Judith Bliss is a consumate actress who claims to be able to distinguish her critics by their "queer little inarticulate noises ... the satisfied grunt of the Daily Mail, the abandoned gurgle of the Sunday Times, the shrill, enthusiastic scream of the Daily Express".
I think she may have missed the deep sigh of indifference from the Guardian. Not that there's anything much wrong with Kate Brown's vaingloriously louche performance, Damian Cruden's neatly observed direction or Nigel Hook's riotously camp design. How can one not applaud when so many exotic birds have laid down their feathers to provide millinery for this production?
It's simply that Hay Fever doesn't really sustain the argument that Coward was much more than a flippant drawing-room entertainer. At his best, Coward prefigures Pinter in his ability to suspend characters in the gulf between what they mean and what they say. Yet the lackadaisically bohemian Blisses are a tiresome lot, and there's very little subtext to their vindictive treatment of their stupendously boring dinner guests.
In fact, Hay Fever is less of a play than an arch piece of social one-upmanship. While in New York, Coward was given a brusque welcome by the ironically named Manners family, and knocked off the play in three days as revenge.
Towards the end of the second act, Julie Teal's furious Myra finally rounds on her hosts and declares what everyone else has been feeling: "You're the most infuriating bunch of hypocrites I've ever seen. This house is a complete feather-bed of false emotions - you're posing, self-centred egotists, and I'm sick to death of you."
It rather sets the seal on a play that irritates as much as it delights. This is a sumptuously stylish production with much to engage the eye. Yet you may equally find Hay Fever gets right up your nose.
· Until June 11. Box office: 01904 623568.
