Sara Poyzer's Beverly sashays in wearing aquamarine polyester, a plate of cheese-and-pineapple chunks speared on cocktail sticks in her hand. These days we call this irony; back in 1977 it was known as entertaining.
There's not a great deal about that decade that most people would willingly return to, yet Mike Leigh's homage to social disaster has remarkably stood the test of time. Perhaps it is because, though the soft furnishings may change, people will always seek to disguise their disappointment with futile acts of neighbourly one-upmanship. Or maybe it's just that there will always be an audience for a play which unravels like Chekhov after one too many sweet Martinis.
Marcus Romer's revival has a timeless quality, while recognising that the devil is in the details. Actually, there's the devil and half the legions of hell in details such as these: tubular steel sofa, pineapple ice-bucket and, a furry objet d'arte composed of fibre-optic fronds, which Beverley boasts she can sit and look at for hours.
Poyzer does a fine job wresting copyright of the role from Alison Steadman, building her own repertoire of ticks and inflections into a display of neurotic passive-aggression so mercilessly aggrandising that you are unsure whether to applaud or get up on stage and strangle her.
The rest of the ensemble are excrutiatingly well-observed. Andonis Anthony's overworked estate agent is a heart attack waiting to happen; John Kirk's Tony brings mute brutality to the act of sitting in a leatherette armchair while sporting a wing collar with the span of a light aircraft. Helen Goldwyn is splendidly gauche as the simpering Angela; and Beatrice Comins, as the anxious mother of unseen Abigail, radiates the plaintive air of someone used to being banished from life's party in general.
It all adds up to a production with genuine flair - and plenty of genuine flares.
· Ends Saturday. Box office 01904 623568
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