Considering that our two countries share a language, it’s a shame that we just don’t get one element of the British theatrical vocabulary.This isn’t the usual inferiority complex about performing Shakespeare – even Sir Peter Hall says he likes the way that Yanks attempt the Bard. It’s the British grasp of physical theater, a genre which continues to bloom across the pond, that has far outstripped our own.

There’s no excuse for it: Pairing dance with theater, eliding the differences between clowning and drama, has been happening downtown since the 1960s. But British groups like Gecko (now performing at 59E59) have codified and clarified the practice. While the shock of the new has finally worn off, an increasing number of companies (e.g. Frantic Assembly and Complicite) now stand as a fully armed platoon in the avant-garde.

In “The Race,” Amit Lahav and Al Nedjari have created a primer for the form. Almost like a classroom exhibition, they demonstrate a dozen different kinds of experimental scene-making. They clip cables to their belts to fly upside down, use low-tech portals to mock up cinematic techniques, and with tip-top miming skills, turn everyday objects into, well, other everyday objects. All the time they murmur and shout at each other, occasional phrases just audible above their gabber. Again, much in the tradition of their forebears, Gecko used a version of grammelot (Dario Fo’s weirdly comprehensible French gibberish-language), but in English composite. This leaves them free to create image after image, interspersed with athletic mayhem. It’s a strong show, though never emotionally overwhelming, in part because it’s just doing so darn much to give us an education.

The first (and best) moment of the show takes its inspiration from that great physical theater classic, “Saturday Night Fever.” Striding down a little treadmill, Mr. Lahav works on his strut. To the sound of “Proud Mary,” Mr. Lahav glides through his life, waving to his friends, hiking up his pants, and generally seeming like a man with no obstacles. The treadmill scooches about the stage, and, despite how the strings (and techie hands) are showing, it succeeds totally at creating the illusion of a life in motion. But then, the phone rings.

Reaching his hand into a mysterious phone box, Mr. Lahav finds himself caressing his girlfriend’s stomach. It’s a voicemail from her unborn child – and the fellow suddenly finds himself completely off his stride. In short order the father-to-be careens through a chaotic family meeting (the pinchings and grabbings look like a mugging), a hectic day at the office, and a congratulatory pint with a friend. Each of the five actors zooms into view on a rolling chair or table; every interaction is either a collision or a narrow miss.

The prospective father clearly feels some things are moving away from him too quickly. They show us a pan across of a cheerful party, making the tiny company seem like a crowd, but Mr. Lahav hops out of the tableau. He goes into his most wistful moment, sitting by a bored woman, trying to seduce her by lip-synching “I Put a Spell on You.” Watching him try to approximate Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’s every little whoop and holler, bidding farewell to his carefree singledom, sums up the charm of this company. Despite their patent ability to do anything – run in place like mad for 15 minutes, or dangle happily on unsecured ladders – they have the control to settle for the simple joke.

Until June 4 (59 E. 59th Street, between Madison and Park Avenues, 212-279-4200).