning is probably an ungrateful exercise, and was probably was not these dancemakers’ intention anyway. Pure, unbridled (there goes the pony!) madcap fun, and unexpected associations one makes for oneself, I would argue, is the stuff this piece is made of. When a random sequence of events is set on a collision course, fascinating accidents happen. And when one divines the wreckage, one is always bound to learn something new.