Sofia Isella arrives at the Roundhouse like a storm she can barely contain. Emerging from the shadows, backed by ominous electronic textures and silhouettes, she immediately cuts a striking figure. She paces furiously across the stage, hair hanging over her face, constantly tugging at her oversized clothes as though caught between wanting to tear them off and feeling trapped inside them. Her fingers are haphazardly bound with elastic bands, while her face and arms are purposely dirtied. It’s uncomfortable, theatrical and utterly compelling.