How often can you tell the same old story? How often can you do it in the same old way? You begin to wonder, with the current crop of young Irish writers who all seem to have trained at the Conor McPherson school of playwrighting.
The latest McPherson clone is Eugene O'Brien, with his story of small Irish town residents Billy and Breda, whose marriage flaps between them like an 11-year-old piece of haddock on a slab. Eden is doleful and poetic and made up entirely of monologues. Not only does it sound like a McPherson play, it is directed by him too. How incestuous can you get?
Spend too many nights in the theatre with these plays and the universe starts contracting very quickly. The world is a very much smaller place full of sadsters up to their armpits in whiskey and vodka and pickled in loneliness. Purchasing a ticket for one of these plays is like finding yourself squashed into a seat and forced to listen to the pub bore. Only you are paying up to £29 for the privilege. You might find yourself laughing a little initially, but soon you start feeling as sorry for yourself as Billy, a little boy in a man's body, who can't make love to his wife and fantasises about the local teenage temptress. Or poor sad Breda, once so fat she was known as Pigarse. She has "made the effort" for her husband and lost the pounds - but still can't get him to touch her.
There is no doubt that O'Brien can write, but Eden offers no evidence whatsoever that he can write a stage play. The material here might make a short story and could just about pass muster on the radio, but it has been dressed up for the stage - so that, for over two hours, you are watching two people who never interact, taking it in turns to whine at you about how awful their lives are.
The only thing that saved me from taking to drink were the actors Don Wycherley and Catherine Walsh. But I bet they could make even the phonebook sound as if it were written for the stage.
· Until January 11. Box office: 020-7836 3334.
