I’ve heard of in-yer-face theatre, but I’ve never before sat in the stalls and been sprayed with water, garlanded with ticker tape and kissed on the cheek by a pregnant woman in whiteface. My loss, clearly. But those who like to preserve their personal space might want to stay clear of the front rows for this cheerfully unsettling clown show from Russia’s Teatr Licedei.

It’s 100 minutes of comical riffs on typical family situations. You know the kind of thing: boy tries to cut off sleeping father’s hand with a hacksaw; boozy father walks out on his playful, pregnant wife; cheeky baby cuts the heads off all her dolls; all four kids smoke some fags then contend with a demonic player piano. Everyday stuff.

Children of 8 and above are welcome. They won’t always find it easy, but those happy to immerse themselves in its woozy world should adore its mix of archetypes and anarchy. There is a subversive undertow to its look at family life. But mostly The Family is just a series of impishly inventive set pieces, comedy for its own sake.

There are barely any words as the six performers set up relationships, subvert them, then subvert their own subversions. Sometimes I could have done with a bit more plot to scaffold these antics, but the director Boris Petrushansky and his cast of six use their soundtrack brilliantly, tripping from tango to Afrobeat, Björk to chanson, as the family capers in a home untouched by any technology more advanced than a Bakelite phone.

If you’ve seen Slava’s Snowshow, the worldwide hit created by Teatr Licedi’s co-founder Slava Polunin, you’ll have some idea what to expect here. This show is closer to cartooning in its vaudevillian violence – mum even finds the Looney Tunes music on the wireless at one point. But just when you think it could do with an overpowering stunt along the lines of the Snowshow’s blizzard finale, it goes and gives you one.

Like any relationship, The Family sometimes requires patience. But it is staged surprisingly and played brilliantly. Its spirit of good, queasy fun hovers in the head long after the last rubber chicken has fallen from the rafters.

Until Sunday. Box office: 020-8985 2424

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