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There was a curious inevitability about Pilot Theatre’s Romeo and Juliet, even before we learn in the prologue that these star cross’d lovers will take their life. Chloe Lamford’s visually stunning set is covered in an arresting array of flowers. Coupled with spare staging, simple lines and flickering candles, it was clear from the start that this stage would end up a tomb.

A bold concept for directors Marcus Romer and Katie Posner to stake their production on, but ultimately a gamble worth taking. What could easily have become gimmicky, mawkish, distracting, became a neat framing device, never allowing the audience to forget that this would end in tragedy. Mary Rose’s Lady Capulet was a grieving mother before she spoke a line, putting the deaths in universal human terms: we were never allowed to forget that the two hours traffic of the stage would culminate in the end of this lady’s child.

Posner and Romer were lucky in Rachel Spicer’s fantastic, touchingly young Juliet; she was strong enough to wrench real grief from the well-worn story. Her capricious Juliet flitted between emotions but the sheer joy emanating from her when she found Oliver Wilson’s tender Romeo was beautifully bittersweet. Wilson himself had his moments, and did a convincing line in love-lorn, but was a little contrived in his grief, a little overwrought, perhaps. Chris Landon’s impulsive Mercutio, always ready with an innuendo and a cackle, played nicely off Bryn Holding’s earnest, loyal Benvolio, and Landon demonstrated impressive versatility in his prissy Paris, too, giving him an air of never having been denied anything. Louisa Eyo, who played both Nurse and Duke, switched from lewd to stern, from servant to prince with ease, and was impressive in both roles. Her impassive Duke was a commanding presence, and her loving, laughing Nurse was knowing without stooping to the levels of coarseness practised by the young men.

Sandy Nuttgens’s inciental music was particularly striking, offering sound effects and emotive background without overshadowing the sounds on stage. An impressively varied score, and one that underlined the drama at every turn.

Dramaturg Juliet Forster and the cast have obviously had fun with the text, wringing every possible innuendo out of it, and adding some pelvic thrusts where none are strictly necessary for good measure. Romer and Posner have done a great job with the verse, coaxing admirably clear speaking from the whole cast, and making the words sound new. This is not reverent Shakespeare, although there is clearly affection for the language, but Shakespeare played to be understood and enjoyed, even at its saddest. The audience of school children clearly enjoyed the baser humour, and I left with a sense of youth and wit and fun needlessly wasted. Some judicious cuts kept the play near enough to two hours traffic, as opposed to the self-indulgent three that seems the norm, and kept the story zipping along to its sorry conclusion.

I should start with a disclaimer: this production was coloured by the fact that my companion and I were in the middle of a group of schoolchildren who talked at normal conversational volume throughout the first half, and I was homicidal by the interval. If “shh” could kill… but I digress…

So, my homicidal mania aside, we can return to the actual show. Which was, well, OK. But mediocre Shakespeare is not my idea of a good time, and Carl Heap’s production was not great. What I could hear of the first half (and the lack of audibility was as much the fault of the cast as the acoustics or the raucous children) was witty enough, but there was little spark. Heap had decided to play with the lights up, in deference to how plays would have been performed in Shakespeare’s time – in daylight. Now, this is all well and good if you’re, say, The Globe, and can really honour the whole idea. In a proscenium arch theatre with plush velvet seats and a seven-thirty start? Not so much.

And this is where the production frustrated me: I understand what was Heap was trying to do, and doing Shakespeare “properly” can be a laudable aim, but it was the wrong play, the wrong space, and, frankly, the wrong cast. The actors weren’t bad, just clearly uncomfortable playing to a noisy audience that they could see the whole time. It lead to more posturing, grimacing and hamming than brilliant comic acting, but the verse was nicely-spoken, the innuendo made the most of, and there were some nice moments. The contrast, though, between the more informal style and Victorian staging was odd, and made large parts of the play pantomimic. There was a lot of speaking lines to the audience rather than to other characters, which is not a style of which I am fond, and rather too much ad-libbing and audience participation.

There was a lovely sense of the pervasive mischief of the piece, but it often descended into camp posturing, playing up to the audience, and expecting the laughs to come from “Oh look! He’s hiding! Behind a tiny tree! We can see him! Isn’t it funny!”, rather than making an effort with the acting. Having said that, although unsophisticated, the set pieces were funny, I just felt that more could have been done.

Heap clearly loves the language and encourages actors to play with it,which should be encouraged. However, one wonders if he watched any rehearsals from the back of the stalls: Giulia Galastro’s Beatrice was practically inaudible from row P, and threw away some of her character’s best lines. Shakespeare didn’t write such fiesty women very often, so it seems a shame to waste good insults on the first three rows. My companion and I moved up to the circle at the interval, to escape the chattering, and the sound quality was worse, if anything, although my blood pressure certainly went down. Toby Young’s music was a distraction, too – it did not enhance the action or the dialogue – and the sound levels were wrong.

Oskar McCarthy’s Don John was wooden, and equated “evil” with “scowling”. One wonders if this was his fault or Heap’s. Michael Campbell’s Dogberry was also almost incomprehensible – when a character’s humour lies in their mis-speaking it helps to be to able to hear what they are saying. On the plus side, Nick Ricketts’ raffish Benedick was a delight, moving from cocky to sweet, and earning most of the laughs. He was also, blessedly, loud. Tadhgh Barwell O’Connor played a serviceable Claudio, and Simon Haines leant his Leonato an impressive depth. Mairin O’Hagan’s Hero was enjoyably mischievous, and O’Hagan made Hero a lot more interesting than this pious and wronged heroine is sometimes afforded. She and Galastro made a merry pair, and along with Ellie Nunn’s giggly Margaret and Tamara Astor’s winsome Ursula, actually seemed to be enjoying themselves.

There is a danger when a new play gets a West End transfer that it is carried across London on an excess of hyperbole, which it then cannot sustain. The Royal Court, where Clybourne Park started its life, has an excellent reputation for launching gems – most notably with Jerusalem last year. Bruce Norris’s Clybourne Park had audiences in raptures and accolades a-plenty for director Dominic Cook. While this production does eventually justify the hype, the first half hour or so was tough-and-go.

The moments that should have been laugh-out-loud funny were merely enough to raise a smile, and Sophie Thompson’s voice (Bev/Kathy) was grating on my nerves. The first half, set in the 1950s, was a little stilted, a little too restrained, without enough biting satire or comic relief. Stuart McQuarrie’s Russ was so reserved that Thompson’s slightly hysterical Bev was even shriller in contrast, and McQuarrie’s human, moving reaction to his son’s suicide was diminished by the sudden escalation from soft to loud, from politeness to swearing. Cook could have done more to develop some more subtlety in what could have been a more interesting character. Robert Innes Hopkins’s set was fantastic – capturing the stifling civility of small-town America in the 50s, with racial tensions bubbling just beneath the surface.

The second half, though, redeemed the first, and took the play to a whole new level. Norris’s script suddenly took off, becoming sharp, pacey and witty. It also found a good balance between seriously funny and uncomfortably funny. He has a nice line in making you laugh, then think, then feel slightly guilty. The cast seemed more at home in their own time period, too, and the disintegration of civil relations was hilarious and horrifying to watch. I remain unconvinced that the sub-plot of a suicidal son was necessary: it bracketed the story neatly, but I felt that it was a little too pat, an unnecessary tying up of ends that weren’t all that loose.

So, Clybourne Park deserves the hype, but is not flawless. I saw the first preview, and hope it will bed in a bit and become more fluid and fluent as the run progresses. The first half is about ten minutes too long, and would benefit greatly from being pacier. The cast are generally a little over-the-top in the first half, their reactions melodramatic and there are not enough emotional shades of grey. The second half, however, was worth the trip alone.