Please, please get on with it, you want to shout five minutes into Mathurin Bolze's new show. Please stop the existentialist raving, the ostentatious intensity, the ambiguous narrative, and just do the clever, unexpected and unsettling circus moves at which you excel.

It's as if the French National Circus School-trained Bolze, who cut a dash with the avant-garde Archaos a few years ago, is trying to prove he's not just a circus performer. Why? He's such a good one, such a fluent, insightful, innovative trampolinist, that he doesn't need to create shows where men crawl around beneath a tri-level set like Hobbits in a cellar, or stand in a Perspex box talking nonsense and tearing hair.

Bolze's linking of circus turns with Absurdist inflexions and unspoken drama is unconvincing, while the portentous encounters feel increasingly silly (a man and an aspidistra, a man and a dummy, a man and a plank of wood). What feels great is his raggle-taggle, insouciant circus. So light, so easy are his performers, even in the toughest of moves, like the two stunning sections on a giant hamster wheel.

First, a man and a woman shift and swing around a chair locked to the wheel, somehow evoking that infamous naked pose of Christine Keeler astride a high-back. In the second, a man runs, tumbles and turns with the wheel in a section so quick it blurs before your eyes.

The trampolining sequences are just as good. Set flush with the stage, the four performers fall, roll and loll with leisurely flair, only to be shot back out in a mood change so forceful it feels like the thunderclap of love. They also combine trampolining with tumbling and pole work, flying out and landing tail up in another's arms, or help aloft, or in a speedy whizz around a pole.

These are remarkable combinations that loosen your spatial and emotional anchors, and need no Absurdist embellishment. But Bolze can't resist embellishing. The closing sequence of a naked man running along a conveyor is dull indeed. I strained my eyes, yet the sly lighting meant no jiggly bits were visible.

• Until Saturday (0845 120 7548). LIMF until 28 January. www.mimefest.co.uk