"Man might as well live without laughing as live without hunting" declares one of the lusty field sport enthusiasts in Dion Boucicault's town-and-country caper. And though the government hasn't yet gone so far as to outlaw humour, I can't say I'd be too disgruntled if it were to place a moratorium on revivals of Boucicault's tediously tickle-free contrivances.
In addition to authoring some 200 works for the stage, Boucicault is credited with the invention of flame-retardant scenery - a crucial innovation given that his characterisation was wooden, his plots paper thin, and the generation of dramatic heat likely to bring the whole lot down in smouldering ruins.
The best you can say for this potboiler-merchant is that he kept a foot in the door for the Anglo-Irish comedy of manners between the departure of Sheridan and the arrival of Wilde. But with London Assurance Boucicault did at least concoct one of the sleaziest fops ever to grease the English stage.
Jacob Murray's spirited production is full of bumptious acting and has a chintzy opulence befitting a play that was acclaimed at its 1841 premiere for the expense of the set dressing alone. Yet the reason for catching this production is to marvel at the oleaginous charm of Gerald Harper as the superannuated dandy, Sir Harcourt Courtly. A puce, Regency wreck of a man with the complexion of a raspberry meringue, Harper slurs with the distracted drawl of someone whose train of thought is evidently subject to interminable delays.
Harper excels in the role of a man of no obvious talent, whose burden in life is to shuffle around beneath the weight of his own celebrity. And there is something about his lank hair, occluded eyes and preposterous interior design that seems remarkably modern. Could it be that Boucicault foresaw the society that would give rise to the cult of Ozzy Osbourne?
· Until January 15. Box office: 0161-833 9833.
