Here we have a popular Parisian boulevard comedy about three men: an idealist, a pragmatist and a fence-sitter. Clearly its author, Gerald Sibleyras, is a keen student of Art. But for all the superficial similarities to Yasmina Reza's play - even down to the presence of Ken Stott and a classy English translation - this strikes me as little more than a delicately acted piece of sentimental Gallic whimsy.
Sibleyras's setting is a French military hospital in 1959 where we meet three veterans of the first world war. Gustave suffers from a crippling agoraphobia. Henri, the longest resident, is afflicted by a gammy leg. And Philippe periodically passes out because of a piece of shrapnel lodged in his brain. But their querulous friendship is tested when Gustave conceives an improbable escape plan that will take them to a distant poplar-lined hill: a journey that seems as unrealisable as that of Chekhov's three sisters to Moscow.
I wouldn't deny that, in Tom Stoppard's translation, the play exudes a certain mild fun. The cantankerous Gerald admits to biffing one of the supervising sisters "since when", he claims, "there has been a distinct coolness between us". Henri enjoys scouting for girls. Much play is made with a stone dog which Gustave and Philippe believe has a life of its own.
But the play's sentimentality oozes from every pore; or, given its canine obsession, from every paw. For a start Sibleyras, unlike David Storey in Home, treats senile dementia either as an amusing aberration or a visionary symbol: one minute we are meant to laugh at Gustave's futile plan and the next treat it as a sign of man's immortal longings. And, rather than explore the backgrounds of his wartime heroes, Sibleyras portrays them as eccentric old codgers living in a world of military and sexual fantasy. I was reminded of Jacques Barzun's definition of sentimentality as "a feeling that shuts out action, real or potential".
The chief pleasure in Thea Sharrock's nuanced production lies in watching three highly skilled actors at work. John Hurt, with his gaunt Beckettian features and ramrod back, makes you believe in Gustave's past heroism in a way the text never does. Richard Griffiths also lends the implacably sane Henri a twinkling sexual mischief belied by his palpable inexperience with women. And Ken Stott as the fainting Philippe invests his familiar man-in-the-middle role with his own peculiar brand of earthy lightness. Robert Jones's set, with its receding arboreal perspective, is also pictorially handsome. But the play toys with our emotions rather than fulfilling them; and, where Art dealt with the morality of friendship in a way that recalled Molière, Sibleyras's comedy treats its characters' mad dreams largely as a source of escapist amusement.
· Until January 14. Box office: 020-7369 1736.
