Repressed and tweedy yearning, a dressing-gowned merman, a scene-stealing hedgehog: Matthew Bourne’s early works are full of sharp moments, both witty and unexpectedly touching. This triple bill is crisp, lively and brightly danced, with the delightful Town and Country at its heart.

The revival marks thirty years since Matthew Bourne launched his own dance company. He went on to become Britain’s most successful choreographer, an international hit after his Swan Lake with male swans. The three early works Watch with Mother, Town and Country and The Infernal Galop show many of Bourne’s strengths already in place: an interest in parody and reinvention, in repression, in the feeling that emerges from defensive comedy.

The 1991 Watch with Mother starts with a recording of Joyce Grenfell’s nursery school sketches, before plunging its cast into playground games and exercises. Dressed in gymslips and shorts, they hold hands for circle dances, pursue “physical jerks” with frantic enthusiasm, get crushes on each other or fear bullying. Bourne’s dances are perky, but it’s his eye for mood and setting that make this piece interesting.

Also from 1991, Town and Country is two acts of heightened Englishness. Tailored 1930s types arrive at a hotel, where a maid and butler welcome them before showing a glint of rebellion – never has ukulele playing looked so threatening. They reenact scenes from Brief Encounter, ride scooters or dance their way through dressing for the day.

Two male guests exchange glances, moving with aching slowness into a romantic duet. In one lovely detail, their first contact is elbow-to-elbow, without even linking arms. Bourne packs so much into tiny gestures. There are wonderful jokes in the timing of how characters stand or sigh or drink tea – and in this pas de deux, those moments are clues to feelings it may not be safe to express.

Country’s jokes are broader; its yokels and milkmaids are based on already stylised figures. The dance sequences are longer, with less variety in the steps. Again, the work slides readily from jokes to melancholy, with a striking, tormented dream interlude.