Traverse, Edinburgh. Dance of the Magnetic Ballerina - three stars. Mr Carmen - four stars. By Mary Brennan.

No spoken dialogue in either - but the two works that ended this eighth Manipulate showcase of visual theatre told intense stories of life, love, death and the curious obstinacy of the human spirit. In her solo, Dance of the Magnetic Ballerina, Andrea Miltnerova (from the Czech Republic), pushes herself into the realm of "human as machine."

To a soundscore that criss-crosses musical genres at volumes that threaten to make our ears bleed, her tutu-clad frame takes on a robotic feel, even as that white frill of a costume and many of her frenetic movements invite connections with classic ballet and Swan Lake in particular.

Tinkly sounds at the beginning of her 35 minute endurance stint hint at her being like the captive clockwork figure in a musical box, but as Miltnerova's rippling "swan arms" become ever more frenetic - and her upper body convulses, as if galvanised - there is nothing sweet or pretty about her performance on a dim-lit catwalk.

It looks like a punishment regime - is classical dance technique a self-inflicted torture?

Or when - with the tutu squished to look like gauzy wings - she flitters like a butterfly on a pin, is it us, the audience, that demands her stamina and prowess?

An uncomfortable thought, occasioned by a fierce, unnerving piece of work.

The final joy in Simon Hart's superbly ordered week of Manipulate programming was Theatre AKHE (Russia) with Mr Carmen. Forget Bizet, push aside thoughts of sultry-smouldering gypsy girls, swaggering toreadors and all that ol�.

Contemplate, instead, two men: both bearded, both in black - albeit one is wearing a skirt and red tights - who get to grips with the core passions of Merimee's original story.

As in all conflicts of the heart, there are strings attached. A bravura cat's cradle of strings, that encircle the space and carry two puppets - a he and a she, yards apart - round the perimeter as the men battle it out in the name of love.

For the one in the skirt, that name is Jose, for the other - yes, it's Carmen.

At first, their rival stances are as funny as they are inventive: the respective names pop up everywhere - even in the smoke that spirals from lit cigars, an uncanny bit of lo-tech that is quintessential AKHE craft and theatricality.

The knives do come out, of course. This is love to the death, a journey through mementos - the red rose, red wine, playing cards are all intrinsic to Merimee's Carmen - where the deadpan panache of Maksim Isaev and Pavel Semchenko leads us from laughter to an appreciation of tragic obsession. Silence.

Then cheers, for the idiosyncratic genius that is AKHE.