Tell me the truth about love - it’s not a question often asked in contemporary dance. Unless, that is, Juliette Binoche is in the house. In-i, the French cinema star’s unexpected, uneven, tumultuous collaboration with the choreographer Akram Khan at the National Theatre arcs through the passion and pummel of a misbegotten love affair.

Binoche begins by stalking a stranger she glimpses at the movies. It’s a coup de foudre from a classic French flick. Bliss is followed by domestic boredom, jealousy. Each nurses an inner itch that won’t be soothed. She clings awkwardly to him and bites his ear; he hides his eyes from his own unhappiness. Soon, they realise they’re strangers to each other.

Binoche’s physical achievement is incredible: Khan is a master mover, but she keeps pace. She matches her steps to his bullish pace, playfully disrupting his determined patterns. The stunning design, by the artist Anish Kapoor and the lighting maven Michael Hulls, creates a high, moving wall, drenched in colour: intense saffron and violet, twilit mauve, bruised rose. If only the show’s language were as vivid: the duo’s unravelling monologues lack their bodies’ eloquence. Khan’s childhood story about being menaced by a mullah finds momentum only in his furious physical presence; Binoche, pinned to the wall by her huge coat, relives a row, but her words can’t convey anguish as keenly as her dangling feet, twitching for a foothold.

Binoche’s recent movies have called upon her reserves of watchfulness, so it’s marvellous to observe her impulsive appetites here, to catch the triumph in her secret smile. For Khan, too, the piece marks a leap. His shuttering speed becomes less about dazzle than distress or ugly rivalry. And the anecdotes that often inspire his work try to build into a bigger story. The show scuds on their joint magnetism, her tomboy energy squaring up to his trim, masculine precision. I wouldn’t call In-i a vanity project - the duo’s dedication is palpable - but it’s never as moving as you might hope, and the further it gets from dance, the less convincing is theamour fou.

Sometimes, love just isn’t enough to pull you through. Pennies from Heaven, a jaunty new piece for Scottish Ballet’s autumn tour by its artistic director, Ashley Page, threads together songs of the 1930s. The melodies are consolations from a previous depression, their lyrics about looking for silver linings. Weather is the guiding metaphor. As the piece begins, a rush of people look for shelter: sophisticates dripping satin, office stiffs, sailors and cigarette girls. When storm clouds gather, what can you do but face the music and dance like billyo? It’s all tease and glint: shoulders stay roguish, legs are springy. Page creates a winning language of nimble optimism, but keeps everything busy, busy, busy. He’s determined to set every note, as if the dancers daren’t stop -– because, if they did, they might despair. The costume designer Antony McDonald’s tailoring is delicious (he nicks Keira Knightley’s emerald gown from Atonement, but a midnight-purple number is the real stunner).If Page could let the piece breathe, this would be a winner.

The rest of his invigorating autumn bill features Stephen Petronio’s flayed angels and soulful zombies scything at speed to Radiohead, while Trisha Brown places a woman (Lorena Fernández Sáez, excellent) running with bewildered deliberation through a haunted cityscape. Page’s programming is bracing and the company ebullient: the Glasgow audience cheered them on.

More successful audience-building at Sadler’s Wells, where people risked £10 on an unknown talent in its Debut strand. The Israeli-born, French-based choreographer Emanuel Gat displays a distinctive sensibility: liquid assemblages of feathery moves, cut with warped stylings and naturalistic gesture. Though abstract, his work invites interpretation. What kind of community performs Silent Ballet: inmates, a tribe? Dancers regard each othermistrust-fully, then gang up in a suspicious huddle. Are the sculptural duo in Winter Voyage (to Schubert’s Winterreisse) lost lovers, traces of each other’s memories? The air between them crackles with questions. Gat’s a keeper, but too much of his deft, subdued detail was lost on the vast stage.

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