G stands for Giselle, although at first glance the title of Garry Stewart's new production for Australian Dance Theatre could also stand for green. With the dancers garbed in acid green and the lighting favouring a similar hue, G is defined by its colour.

It's billed as a “sophisticated reworking of the classical ballet Giselle” but it's nowhere near as clever as that, or, indeed, nothing like as smart as Birdbrain, Stewart's rethinking of Swan Lake, which was seen at this same venue five years ago. Mostly, the frenetic conviction of G's choreography seems to be in service to itself, with any allusion to Giselle merely a kind of conceptual accessory.

Stewart helpfully provides a synopsis of sorts, through the use of words that flash across a wide LED screen that hangs behind the dancers. Later, the words become ever more playful and irrelevant, like someone flipping through a giant dictionary.

In the original, of course, Giselle goes spectacularly mad after having been betrayed by her lover, and this breakdown of sanity and sense seems to be the lead inspiration in the hyperbolic choreography, which unfolds as if on a conveyor belt, proceeding left to right for the entirety of its hour. That in itself, the predictability of its shape, is wearing.

Stewart's choreography, which is so physically demanding that bruises seem the likely outcome, takes familiar images - both gestural and balletic - from the 19th-century original and weaves them repeatedly through his overheated body language. Pirouettes and port de bras set up a comfortable classical landscape before the freak show starts unravelling. There are few productions more chaotic or crazed than a Stewart one, with dancers jumping high only to come crashing down on to the stage and rolling over like demonic gymnasts.

There is no one single Giselle in this staging (as far as I could tell), but we do get many representations of her, most powerfully her incarnation as an ashen ghost. There are grotesque Wilis, a few props - lilies, a sword, green crowns - a stage full of dead Hilarions and even a visit to Hell. Pointe shoes make a fleeting appearance, worn by surreal female soloists in green bikinis.

Somewhere in here is a commentary about the romantic psyche in meltdown but it struggles to be heard amid the cacophony of the choreography. Still, the blistering determination with which the dancers execute Stewart's high-impact moves, while veering between hysteria and robot-like impassivity, is impressive. And the music, which offers the briefest of allusions to Adam's iconic score, is electronic pap at its least offensive.

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