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Priestley is fond of dramatic irony, and lays it on particularly heavily in this, apparently his favourite play. It is rarely performed, perhaps because, as a piece of drama, it offers relatively little to a director. There are so many mentions that it is set in 1912 that one cannot ignore the looming horror of World War One – and the audience is continually encouraged to recognise that although we know what’s coming, the general feeling expressed by the characters is one of optimism of a bright future. So far, so ironic, but it all gets rather tiresome and inescapable after a while.

It is presumably supposed to make us question the complacency of those whose comfortable, upper-middle-class existence is about to shattered by conscription, bereavement and the privations of war. Although it does set the Kirby family’s petty problems in context, this idea of knowing what’s coming does little more than give the audience a sense of superiority. Unlike with other Priestley plays (An Inspector Calls uses very similar tropes), inEden End it is very hard to extrapolate the Kirby’s concerns to become a caustic look at a wider societal malaise. Yes, they are smug and safe and blinkered, yes they are worried about ultimately unimportant things, but it’s hard to see what Priestly and director Laurie Sansom are driving at besides recognising that hindsight is a wonderful thing.

There were other oddities, too: the set (Sara Perks) was beautiful, floating on an island of its own above the stage, and yet this dreamy setting is treated as naturalistically as possible, with time-appropriate props and costumes. The incongruity was not a problem, it was just a bit strange and, again, felt a bit  un-thought-through. William Chubb, as Dr Kirby, was weak, which perhaps negated some of the impact that his thoughts about the future could have had – he muses on what’s to come with a blind optimism that is never really challenged. Unfortunately, Chubb was neither charismatic nor convincing enough to pull off a speech about his almost utopian vision for the future, and these scenes consequently fell rather flat, despite the best efforts of Charlotte Emerson’s Stella. Emerson was a highlight, particularly when playing off Daisy Douglas’s stolid Lilian. The sisterly friction was brittle and brilliant, with Lilian’s resentment emanating from Douglas is fierce waves.

Little brother Wilfred (Nick Hendrix, in his professional debut) was less convincing in the first half, but found his feet playing legless in the second. His after-the-pub scene with Charles (a louche, charming Daniel Betts) was one of the high points of the evening, and directed with a subtlety sometimes missing elsewhere. Sansom has done a good job of coaxing nuanced, delicate performances from Douglas as the dependable but angry Lilian and from Charlotte as the highly-strung Stella, but perhaps neglected to always do the same with the male cast members. Betts clearly has fun playing Charles as a shallow chancer, and, although he does so with warmth and wit, it would have been nice to be given a bit more depth, too.

Perhaps I am too impatient, but this production took slow-burn to extremes while managing to still gabble some of the dialogue. It took a very long time to get going at all, and once it had started it remained predictable and slightly insipid. The domestic drama needs setting in its wider context to have any clout or point to it, and Priestley’s script is severely lacking in this. Some of the wistful moments when Stella or Dr Kirby mused about what might have been, or what might be, could have been moments of illumination, but in the stodge of the rest of the plot they get rather lost. Sansom has done some interesting things with the staging, but cannot redeem what is ultimately a rather pointless play.

It may be more spectacle than substance, but this production of Doctor Faustus is so jolly that one can’t help but be carried along on the tide of flashes and bangs. While some of the subtleties and delicacy of Marlowe’s language get lost in director Matthew Dunster’s eagerness to rattle along to the next magic trick, these are done with such flair and joie de vivre that it’s easy to forgive this production’s weaker points.

Arthus Darvill is a jauntily-dressed, pointily-bearded Mephistopheles, who reeks malevolence and is clearly enjoying toying with Paul Hilton’s tormented Faustus. However, with both, there is a sense of holding back: Darvill throws away one of  Mephistopheles’ greatest lines (“why, this is hell, nor am I out of it”), almost muttering it to a cowering Faustus, and Hilton doesn’t always cut to the heart of Faustus’s inner turmoil – both could do with more emotional heft.

Although there were many things to enjoy in the production, that’s what’s stuck with me: it was a bit lightweight. For a play that examines the depths of human desires, that ponders intense philosophical questions, that deals with life and death, salvation and damnation, I can’t help but feel that Dunster has sacrificed depth for exuberant colour and clowning. It was much funnier than I was expecting, and while this is fine, it needed some darker moments to contrast.

However, the lighter moments are excellently done. The comedy trio of Robin, Dick and the horse courser are all excellent, playing up to the audience, milking every bawdy joke (and adding some in for good measure) and generally playing for laughs. The threat of hell for those who meddle in magic and necromancy is real enough, and Mephistopheles’s casual cruelty to those foolish enough to try briefly brings a much-needed sense of peril to the proceedings.

The props and puppets (designed by Paul Wills) are gorgeous – especially a rather wonderful pair of dragons. The costumes, too, are sumptuous, and Wills has let his imagination run riot for the devils and angels’ costumes with great effect. The music (composed by Jules Maxwell) is entertaining and mostly spot-on, although again I feel that Dunster relies rather too heavily on thunderous drum-rolls to create tension. He could do with coaxing his cast to produce more of the tension themselves.

The production overall is snazzy, slapstick and, well, sexy, but doesn’t always hit the mark in the darker scenes. Faustus’s soul-searching never comes to much, and despite Darvill embodying Mephistopheles with a louche swaggering menace, it is hard to believe that Faustus is really in mortal peril until the very end when he is dragged kicking and screaming to hell. For a show that is lacking in depth and has over-invested in spectacle, it is, at least, spectacular to look at.

Dr Faustus is playing at the Globe Theatre until 2nd October. For more information and to book tickets, see the website here.

Misery, turmoil, lies, more misery, and a bit of onstage torture thrown in for good measure. The Beauty Queen of Leenane is not a happy play. In fact, Martin McDonagh’s script is so unrelenting in  its misery that you are left unsure who you are supposed to empathise with. It is also quite, quite gripping, and scattered with enough (blackly) comic moments to keep the audience absorbed.

I physically recoiled at two points (I won’t spoil the story – you’ll know which points if you go and see it), so completely absorbing was the story. The cast of four are all superlative, playing out the claustrophobic nuances of rural life, trapped in relationships from the unfulfilling to the downright unhealthy. Both Joe Hill-Gibbons’s direction and McDonagh’s script are subtle and highly intelligent: we are shown the ins and outs of Maureen (Derbhle Crotty) and Mag’s (Rosaleen Lineham) mutually destructive relationship in the first five minutes of stage time.

Hill-Gibbons keeps his audience guessing; both mother (Mag) and daughter (Maureen) are morally ambiguous, although both thoroughly unpleasant. Watching Mag’s malicious attempts to sabotage Maureen’s life and hopes, we begin to sympathise with Crotty’s down-trodden Maureen. Then the power balance subtly shifts, and we are left wincing at her callousness and cruelty. It is not comfortable veiwing, and it gets bleaker as the evening progresses.

Ultz’s  clever set was detailed in the extreme, perfectly capturing the suffocating, decaying lives being played out in rural Leenane. The wistfulness that Mag and Maureen feel when the other two characters (Frank Laverty and Johnny Ward) leave their run-down dwelling is palpable, as they are left alone with each other and their bad memories.

The script has echoes of Beckett – the trapped figures in one space, circling each other, sniping and grumbling. But here it is not physical barriers that keep them inside or together, but emotional ties that bind and drag them down. At the end of the play, you are left unsure who to believe, what is real and what is fantasy. There is no redemption here, no chance of escape: Hill-Gibbons emphasises that this cycle will not be broken, that Maureen is bound to turn into Mag, that hope is short-lived and fleeting. Bleak, but brilliant.

The Beauty Queen of Leenane is currently on tour before returning to the Young Vic Theatre. For more information and tickets see the website here.

James Corden needs to be superlatively good to carry this show: make no mistake, Francis Hensahll, the “one man” of the title, is onstage virtually the whole time, and he carries a lot of plot and jokes on his shoulders. Lucky, then, that Corden imbues Francis with the energy to make him a  rogue while adding just enough pathos to keep him likeable. He is an extremely talented clown, adept at manipulating his audience and making sure we are rooting for him as he begs, borrows and steals his way from rags to, well, not riches, but at least a good dinner and a trip to Majorca.

The audience in the Lyttleton on a Sunday afternoon was kind to Corden – perhaps a little too ready to laugh: there is a tendency to be prepped to laugh when we know we are seeing a comedy and that a well-known comedian is in the title role. This can mean that the jokes don’t necessarily have to hold up to much scrutiny, they just need to be delivered by the right person. As I say, I have no doubt that Corden was the right man for the job, but I am not convinced that the jokes would fare as well in less capable hands.

Richard Bean has taken Carlo Goldoni’s The Servant of Two Masters and dragged it into the 1960s, complete with Beatnik actor-wannabe, a beehive-sporting proponent of Women’s Lib and a wonderful be-suited skiffle band. There are moments when the script could be sharper, but it has some nice flourishes and enough genuinely funny nods to the time to keep the punters happy. Dolly (Suzie Toase) declares at one point that in the next 20 years there will be a woman in 10 Downing Street and that caring for the poor, compassion and an end to foreign wars cannot be far behind. It’s adeptly done, but overall Bean’s script is not quite as deft as it could have been.

His characters remain a little two-dimensional, too. Pauline (Claire Lams) is thick. That’s about all we learn about her, through no fault of either Lams herself or Nicholas Hytner’s direction. Her wayward fiance, Alan (Daniel Rigby) is an Actor with a capital A, and flounces a lot. He is very funny, but  rather a slender character. Diminutive Jemima Rooper as Rachel/Roscoe is genuinely intimidating, and plays with a lightness of touch missing from some of the other cast members – she doesn’t become a caricature despite not being given a great deal to work with. Oliver Chris as Stanley is furiously channeling Hugh Laurie’s Bertie Wooster for much of the show, with a few more boarding-school jokes thrown in for good measure. He is hilarious, but one can’t help but wonder what the fiesty Rachel sees in his ugger-bugger Stanley.

Grant Olding’s musical interludes are wonderful: they set the mood nicely and provide entertainment during the scene changes. However, they become increasingly frequent and more bizarre as the show goes on, until it inexplicably turns into a musical in the last five minutes, as if Bean didn’t know what else to do with his story and demanded a big ensemble number as a finale. The cast have serviceable voices, including Corden, but it all gets a bit silly towards the end. The skiffle band, however, are great – good musicians and personable performers, and I enjoyed Corden’s turn on the metalophone wearing a rather natty fez.

The piece is predictable enough, but Bean/Goldoni work in enough clever set-pieces to keep it pacy, expertly directed by Hytner. The humour is slapstick in the extreme, and the fourth wall is broken frequently and with impunity. All-in-all it’s a silly, cheerful vehicle for Corden to clown – which he does superlatively well.

One Man, Two Guvnors is playing at the National Theatre until 19th September. See the website for more information.

Sampled at The Junction, Day 1: This is just to say, How To Be A Leader, Dreams of a House High on a Hill and Death Drive.

The Junction is a lovely space, in rather inauspicious surroundings: in the looming shadow of a giant cinema/bowling alley/fast food restaurant complex on one side, the ugliest Travelodge in the world (fact) on the other, in South Cambridge, far from the stunning gentility of the colleges. However, we all know that neither books nor theatres should be judged by their covers: The Junction is a treasure trove of nooks, studios and theatre spaces allowing its annual mini-festival Sampled to offer something for everyone. With bunting, free jelly babies and cheap coffee, I am sold before I see any shows…

Hannah Jane Walker’s This is just to say is an intimate theatrical conversation about what it means to say “sorry”, and why we have a habit of apologising for other people’s mistakes: how often have you said “oh, sorry!” to the person who trod on your toes or let a door swing shut into you? Walker combines her poems with an engaging conversational style, and some gentle audience participation.  When my companion and I strolled up to the entrance we are greeted with cups of squash and a cheery request to fill in a name sticker: audience participation is not usually my cup of tea, and I squirm at the thought of being called on, especially if the actor knows my name. But, Walker is so charming and friendly that I decided to be brave, scrawl my name (illegibly – ha!) and take a seat in The Junction’s meeting room. The show is clever without being smug, and Walker is skilled at both performing, chatting, and putting people at ease. I am not convinced that her poems are strong enough to carry an hour’s show, but Walker is so engaging that the potential weakness of the poems (they become a little same-y after a while) becomes immaterial. She is at her best when she is philosophising about the nature of apology, forgiveness and linguistics, which she does with articulacy and wit. Some of the over-sharing about ex-boyfriends gets a little uncomfortable in such a small space – but perhaps I am just a wuss. The audience was receptive to Walker’s charms, and she instigated a real sense of camaraderie in the 13-strong audience.

Next, fortified with a jelly baby or two, we snuck into Tim Clare’s first show of that day, How To Be A Leader. A mix of stand-up comedy, monologue and sudden shouting, Clare’s performance was great. His seven rules of leadership are a mock how-to guide to becoming a dictator: the key seems to be careful guarding of resources (Frazzles); each citizen receives (Frazzles) according to their need; don’t let ‘em see you bleed (even if you’ve been shot); and, um, get a Spell-Lady to make you a magic hat. Simple, huh? Well, Clare’s bizarre logic and manic persona make the hour fly by. He is off-beat and hilarious, with moments of real insight thrown in here and there with a very light touch. We cover feminism, the real qualities of a good leader, how dictatorships are formed and sustained, and why neither Kim Jong-Il not Sarah Palin is a good role model. Clare ends with an utterly brilliant rap in the voice of various female leaders, to redress the balance a little after the rest of the show focused on male “assholes”. Joan of Arc, Queen Elizabeth I, Mother Theresa (who has a filthy mouth in Clare’s somewhat warped imaginations),  are given a voice, in Clare’s inimitable style. His way with words is almost on par with the incomparable Tim Minchin, and Clare possesses a similar acerbic wit offset with a twinkly-eyed grin.

A bizarre 20-minutes followed, watching Made In China’s Dreams of a House High on a Hill. I am still not sure if it was theatrical genius or pretentious twaddle. I am inclined to come down somewhere between the two. It is undeniable that this short piece cast some kind of spell over the assembled company; the audience were entranced, even after the lights came up there was silence. It was a shame that the lone female performer felt the need to say “Um, that’s it” after a minute or two, but she was sitting half-naked in a bath of milk, so it it understandable that she wanted to get out! The story was mesmerising but strange, a mixture of what could have been hallucinations, drug trips, mental illness. It was left frustratingly ambiguous, hence why I am unsure whether we witnessed genius or gibberish. The silent audience seemed confused at the end, and Made In China’s show left me somewhat confused. The script was not strong enough to bear the repetition, and although it effectively created an aura of mystery, it then tried to imbue the performance with more weight than it could take: by remaining so reticent with facts or truths it became impossible to connect with the narrative. We were left puzzled – indeed, the evaluation form asked us to fill in what we thought the play was about. The piece is a work in progress, so there is definite room for improvement, and I hope that the team is brave enough to make some decisions about the story. The script could do with a re-write to sharpen it up a bit, and some background might be nice, although I appreciate the delicacy of the narrative might not hold up under too much context.

Finally, we saw Tim Clare’s second show, Death Drive, a tragi-comic look at Clare’s depression and how he worked his way out of it through a combination of paternal determination, self esteem building, and the advice of a psychic horse. Clare has a nice line in self-deprecation and self-recrimination, balanced with humour and a healthy sense of self-awareness. The show covers difficult subjects (mental illness, suicide, father-son relationships) with a lightness of touch that belies the hard work that Clare has clearly put in to delving into his own psyche and sharing the results with his audience. It is difficult to watch Clare put himself through remembering his torment, albeit in a humourous way, but one leaves with a huge respect for both his bravery and his craft.

Day 1 was a delightful mix of shows, with a festive feel to The Junction.

I am looking forward to day 2.

The Sampled Festival is a weekend of events held at the Junction Theatre in Cambridge exploring new contemporary theatre. For more information see the full line up on the website here.

NB – I didn’t make it to day 2 as I cracked a disc in my back and couldn’t move. I am sure it was great!

After a triumphant Richard II, director Andrew Hilton has chosen one of Shakespeare’s gentlest comedies for his next production: there is no touch of melancholy, no edge here, as we are swept through a breathless couple of hours.

There is almost no let-up in Hilton’s rattling production, leaving the audience delighted and occasionally bamboozled as two sets of identical twins get mistaken for each other in every conceivable combination and permutation. This is light-hearted stuff (apart from the myriad beatings heaped on the shoulders of poor Dromio (Richard Neale and Gareth Kennerley)), and provides a cracking evening’s entertainment. Hilton has a gift for coaxing a freshness from his cast, making the language zip and sing – there are lines that sound as though they were written yesterday, and some thoroughly modern intonation. In the skillful hands of Hilton and his fantastic cast, this builds pace and humour without dumbing down or getting caught up in the intricacies of the language.

Neale and Kennerley are expressive and witty Dromios, who end the play on a beautiful moment when they meet, brother to brother, for the first time. Dan Winter and Matthew Thomas were strong as Antipholus of Syracuse and of Ephesus, doubly bearded and waist-coated, doubly cocky but likeable. Dorothea Myer-Bennett is a great Adrianna, playing Antipholus’s long-suffering but loving wife with verve, and treading a nice line between dignity and hysteria. Ffion Jolly as her patient, bookish sister does well with a slim part, and invests Luciana with a steely determination and fine comic timing.

The piece is played for laughs throughout, without much bother about depth of character or balance, which works with such a silly play. Even for Shakespeare, having two sets of identical twins is pushing it, and Hilton et al make the most out of every opportunity for silliness, physical comedy or an extra laugh. This is not a criticism – it is a pretty slightly plot – but merely than observation that, unlike many of the other comedies, this one does not have a dark heart – or at least Hilton has not gone looking for one. It works, because the cast have impeccable timing and the ability to be funny without speaking, but it does make for a fairly breathless production: with so much frenetic energy, there are very few calm or thoughtful moments, meaning that the audience leaves feeling a little steam-rollered by the play.

For such light entertainment, this production never lets up with the comedy and only just stays the right side of hysterical. The cast is good enough to avoid being hammy, but there are moments where the script invites it. Hilton picks his way through with aplomb, and keeps this production on the straight and narrow while maintaining the high-energy brand of humour, wit and verve that the Tobacco Factory is renowned for.

N.B. The morning of the show brought news that the Tobacco Factory was successful in its bid to become an Arts Council England National Portfolio Organisations, securing regular funding for the first time. In other good news, Shakespeare at the Tobacco Factory, has announced a new partnership to tour productions to Exeter Northcott. Good news for one of my favourite theatre spaces.

The Comedy of Errors is playing at the Tobacco Factory until 30th April. For information and tickets see the website here.

It is difficult to understand what drew director Peter Wilson to this insipid, lazy and sentimental play, but one has to admire the effort he and the cast have put into making the best of it. However, you can only work with the material at hand, and Tim Firth’s script is mostly excruciating. It manages to be both predictable and un-naturalistic, and the lines that Alan (Gerard Kearns) and Frank (Matthew Kelly) are given to speak leave them with such flat characters that it was difficult to muster the energy to care when they were in mortal peril.

The dialogue is clumsy and over-reliant on the (misguided) belief that having a Yorkshire accent is intrinsically funny. Do we really subscribe to such lazy stereotypes? The premise – that all Northerners are a bit thick and therefore funny – grates hugely, especially when staged in the West End of London. Kelly and Kearns deserve better.

And, to give credit where it’s due, Wilson does his best to elevate the script and to give them a bit more to work with. They try to flesh out under-developed and unsympathetic characters, but the words are lacking in wit, verve or energy – so that we never really care what happens to either of them. When Frank sort-of threatens to jump off the roof, there is no sense that the audience is tense, willing him not to jump. Firth fails to invest him with sufficient depth, and we don’t feel any emotional attachment to him. Likewise, when young Alan appears to be throwing away his dreams for a dead-end job, it is all to easy to shrug and head for the nearest bar.

Morgan Large’s design is great: the space is used cleverly, it is easy to believe that we are witnessing exchanges 60-stories above the ground, and the dilapidation of the building and surrounding Batley are convincing. Tony Simpson’s lighting and Gareth Owen’s sound are well-judged, and complement the drabness of story and setting.

There are some nice moments, but these are mostly down to Wilson’s judgement: the laughs come from well-time pauses, the odd lifted eyebrow, the interaction between Kelly and Kearns, rather than from the script itself. Despite these brief glimpses of humour, though, this comedy commits the biggest sin of all: it just isn’t funny.

Sign of the Times is playing at the Duchess Theatre until 28th May.

New International Encounter’s Tales from a Sea Journey does what it says on the tin: we get a series of simple tales that have some connection to the sea. We see a brave Norwegian Captain escaping the Japanese airforce in the second world war; the tragic tale of Ella who catches her first fish age four and vanishes into the sea age 18 leaving only her boots behind; and the shy, seasick Danish maths teacher en route to Greenland with her hand-written text books. Interspersed with these whimsical tales we have the ‘real’ jounrey that the cast made from France to Guadaloupe in 2009, complete with snapshots and good-natured squabbling about what actually happened.

The tales are all told in at least three languages, with the characters pretty much miming/doing exactly what the narrator says. This could grate in less skilled hands, but Alex Byrne’s direction never lets it become anything less than charmingly witty. There is a lovely moment when the narrator determinedly says “He slapped himself,” and the poor Captain dutifully slaps himself. There’s a pause, then the narrator deadpans “Twice”, before another narrator cuts in “Lots and lots of times”.

This kind of inventive, imaginative theatre requires a contract between actors and audience: we agree to suspend our disbelief and they agree to really make us believe in the ship, the shore, the lives of these sea-people. NIE kept its side of the bargain, investing each character with charm and personality – as well as doubling and switching seamlessly. However, the Junction’s audience were not playing to the same rules: I have rarely sat in such a rude, loud and downright obnoxious audience. This went beyond schoolchildren’s boisterousness and moved into utter disrespect for the delicate magic being conjured onstage and the gentle stories the cast were trying to tell. We had constant chatter at normal speaking volume, rustling crisp packets, cat-calls… I am all for taking school parties to the theatre, but the onus must fall on the teacher to lay down some ground rules, and then on the teacher and the ushers to remove anyone who is disruptive.

The strong cast soldiered on in the face of noise and blatant disinterest. Their obvious camaraderie and good-humour went a long way to save the evening, but one couldn’t help but feel sorry for them as giggles and sniggers cut through the quiet moments. The piece was utterly charming, but the same cannot be said of some of the audience.

New International Encounter – NIE is on tour with Tales from a Sea Journey. See its website for more dates and shows. Visit The Junction’s website for more theatre in Cambridge.

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.